For the past three years, the first Saturday in October has brought a combination of anxious anticipation as well as a good dose of fear and loathing. No, it’s not a dread of the masses of leaf-peepers stopping their cars in the middle of the road to snap a photo. It’s the date of the Cochran’s Ski Area century bike ride. My first two woeful attempts at riding the 100-mile route that circumnavigates Mt. Mansfield and the entire Worcester Range resulted in aches, pains, and bleeding sores, but I finished. Maybe it was the twinge of satisfaction that temporarily dulled any physical discomfort that brought me back for another go at it, or maybe it was a mule-headed desire to improve on my past pathetic performances. Whatever it was, I had circled the date and there was no turning back.
Some might define insanity as endlessly employing the same strategies to solve the same problem, and somehow expecting a different result. If that’s the case, I should be expecting the little guys in the white suits to be appearing at any moment to haul me off to the nuthouse. I take to the trails on my mountain bike all summer, but my first stab at the century ride marked the first time I’d been on a road bike in 20 years. In my second go at it, I’d trained a bit, but ego trumped common sense as I tried to keep up with the pack and bonked at 48.7 miles. Did I mention that I’m a slow learner?
Definitively proving that I have no shame, I tried to recruit a strong rider to draft for my third attempt. His response? “Yeah sure, when I’m done eating shards of glass and poking hot daggers into my eyeballs.” I took that as a “no,” but undeterred, I fell-back on my last resort—training. With this revelation taking place only a month before the big ride, time was short, but I set up a training regiment and stuck to it, riding three times a week through the rolling hills around home. I was ready to ride, all right, perhaps even ready to become a member of the “People of the Bicycle.”
It’s unusually warm with the foliage in full regalia, as I roll out of the Cochran’s Ski Area parking lot, wondering what form of suffering I will encounter over the next 100 miles. It doesn’t take long for the first pack of riders to overtake me with a W-H-O-O-S-H. Pedaling frantically I manage to attach myself like a lamprey to the end of the group, letting the suction drag me along. Even though we’re traveling at speeds well above my comfort zone, I think, “This ride is going to be a piece of cake.” Then comes the first incline. Simultaneously, they all shift to a higher gear, stand up off their seats, and P-O-O-F—they’re gone.
But there are more groups and more drafting opportunities as the miles roll on. I firmly attach myself to the rear of various passing mini-peletons, chat up the riders a bit, as if I’d been there for miles, and then wave bye-bye as the knotty-calved “People of the Bicycle” accelerate up and over a rise in the road and disappear.
As we approach the fueling stop along the shores of Lake Elmore, which marks the halfway point, I’m feeling pretty chipper. I notice the lawn where I suffered my meltdown in last year’s ride, and with a sneer, stand up off the seat and power over the next hill into the lunch stop.
During lunch I mingle comfortably with the “People of the Bicycle,”, who are talking gear ratios, derailers, and gels, and I make a mental note to upgrade my baggy white socks, flapping T-shirt, and John Deere work gloves. But with the skies starting to darken and an ominous wind picking up out of the west, no one lingers over idle chit-chat, and we’re soon back on the bikes.
After climbing endlessly over the first half of the ride, I gleefully accept the reward—a long cruising downhill ride to the valley below and another food stop in Montpelier. With only 22 miles of rolling flats to the finish, I smugly project that I’ll be home over an hour faster than my previous two rides. But the moment I start envisioning my induction into the “People of the Bicycle,” a clap of thunder shakes the ground and the skies open up with sheets of rain. It’s as if the God of the “People of the Bicycle” is roaring, “NOT SO FAST, CHUMP! THERE ARE DUES TO BE PAID!”
I don’t say anything, because it’s a warm rain, and I only have 10 miles to go, but shortly thereafter—POP, FIZZ—my rear tire is flatter than Kansas. But luck is with me. My riding partner has a pump and tire irons, and within seconds, a saintly biker pulls over and donates a tube to the cause. Changing a tire in the driving rain while trembling with early stages of hypothermia is a challenge, but after shaking my fist at the heavens, I’m back on the road and headed for home.
The God of the “People of the Bicycle,” however, is not done with me. With six miles to go, and puddles obscuring the shoulder of the road, I hit another pothole and—POP, FIZZ—I watch helplessly as air bubbles out of my front tire. With no help in sight and none likely to appear, I contemplate my options as a booming thunderclap ushers in another downpour. Hmm … I can stand in the rain, walk, or continue riding on my flat tire. I opt for the latter.
With all thoughts of a new record replaced by a longing for warmth, food, and a dry shirt, I creep along through the rain, finally arriving at the near-empty, muddy, parking lot shortly before nightfall. This isn’t how I had envisioned my arrival 10 miles earlier, but cold burgers, and leftover cookies never taste better. For sure, I’ll be back next year after having invested in the requisite training, and yes, I’ll bring along all the necessary tools this time—a pump, spare tube, tire irons, and an attitude adjustment. Membership in the “People of the Bicycle” does not come easily.
Bill McCollom lives in Barnard, VT, where he spends his time taking care of the farm, writing for various sports publications, and dabbling in a variety of masters sports.
