The Tour de Tuck (Part 2)

And this is how I spent Saturday. Bogged down with bottles, food, and enough cold weather gear to cross the tundra. Thankfully I wasn't going to need the gear, but I wasn't taking any chances after yesterday. The plan was to ride with the group (as everyone does) for the first twenty miles, shadow my teammates over the first climb, and then attack somewhere near the top of the second.

Attack teammates!? I know it doesn't sound right, but before you go callin' me Alberto, just remember it's friendly competition. Bragging rights for next year were at stake. I planned to go near the top of Balsam Mountain (near mile 54 on map) where there was still some climbing left. If I could open up a gap and hold them off on the descent (remember these guys go downhill like banshees), there was a good chance of not seeing them again. It only took 300 yards of climbing before my plans were shot.

They were gone. They had latched on to a strong group of guys at the front and were out of sight in minutes. Crap. Oh well, I'll just ride my own pace and see what happens. So I did. I was in a small group of three when an older guy lifted the pace and I decided to follow. He was riding just out of my comfort zone, but I knew if I could hang on, I would settle be able to in. We quickly gapped the other two on the way to the first summit, where I shifted into the biggest gear and dropped him on the downhill. I also dropped a load in my pants...

The Parkway has long sweeping descents. You can see for miles. The Parkway has bears! "Holy S@%t!" I said to myself. A 400-lb Black Bear jumps out of the woods, shoots me a look, then darts across the road before disappearing on the other side. I tap my breaks, contemplate being eaten, and squeal like a school girl as I rolled past it. Very cool, very scary, but no time to consider what just happened. There was more climbing ahead and who should pass me but the same guy that I had left on the descent. This would be the theme for the day. I passed this guy on every downhill only to have him drop me on the climbs (all except one, that is). We eventually committed to working the final 15 miles together.

More climbing, more downhills. I was beginning to develop a rhythm. At the base of the penultimate climb, I was able to make out the figures of my teammates in the distance. I couldn't believe it. I had caught them and I would have my chance to execute "the plan". Now I was feeling really good. After riding for awhile as a group, I eased into a bigger gear and began grinding away. That was enough to gap Rob. I saw he had drifted back about fifty yards and the next time I checked, he was gone. A few miles later and I tried to shake John. Same results, only this time, I couldn't get out of sight. He kept coming back until he eventually passed me.

To make a long story short, I had to stop four times after this to pee, for water, dropped chain etc. I lost sight of John and went barreling ass down a long descent to catch him. The last time I saw him was at the base of Charley's Creek; a one mile climb with some sections at 15% grade. I'm not sure who Charley was, but he must have been a real SOB. It was the hardest part of the ride (mile 67 on map) and I wasn't going to catch John after that. Rob caught back up to me after ninety miles. I looked over at him and said, "I was hoping I wouldn't see you again." He laughed and made that statement a reality, torching me. While I didn't meet my goal, I did finish within eight minutes of others and I improved on my time from last year. Overall an awesome day.

The Stats.

104.7 Miles in 6:26:26

Highest Peak/Grade--Richland Balsam at 6053 feet, Charley's Creek at 15%

Total Ascent/Top Speed--11070 feet, 47.8 mph

Calories Burned--4519

Fun Factor--9.5/10

The Tour de Tuck (Part 1)

Headed up to the mountains of North Carolina for the 4th annual Tour de Tuck. The Tour is a 105-mile suffer fest with nearly 11,000 feet of climbing, including the penultimate climb over the Richland Balsam mountain, the highest point on the Blue Ridge Parkway at 6053 feet. The forecasters called for highs in the low 70s and a 60% chance of rain; potentially hellish conditions for an already epic ride.

Loaded up the unofficial team van with John and Rob and made for the mountains. This was my second Tour and their fourth (since the Tour's inception). Though not a race, the route is timed, and a friendly competition had developed between them with John always coming out on top. Last year they had graciously invited me along and gave me a 30-minute trouncing en route to the finish. No surprise really. Both of them are consistently some of the strongest riders around. What was surprising is that I was able to hang with them for 65 miles before getting dropped. This year was going to be different. I wanted to get some of my time back; not just finish alongside them, but ahead.

This year would be different. Rob had the brilliant (and I mean that sincerely) idea to head up early and get in some mountain miles on a route called "The Ring of Fire." 40 miles, 5000 feet of ascent over two major climbs (some at over 10% grade) and potential suicide for Saturday's chances. Why not? You only get to do this once a year. I was all in. Committed. It was sunny and warm as we set off on the Ring of Fire, but all this was about to change.

Working the stiffness from my legs and tuning my lungs to climbing became the objective of the day. The first climb hit us straightaway with some tough gradients laden with gravel. The gravel made climbing that much more difficult and descending that much more terrifying. Descending has never been my strong point; I descend like a 14-year old girl. While the three of us reached the summit together, Rob and John quickly dropped me on the descent. I wasn't taking any risks. Between the gravel, wet roads, and hairpin switchbacks I had other things to worry about. When you're hitting turns at 40 mph on 23 millimeter tires you have to put a lot of trust in your machine. Hit a patch, your toast. Brake too much, rims overheat, brakes melt, and tires explode. Brake too little and well...

By the time things had flattened out and we had regrouped, my arms were so sore from braking that I could barely grip the bars, but there were bigger issues. Rain. First sprinkles, then buckets followed by a steady pour. I like riding in the rain. It's miserable, a blow to the psyche, and invigorating. The problem wasn't the rain, it was the temperature. My bike computer showed that the temperature had dropped 10 degrees in an hour. This was okay for the next climb, but made the descent absolutely hypothermic. My fingers and feet had lost feeling near the top and braking and shifting now required extreme concentration. I couldn't feel the bar so I had to focus completely on my shifters and force my brain to make the appendages at the end of my arms work. It was so hard they actually burned, and a couple of times, slipped off of my levers. I thought for sure that I was in the worst shape, until I saw Rob.

As we neared the bottom I could see that he had slipped back and his bike's frame appeared to be made of rubber. Very uncharacteristic. "You okay?" I asked. I could now see that his wobbling was caused by shivering. The shivering would stop on flat ground and instantly start up again with any kind of speed. "Dude will you ride with me?" he said to John. That's it. Now I knew we couldn't go on and stopping just made us colder. Luckily at that moment, a cyclist-friendly passerby offered Rob a ride back to our car, which he informed us was only a few miles away. I dreamed of sitting in the car, heater on full blast, getting warm and dry. It would take a good thirty minutes for the shivering to stop and I was beginning to question the logic of the Ring of Fire. Tomorrow would tell.

Something new, something old

So a few weeks ago, facing the prospect of doing no more races this year, I got this half-cracked idea that I could attempt a sprint triathlon. Something to keep my competitive juices flowing and keep me fit. Something to break me out of the doldrums of cycling. What!? Did I just say that? It is true, I had hit a lull (that I was soon to snap out of...more to follow). In the meantime, I had work to do. Biking check. Running, although not my favorite, not an issue. Swimming not so much. I can't swim.

Okay, so I can't swim well. But really, it's only 0.3 miles. How hard is that? Two bucks and 25 meters of community pool later, the dreams of the sprint triathlon were shattered. Swimming is a vile activity. Any sport that requires your body to demand more oxygen and then robs you of the ability to get it is not fine by me. "Just stop and catch your breath," you say. This works fine and dandy in a bathtub, not eight feet of water. But still you argue, "It's all about timing your strokes." Again, too much thinking, not enough breathing. Swim, lose your breath, die; Stop swimming, sink, drown. No thank you to either one. Though not entirely defeated, swimming and triathlons will have to stay on the back burner.

On the other hand, I have rekindled my liking of the Fat Tire (yes, both the beer and the ride). After wrenching on and cleaning up the old Cannondale, she is now ride worthy, complete with new lock and lights. I've been riding it with the family, running errands on it and riding in the dark before work. I had forgotten how fun it was to ride off of the road and I even have the sense that my wife may have a touch of the Crank Addiction (she needs to get more comfortable handling the bike, but she's already promised to dominate on the road). I plan on using it to cross train this winter and perhaps ride it during lunch at work. Who knows, maybe it will blossom into something? Though I doubt it will supplant the roadie in me. There is just something that gets lost when you have to drive somewhere to ride your bike.

Working Schlep

Two weeks into the Tom, Dick, and Harry work schedule. Gone are the seven day, sleepless work weeks. Stress and serotonin levels are returning to normal. Yup, nine to five..(insert record screeching to a stop here)...

Now, I've seen some people around here that don't work, or that don't do real work, but does anyone really work nine to five? Not in America. Work, work harder, be inefficient and work longer, die. For the past eight years I've been working a rotating shift, seven days a week, at about ten hours a day. Holding on and holding out. Holding on for my next day or two off. Holding out for a regular job schedule and what comes with it: a pay cut, meetings, video and teleconferences, more meetings, and never seeing the sun when Eastern Standard Time returns. Is it any wonder why we, as a society, are so jacked up?

Stacking and re-stacking our beans. Rearranging our hill of beans. Having someone tell us our hill is all wrong and to fix our hill of beans. For what? At least on my other schedule I was home during the day. I could see my family for more than an hour, get in a ride here or there, do some stuff around the house. You know, all of the things that I'm working for. Please don't get me wrong, I don't want my old schedule back and at this point, I'm just happy to have a job, but whose idea was the forty-hour work week? And since when is forty hours not enough?

Someone needs to revisit this from the top down, until then we're all just a bunch of working schleps.