Comfortably Numb
In retrospect I cannot explain what possessed me to initiate this ride, let alone complete it. When someone asks how I determine what long, solo rides to do I jokingly reply, “Whatever the voices in my head tell me to do.” Honestly it’s not all that off. A goal simmers for a few weeks or even just the night before as something in my mind takes over, like I’m suddenly on autopilot and not really in control of this decision. The voices navigate me through the flow of route planning, food prep, bike checks, and weather forecasting. My clothes are all laid out the night before. My breakfast vitamin smoothie waits in the fridge. My snacks are wrapped in tin foil. All the gadgets are plugged in and humming towards being fully charged. I’m in bed on time, not filled with anxiety or trepidation. I just know it will work out, or at least something will work out. Notable waypoints and refueling stops, as well as plans A, B, C, and D are scribbled in pink pen on a scrap of paper to be tucked in my handlebar bag, all are options to success even though I’m not exactly sure what my shorthand codes meant at the time. When I finally roll out of the driveway as the sun rises on the appointed day, the voices in my head know that they’ve laid out my path and I’ll meet it with confidence.
For my second annual “Americans Still Can’t Do Metric” Rapha Women’s 100(km) ride, I had several route and bail-out options. At minimum I wanted to get 100 miles. An epic day would be 124 miles (aka 200 km, but that doesn’t mean much to Americans). My true goal would gladly settle for 120 miles, which is a nice sold, round number that Americans can put their heads around. In May 2020 I cranked out 120 miles on the GAP and Montour trails, so I knew it wasn’t inconceivable, but that ride was so flat that I later called the most torturous Zwift session ever because I didn’t stop pedaling. This route would avoid the trails and be all on the road, but to get that kind of mileage west of Pittsburgh would require climbing. A lot of climbing. And coasting.
I hadn’t done any long training rides since our 75-mile Bike MS ride last month. My recent focus had been on intervals and hill repeats so I hoped that would carry me through an extra three to four hours to hit the 120-mile mark. Miraculously, this option and its bajillion feet of climbing was a success this year, but not without travail.
It’s not fall yet, suckers
A warm, humid weather system moved into town that made staying hydrated a challenge in my remote sections. I had planned to refuel and rehydrate in Avella (at 42 miles), Burgettstown (at 72 miles), and McDonald (101 miles). However, the temperature and humidity rose pretty quickly into the mid-80s and I managed to drain all my water in the remote section after Avella, a good 18 miles until Burgettstown. Those last 18 miles were hot, exposed, and fucking steep non-stop climbs. The only godsend was they were not newly chip-sealed so I didn’t collapse in a gravelly ditch and cry, and I was mostly familiar with the roads so mentally I could picture what I had to do and exactly how long it would take.
pretty Roads and climbs that did not want to kill me, hence photos
The stomach f-u
I reached the oasis of Cherry Valley Organics in Burgettstown expecting a huge crowd of Panhandle Trail visitors, but it was surprisingly empty. I picked up three bottles of water, a 12oz coffee with an inch of half-and-half, and a small bag of potato chips. Based on my last century ride with a similar stop three months ago, I expected my engines to be revived, but that moment never arrived. Cruising down the road towards Hickory, thankfully I had a tailwind, but the heat squashed any interest in eating and I couldn’t make my stomach happy. Too much water? Not enough salt? Should I lose what I had and start over? On a ride like this, it’s a team effort with your body and when there’s one member out of whack, the rest struggle to make up for its role. I took a small bite of my salty, homemade energy chews at the top of Hickory, but that didn’t turn it around either. An easy downhill stretch was just what I needed, and another chance for my body to settle down.
At mile 90 my stomach revolted. How much more could someone ride on a diet of water and potato chips from two hours ago? There were waves of light-headedness that reminded me of my vaccine reaction in March. I hoped that it would not worsen into the dizziness that left me sobbing on the side of the road when my brain couldn’t equalize movement with balancing on a bike. I was getting to the point of wondering whether my hand-eye-brake coordination would still be able to respond to road stimuli. One more short stretch to Westland and then I would reassess my status and miles to go. I turned right onto Hornhead Road and my hopes sank. Brand new chip-seal as far as the eye could see. The bastards chip-sealed one vital road towards home that left me gingerly navigating drifts of shit-gravel while being broiled in the afternoon sun. The short, steep 100-foot climb a few miles in felt like 1,000. For the first time ever I stopped at the top of a climb and contemplated the advantages of barfing. Everyone seems to feel better after. It’s like rebooting hardware, right? Or would that leave me even more dehyrated?
Ok to go
A check-in with all systems and mental calculations reported back that my legs were fine and could keep moving. My Small Ring Sunday mantra was working well and preventing them from becoming overly taxed on the unrelenting hills. Another good sign was that my heart rate was still dropping appropriately after any climb. Reason concluded that I just needed to tune out the whimpering of my stomach and nagging of my brain. I was headed to one of my favorite sections that would engulf me in serenity before the final stretch. As Ellie said in the movie Contact, “I’m ok to go.”
Descending Hornhead usually invigorates the broken soul as its the beginning of a long downhill and miles of flat valley back to the barn, but the chip seal made any breezy coasting negligible. Once free of that octagon, it was a cautious ride down Route 50, over wide railroad tracks and a sharp left to head north through tranquil Southview. This was my chance to recover under the trees and quiet flat country roads until the final hump climb, then it was down to another valley and McDonald. This was my final rest stop before the 15 miles back home. I bought more water and sugar free lemonade at the gas station hoping that the flavor would at least entice my stomach. The cold drink did refresh my mouth and throat, but my stomach still held no interest. Fine. Time to suck it up and finish this out. I knew every road and turn in front of me as the sun slowly inched lower in the sky. Noblestown. Sturgeon. Walkers Mill. Carnegie. I had been out riding since 7:05 a.m. I daydream all the time about what a release it would be to ride my bike all day in the long summer sun. But in actuality it’s a shit ton of work. Those photos of people smiling and laughing through 12 hour days on the bike sit on a thrown of lies.
Being unplugged from the world meant I had no idea that everyone was glued to their televisions watching a perfectly timed afternoon Steelers game. I had noticed that the roads were unusually empty for a beautiful Sunday, but didn’t have the mental acuity to figure out why. Keeping drivers holed up indoors with beer and nachos rather than swerving around me helped alleviate any additional stress that I could not have managed.
The last slog was up Scrubrass, both lower and upper levels. Everyone in our club knows The Worst Climb is on upper Scrubgrass. It’s all of 50-feet, but it’s also a hammer to the head. On hard days I stop in the shade of a tree just before it begins to lower my heart rate and take one last swig of water. I find that always gives me a last bit of strength to climb up. Since my water bottles were going to waste, I doused my head and felt all the warm, salty water drain down my face. A breeze made its way through my helmet vents and I felt instantly cooler. Why hadn’t I done this earlier??! The rest of the water went over my head and to wipe my face clean. I made a few laps in The Manor to officially round up the ride, then dragged my ass across some brick streets to home.
My bike was amazing with no troubles or grumbles. My body and mind made peace as we figured out just what I was capable of. This was another huge checkmark in the list of life lessons on how to be resilient and keep moving. Next time, let’s just make it a little less hot.
