I Want My Medal for Coming 152nd!

My legs hurt. My back hurts. In fact, my entire body feels like it has a mild flu, but I know it doesn’t. It all started at 5:45am yesterday when I got up in the dark, an unnatural state of affairs that in my world could only involve a plane or a bike. I had been up most of the night, because the night before a big ride I barely sleep and because my upstairs neighbors, who work at the local movie theater and get home at 2am were up till 4:30 laughing. They laugh a lot, deep booming laughter, it’s kind of sweet, even though at 3am it makes me stuff a pillow over my head and groan would you PLEASE stop finding so many things funny? 

Bang on 6:15 my riding buddy Ken showed up at the door. He told me his wife had been thinking about doing the ride with us, but then she said to him what time are you getting up? We both thought about her, in bed, sleeping peacefully. Then Ken loaded our bikes on his roof rack and, not at all envious of the peaceful sleeping thing, we drove off into the darkness.

The Jensi was my 3rd Gran Fondo, so I had some idea what to expect but I still felt the mix of thrill and nervousness as I saw all the cars snaking into Stafford Lake Park and all the bikes and all the riders in their fancy gear. The staging area was already bustling. There was the registration tents where we got our swag and our envelope of maps and decals for the bikes. Next to it was the table where we got our ankle bracelets. These are electronic timing chips, but they look exactly like those radio frequency monitors offenders wear. I strapped mine on and felt briefly like a criminal, especially when the volunteer warned us that if we didn’t hand them in after the race, they would hunt us down. So Fugitive!

The sun was just rising and the sky was a riot of pinks and orange. I located the bank of Honey Buckets, but for some reason they were taped shut with yellow plastic tape. Had somebody been murdered? After a while of looking around, people just started using them anyway. I was at the head of the line when an official came over. You can’t use these, she told us. There are more up the other end of the staging site.

The call was already going out for people to start staging. I wasn’t about to walk all the way to the other end and miss the start of the race. I protested. I’m walking away, the official said. So I went into the nearest one. While I was in there, somebody came up and yellow-taped it shut again. I have never been taped into a port-a-potty before. There is a first time for everything.

Staging is where all the riders crowd into the starting area in order, basically, of importance. Up front are the Founders, the VIPs, and friends of Jens Voigt. Then the Shut Up Legs folks. These are the racers doing the 100 miles. Shut Up Legs is so called because Jens had shut the fuck up legs engraved on every racing bike he has owned. It is a strange, strange world and I do not pretend to understand it.

Behind the century riders, the slightly more sensible folks doing 70 miles - including yours truly and Ken. This ride was called The Presidential, which we felt accurately described our dignified and serious demeanors...oh no, wait, no longer applies...

At the back, the losers only doing 40 miles. I had actually seriously considered cutting back to 40, given that I really hadn’t trained hard enough for 70. But I had already characterized them as losers, so I sort of painted myself into a corner. Anyway, Ken kept reminding me we would ‘go at our own pace.’ Given how he left me in the dust on the Marin Century, this entirely failed to reassure me, but I smiled and nodded as we took our pre-ride selfies. Seventy miles. Bring it on!

The start of a big ride is always exciting. They count down the seconds and then they ring these cowbells and a thousand riders roll out in a long stream. There is usually a police cordon for the first few miles. This is because we are riding as a giant pack and it’s not feasible for us to ribbon out into single file and share the road. It is also because we are extremely important and significant. Over the next few miles we self-sort into a long narrow ribbon and then we are on our own, trying to be significant to the trucks and all the crazy drivers.

I almost never ride with more than two or three people, so it was sort of surreal to be rolling out with a thousand. It felt a bit like a really good dream. I amused myself by reading the jerseys of the riders passing me and checking over my shoulder to see if I was last yet. You also catch funny snippets of conversations as riders go by. Oyster farm?  I heard one guy say as we rode up Highway 1 past a sign for Hog Island. We were still a way from hitting the coast, so it was all dairy pastures. Do they plant ‘em in the fields?

Over the course of a long ride, you go through predictable highs and lows. Many of these are directly governed by how much fuel you have consumed. You are burning calories at a phenomenal rate and if you don’t put some in your system every 20 to 30 minutes, your energy quickly flags. Conversely, you can feel a small snack make a difference almost immediately. Near Tomales I started to feel grumpy and tired. Determined to practice the art of eating while riding, I spent a comical minute trying to open a wafer bar with my teeth. Once open, the wafer bar was so mangled that bits kept crumbling off onto the road. But I got enough in my mouth to feel the effects at once. Plus laughing at myself for the comedy routine was highly therapeutic.

Right around this time it also started to lightly rain. At first, it was just a spotting of drops and I remember thinking actually this rain is nice! It’s cooling my face! Ten miles later it wasn’t really that nice any more. I remembered Ken’s motto: I will ride in the rain, but I won’t start in the rain. Struggling up the endless Wilson Hill with a headwind plastering our wet clothing to our freezing skin, I checked in with him. He was looking a little put out. And I dimly recall that as I started on the downhill and the wind picked up and the rain was like needles in my eyes, I said loudly oh for god’s sake, this is ridiculous!

It was the very first rain of our season and had not been forecast, but at mile 58 of a 70 mile ride you’re all out of choices. I tried to pretend I was back in Ireland, where this weather would be termed a “soft day, thank god,” and it made me feel a bit better. That, and the thought of hot coffee and pizza back at Stafford Lake.

Another great thing about supported rides is the enthusiastic volunteers. They were planted at intervals along the route, cheering us on, taking photos, and generally being awesome. And when you make it to the finish line, they are there with their cowbells, clapping and cheering, no matter how long it took you to finish, no matter how many times they have rung the bell already for a finishing rider. Everyone gets to feel like a champion. 

Predictably, and despite his assurances, Ken left me in the dust and placed at an impressive 138th to my 152nd. It’s important to know this is out of 227 riders doing the Presidential. Why, I am not sure. We did not receive any medals. 

There was also no coffee left by the time we got back. The organizers had not planned for the freezing wind and rain. I sat shivering through my lunch, hallucinating hot tubs and showers. But you can’t keep a road biker down. Jens Voigt was giving an insanely upbeat speech over near the VIP tent, Ken was still cracking jokes at my expense, and I was filled with that superb feeling of I did it! 

So maybe I felt like I had the flu, but I had just ridden 70 miles through countryside so gorgeous people travel from all over the world to see it, and it’s my back yard. My legs carried me the course, my new drive train worked really well, and back home an hour later my Mr. Coffee machine did too. Next time, my ambitious goal is to come in 151st.