MS150 Chronicles 2009, Pt III

SUNDAY - THE RIDE

As a follow up to Part II, wherein I described the mystery of women routinely getting in and out of the Rest Room faster than men, I mentioned the number of steps they have to go through that most men do not. My friend Sheila Weitzel replied back and added the following: check makeup/reapply lip gloss/brush hair. Now, whether you consider these a single step or three separate steps, it still only serves to deepen the mystery.

To recap, the Riders have all survived the Deluge and formed the World's Largest Caravan from Houston to LaGrange; think Noah after the flood, only instead of an Ark, we all drive to the Promised Land in SUVs. I have gotten in my obligatory rips on people who start from Rhodes Stadium, and thrown in a gratuitous slap at Southwest Airlines for only serving peanuts on their flights.

On to the Ride. When last I wrote, the MS150 pack had just left LaGrange. The first 12 miles were - not unexpectedly - rolling hills, lots of Riders, and - unexpectedly - not a single Bluebonnet. I stop at the first rest stop, breaking with tradition, grab some food and Gatorade, and keep on peddling. Maybe the Bluebonnets are up ahead. Another dozen miles, and I'm in to Rest Stop II. It's another quick refill, and I'm soon turning back onto the course.

As I depart from Rest Stop II, I swear I hear a cop say "watch out for ice straight ahead". It's 75 degrees and the sun is shining. It's another alternate universe moment, and I'm already a little suspicious because of the misdirection I'd gotten from the traffic cop back at the Start. After about a quarter mile, I come upon the roadkill remains of a possum. It occurs to me that the cop might have been referring to that, but if so, now I've got to come up with a synonym for possum that sounds like "ice". I give up after about fifteen minutes, even though there's not much else to occupy the mind, and figure that cop was messing with me too. Of course, it's not like they're not entitled. As housebroke as Cyclists generally are, there's still 10,000 of us and only a couple hundred of them, and I couldn't help but notice that many Cyclists are also hard of hearing, the cops having to repeat themselves at every stop.

Of course, that might have been the wind.

I skip the next Rest Stop, and I'm in to lunch at Bastrop. It doesn't look like there was much attrition because folks had to drive themselves to LaGrange for the start. A quick bite, a recharge on fluids, and I'm off once again. I'm now halfway through Sunday, and beginning to have doubts about my training regimen, particularly the strategy of relying on yard work for the endurance part. As innovations go, this is not paying off. And is it just me, or are the uphills all going at 6.5 mph? I check my speedometer. I check the people around me. The uphills are all going at 6.5 mph, but the people around me are not.

I'm hearing "on your left" a lot more than in year's past. If you've never ridden in an organized bicycling event, "on your left" is Cycling shorthand for either a) I am passing you and want you to be aware of my presence, b) I am coming by you at a high rate of speed with my seven identically dressed friends, imitating a pace line on the Tour de France, or c) please get the hell out of the way, you are blocking the road for everybody else who - while not out here to compete - would like to go faster than your conversation-friendly pace of 10 mph.

The first type of shorthand is the accepted norm for charitable cycling events, seeing as how we're all amateurs and out there to have a good time. It is one of but a number of safe riding practices that every MS150er is expected to learn. In year's past, I've said "on your left" as much as I've heard it, being about in the middle of the pack, bike speed-wise speaking. I'm not saying "on your left" so much this year.

The second type of shorthand is unfortunately more typical than it should be, despite the admonitions of the MS150 Poobahs in countless e-mails reminding us all that it's a ride, dammit, not a race. This is lost on many Peletoniers, by the way. With their matching helmets, jerseys, pants, riding gloves and - dare I say it - Underarmor - they are the lovable rogues of the charitable bike ride: snobby, indignant, and with a not-so-modest sense of entitlement. I swear, they even bark out "on your left" with the slightest of French accents. I half expect to see some surly Frenchmen with clipboards accosting the Pelontiers at the Rest Stops, demanding urine samples and insisting on accompanying them into the Port-O-Can to verify their authenticity.

The third type of shorthand is from people like, well, me, but in my defense, thousands of other riders as well. I've been amused and then bemused for years about the folks that ride side by side, having a nice conversation, never having learned from their Daddies (or Driver's Training), that slow moving vehicles should be in the right hand lane. They also were impervious to the sundry admonitions of the Riding Community and MS150 instructions about bicycle etiquette, so this year, it seems that there are more "Two-And-Three-Abreasters" than in year's past, just chatting away, and generally occupying the entire lane of traffic. Of course, that might be because they've got more to talk about than last year, what with the Saturday ride being cancelled and all. But how much could they do with that? "Bummer man; Saturday was cancelled". "I know; Bummer". I mean, that's about it. How exactly do you stretch that conversation starter from LaGrange to Austin?

Either way, everybody's good natured about the interruptions, and the ride just flows. I've still not seen any more Bluebonnets, but I also haven't see a flashing light nor heard a siren the entire time; so, if no Bluebonnets is the price to be paid for no casualties, that's good enough by me. That starts me on another line of thinking, though: I wonder if the Determinists would get on my case for assuming that there is some Greater Power that would subject the Riders to a little inconvenience like no Bluebonnets in return for protecting them from serious injury? This thought sustains me for the next few miles, with the Right side of my brain contemplating the philosophical implications, and the Left side taking care of the actual business of riding my bike.

Figuring that there are no Determinists that are going to debate me on the point, I direct my attention back to the Ride, and paying attention to the Uphills. No worries; I have always made up time on the downhills, pedaling furiously so as to gain momentum at least part of the way up the next, tiresomely inevitable hill. That hasn't worked today, because in addition to my lack of training, there is The Wind. The freaking, inescapable wind. OK, I got that out of my system. Everybody else had to deal with it, and not once did I hear anybody else cursing under the breath, as I did several times.

THE HOME STRETCH

I catch the second last rest stop, and get a pleasant surprise from one of the numerous volunteers. "Only 17 miles to go", she says. This is balm to my psyche, as I thought I had 27 miles to go, having been told the course was 80 miles long back at the start, when in fact it was only 70. Good thing, too. There was a raging debate among my body parts, and the vote ten miles back was 3 to 1 to get in a SAG van, hoof it to the final Rest Stop and hope my Hasher friends never found out. It's bad enough that I'm going to have to endure some ribbing for blowing off the Hills at Buscher State Park, as they will be immune to my argument that in so doing, I removed myself as an obstacle for the more accomplished riders, and thus, have been virtuous.

But, fair is fair. I gig several of them for starting from Rhodes Stadium in Katy, but I don't even have that to fall back on this year, what with all the rain cutting Day One out of the equation entirely.

I hit the last Rest Stop, as I think most Riders do, not because it's necessary, but because it's the last milestone. Folks are relaxed, cheerful, and enjoying their last respite before the final 10 miles. Soon enough, I'm on my way, bombing down the downhills, and slugging up the uphills. Finally, I've climbed the last hill just past the freeway, and now I'm heading downhill and downtown. Thankfully the last mile is the fastest mile, and requires almost no effort; or at least it feels that way. I've got to admit that the cheering folks at the end - which you can hear from a long way away - certainly put some starch back into your legs. Soon enough I'm riding down that long chute with people on both sides, cheering for all the world like we've all just won the Tour de France. I slide over close to the left side and do a rolling series of high-fives with them, causing - however briefly - a moment of consternation for a photographer, close to the left side, but between me and the Finish Line. He's got nowhere to go, but I do, so I jump back to the center, cross the line, turn the corner, and gratefully get off my bike.

I hand my bike directly to a kid of sixteen who explains very carefully that I should remove any personal possessions I don't want to lose, remove my pedometer, empty my water bottles, and to please remember that my bike is on the trailer named Chicago White Sox. It's disconcerting being told what to do by a 16 year old, but professionalism demands respect, and these kids are all pros, briskly and cheerfully wrapping and stowing the bikes, yet another essential cog in the MS150 machine.

And that thing about Bicycle Riders being "The Great Unwashed"? That only has any relevance if you count the point in time directly after the MS150 ride. As in all year's past, there was a plentiful supply of Semi-tractor trailers set up with portable showers, much to the disappointment of Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The lines were only two people long for each trailer, the shower felt great, and I loitered in a chair outside the trailer once I had finished, soaking up the cheerful vibe coming off of Riders, Volunteers and mere passers-by. Everybody was in a good mood.

After that, I headed to the Continental tent, put myself on the Massage list, and ten minutes later was having the previously complaining body parts rubbed into submission. I socialize with some Riders, but don't see anybody I know except Ramona Z from our running group. The day wraps up, and I'm ready to head home. Amazingly, I feel great. Every last muscle in my body is tired, but nothing hurts. I feel at least as good as I did directly after my pre-MS150 breakfast on Friday of bacon, eggs, toast, coffee, cereal, donut and orange juice, and a whole lot better than I felt thirty minutes after that same meal. Such is the fate of amateurs when they eat like professionals.

Around 5:15 p.m. I head for the busses, board immediately, and ten minutes later we are eastbound for Houston. I check out the window from time to time for Bluebonnets, just in case I had simply missed them on the Ride, but there's nary a one to be seen, much less the rolling fields of flowers from MS150s past. No problem. It's a small price to pay, and the elusive Bluebonnets - like the MS150, the wonderful teams, the thousands of volunteers and a kajillion folks lining the route and cheering us on - will be back next year.

And so will I.