MB Metric Century...

...or why I get annoyed with organized century rides.

It is a ride people, not a race. Not that I'm opposed to racing, hammering, or going fast, but someone should have told that to the organizers. If you don't want people to race, don't give them timing chips and a finish line! Everyone already knows their times, all of these dudes already have cyclocomputers. In fact, what don't most of these dudes have on their bikes?

Panniers, mountain bike tires, huge mirrors, a freakin' camera, and God knows what else taped to their frames! Look, I'm not exempt from criticism either but most of society already views cyclists as abnormal freaks. We don't need rolling sideshows to further this belief; Lycra, shaved legs, and skinny tires are enough already. It is like this at most every century. More power to them, I'm just here to do my own thing.

Right from the start we were rolling at a decent pace into a nasty headwind that would only get worse throughout the morning. I wanted no part of that and my legs were already feeling a bit like wood (I'd like to believe that it was the flu that I got setting in, but maybe my form isn't what it should be). It was cold that morning so I just wanted to stay in the middle of the group for awhile until it warmed up or at least until some maniac in front of me locks up his rear wheel (going uphill no less). "Jesus!" I shout. I guess this is why it's safer at the front.

To the front I go to avoid the crazies. The peloton was about 80 strong at this point and about 20 of them must have confused my move for an attack, because more crazies kept coming (another phenomena of centuries). I thought, "Here comes crazy blow-up guy," and "Look there's way too small gear, way too high cadence guy." Again, I'm not beyond reproach here and have done this in the past, but now realize the err of my ways. Finally a guy sprints out of the saddle to be the first to reach the top of the overpass. Another jibes, "Go ahead and take the points!" Cycling humor.

Things finally settled down and sped up a bit on some open roads with tailwinds. A few solo breaks went away and came back. The group had whittled down to about 50 where it remained until the route returned to Myrtle's main drag. I have to admit that it felt pretty cool flying through the touristy part of town at 30 mph. Amongst the high-rise hotels, tourists and tourist holes, I imagined I was in a pro-peloton riding through the French Riviera instead of the Redneck Riviera. Screeeeech, wobble, pothole as another dude nearly eats it in front of me. Back to reality, I'm a club rider again.

Now there were some legitimate attacks with multiple riders, gaining small gaps. I had no interest in any of this. I was suffering to stay in the pack, my head was throbbing, and I was ready for this to be done. What is wrong with me? Finally with 22 miles to go and a group of about 25 (the same 25 that would finish together), one guy went. I didn't see it, but apparently he had a teammate on the front blocking for him. Regardless, he was gone. No one solos off the front and gains on a group unless they're a seriously strong rider with metal fortitude to boot. My jealous side wants to say "well screw that guy," but the cyclist in me gives him all the credit.

After that I decided to salvage what I could of what remained. I got a rotating paceline of about six of us going. That lasted for about 7 or 8 rotations. "What? None of you other dudes want in on this?" Alright then, no more work for me. I'll just sit in for the ride and do my little sprint finish at the end. And so it happened. I rolled across the line in fourteenth, just under 2:50. The family was there to greet me, which made me feel better. Overall not a bad day, just one that could have been better.