This was not a charity ride. It was a brevet, which is a long, continuous ride during which riders are supposed to provide most of their own support and check in at specific "controls" along the route. While it's not a race, there is a time limit. A lot of the people doing these brevets are training for Boston-Montreal-Boston or Paris-Brest-Paris.
So on June 1, just before 5 AM, my friend Brian and I set out to do our first triple metric, riding ten miles to the start/finish line at Hanscom Air Force Base armed with headlights, reflective gear, multiple GPS devices and extra batteries. Six o'clock was the official start, and we headed to Harvard and from there to a place called Tweedo's in Ashburnham, where we were met by my dad, Al. I'm not particularly interested in being a brevet rider--I'd just wanted to do a triple metric--so Al was riding support, carrying food, Gatorade, extra tubes and wheels and even an extra bike. We needed him just short of the halfway point in Northfield, MA, when my Garmin told us to take a wrong turn and we wound up on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere in Orange, with a flat tire and two torn spare tubes. I figured that would set us way behind the other riders, but when we got to the barbecue joint in Northfield they were all there, happily consuming piles of pulled pork.
But it was really hot--that was the problem. Ninety-six degrees with intense sun. I felt just fine in Northfield, but then the wheels started to come off the wagon. The next 20 miles comprised what was supposed to be the "recovery" leg--short and flat and hopefully an opportunity to pick up some speed as we weren't thrilled with our 14.6 MPH average. Instead, we climbed 1000 feet, mostly on shadeless main roads in a headwind during the hottest part of the day. Shortly after the pit stop in Sunderland, MA, I began to flag, and by the tenth mile of that next leg it was obvious that I was hitting the wall. I was tired. I was nauseous. My speed dropped to a 12 MPH average and the distance to the next pit seemed to stretch out before me. An impromptu stop for ginger ale helped only very marginally. I began to doubt my ability to finish.
By the time we rolled into Petersham, MA around 7:30, at mile 146, I was beyond exhausted, and lay in the grass staring up at the sky while other riders milled around and chatted. I wanted to get in the car. I was dehydrated and had wracked up a huge calorie deficit, but could not imagine eating or drinking. Bobby Mac, who runs my group ride, texted and said it wasn't worth it and I should get in the car. My friend Kate texted and said she knew I could do it and I should get back on the bike. Another rider from my group, Tsun, said the worst of the climbing was behind us and the rest of the route was "not bad." I drank Pepto Bismol that Al had in his car and ate half a slice of bread. Then, somehow, I got back on the bike.
What followed was not pretty. The sun was setting and I could not hold a line, instead swerving all over the road. I'd try to focus on one object only to see four of them rotating in front of me. My lips were numb and I had a hard time forming words. Further, Tsun had lied, and this leg had just about the worst climbs of the entire ride. We were headed to Sterling Center, 26 miles away, and I kept telling myself that all I had to do was get there. Anyone can do 26 miles. But in the back of my head I knew that would not be the end. Who drops out of a 200-mile ride with 30 miles to go? Who does that?
10:00 found me slumped in the doorway of a convenience store in Sterling, sipping a bottle of plain water, actually shaking with cold despite the 85-degree heat. Brian chatted with Al, but I could feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye. I forced down a packet of gu and fought the urge to get in the car and turn the heat on high. Then, somehow, I was on my feat and headed toward the bike. I heard Brian tell Al, "OK, we'll see you at Hanscom." And I realized suddenly that we actually were going to Hanscom, that we were going home, that we were going to finish the ride. The decision had been made.
And once I grasped that, once I really wrapped my head around it, I was FINE. Energy returned and we got our speed up over fifteen. My appetite also came back and I ate the rest of my food as we rode. We skimmed through Harvard in the pitch dark and onto roads I knew. Brian's Garmin died and I navigated. My headlight died and I rode alongside Brian to take advantage of his. I felt like a force field was actually pulling us in. Side by side, we zoomed up the final hill and then glided down to applause at the finish line. It was 12:40 AM and we'd been in motion for 20 hours. Half the field had dropped out, probably because of the heat. We celebrated with grilled cheese and beer provided by Brian's wife, and then I went home to discover that I was eight and a half pounds lighter than I'd been when we left. It took several days to recover, but this ride was the ultimate triumph.
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