Last Saturday, when I did the Issaquah Alps, it didn’t occur to me that the hardest climb of the day would come after the event was over. I had used all my food and all my energy in finishing the ride itself, and hadn’t left anything in reserve for the eight-mile ride home.

The extent of my mistake, of course, didn’t occur to me until I reached the base of SE 43^rd Way. This is a fairly moderate climb, one that I do without any difficulty a couple times per week as part of my commute.

As I started to climb, though, I realized: I was cooked. My clock was cleaned. I was out of gas. I had cracked.

I had, in short, bonked.

Now, I don’t know if anyone who doesn’t do endurance sports really knows what a true bonk feels like. It’s actually kind of interesting. First of all, you have only the slightest amount of power. You can turn the cranks over, but just barely. Next, you stop caring. You know that you must look ridiculous, riding your bike at three miles per hour (yes, really), but you just don’t have the energy to care about appearances. You completely lack the ability to rally — it doesn’t matter how bracing a pep talk your friends give you, you aren’t going to be able to buck up and go faster. In a really good bonk, I’ve experienced a disconnectedness between my mind and body: this can’t be my body inching along, right? Surely, if this were my body, I’d be able to tell my legs to go faster. Sometimes — not always — I’ll feel cold.

All of these sensations, though, are pretty much secondary to the main emotion: misery. It’s a self-pitying, helpless, weak, beyond-tiredness, beyond-hunger, beyond-thirsty, miserable misery.

And the thing is, as far as bonks go, the one I had last Saturday was pretty minor. I had, after all, a mobile phone; I could quit any moment and call for help. And I knew I wasn’t far from home; Once I got to the top of the hill, I knew I’d be fine.

A bonk underscored by lack of options, though, is something special. It’s something to behold if you’re with the guy who’s bonking, and something you never forget if you’re the guy who bonked.

Here are a few of my favorite — if you can call them that — bonks.

Rocky at the Kokopelli

The first time Rocky and I tried the Kokopelli Trail, I believe it was the longest ride either of us had ever attempted. Also, neither of us had ever been on that trail and were just following the map and signposts.

We were, in short, all kinds of stupid.

Early in the day we missed a turn — the only non-obvious turn in the whole route, really — and didn’t realize our mistake until it made more sense to continue than to turn around. This added several miles of deep sand to our ride, as well as a few miles of paved climbing.

And it was hot outside. Right around 100 degrees.

And Rocky’s a sweater (by which I mean he sweats a lot, not that he’s a woolen pullover you wear when it’s nippy outside). It’s his most obvious trait, really. By the time we got to within ten miles of where we’d be getting supplies, Rocky had gone through all his food, all his water, and some of my water.

Rocky bonked. Hard. He got clammy, his voice slurred, he could no longer ride his bike. Luckily, we spied a ranch and made our way toward it, taking little baby steps because that was truly all Rocky had in him.

Once at the ranch, Rocky drank all the water he could and we left. We passed an irrigation ditch; Rocky stripped and layed down in it about ten minutes.

Yeah, it sounds like heat exhaustion, but it was a heat-exhaustion-induced bonk.

Brad at the Kokopelli

Brad does not look like someone who would bonk. Ever. This is because Brad is, to all appearances, the perfect specimen of a man. He bikes, he runs, he does Muay Thai, he eats very much fish.

And yet, a couple of years ago, Brad bonked hard.

A good-sized group of us were doing the Kokopelli Trail — many years had elapsed, and I now had considerable endurance riding experience — and Brad was, as usual, riding off the front. Or at least he was riding up in front until over the course of just a few minutes, he imploded and became a husk of a man. I don’t know why it happened, I don’t think he knows why. But Brad was fully bonked. Everyone in the group slowed way down — you don’t want to leave a bonked rider out in the desert on his own — but Brad still kept dropping behind. He hung his head, he wouldn’t talk, a lot of the time he didn’t even seem to hear us.

The thing is, Brad didn’t have an option about whether to keep going. We were out in the middle of nowhere, and he had to somehow turn the cranks for 30 miles before we next met up with the sag wagon. I’m pretty sure Brad started crying when he finally saw the car and knew he could quit.

Why did Brad bonk? It’s hard to say. Maybe it’s because he didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body, so had no reserves. Maybe it’s because he had been training more for shorter races, and the long ride went beyond what he was ready for. Maybe he was just too darn handsome to be riding with the rest of us.

Fatty at Leadville

Three years ago, I was about as fit as I’ve ever been. I was fit, light, and had been training like crazy. I thought I had a good chance at finishing under nine hours in the Leadville 100. And for the first 65 miles, my split times seemed to show that I was going to do it.

But then, two-thirds of the way through the race, I just couldn’t drink Gatorade anymore. The taste of it sickened me. And that’s too bad, because Gatorade was all I had to drink.

Before long, I would gag whenever I tried to take a drink. And then, right around mile 78, I lost all power. I rode slowly, frustrated that people were passing me so fast, yet completely unable to do anything about it. I pulled over to the side of the road and vomited. I felt better and was able to ride again — for about two minutes. Then I was weaker than ever. Worse, the final 25 miles of the Leadville 100 have two big climbs.

I had plenty of food, plenty to drink, but every time I tried to eat or drink, the gag reflex kicked in. My world became very small: just me, the bike, and the next turn of the crank (or the next step, since there were big stretches I could not ride).

Eventually, it occurred to me that if I took small sips, maybe I could get something down. It worked. Eventually, I could ride again, and even finished with a respectable time — although not the sub-9 I was hoping for.

The thought of Gatorade still creeps me out, though. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink it again.

Bonk Recovery

If there’s a silver lining to the bonk, it’s the feeling of recovering from a bonk. Eating everything in sight, as if it were a contest, as if you have a capacity for an infinite amount of food, as if every kind of food really does go with every other kind of food (ketchup and whipped cream on rye? Excellent!)

And then laying down, knowing that you really are as tired as you can possibly be. And that you survived a bonk.

Today’s weight: 162.4

Bonus Search Engine Wonderfulness: I am happy to report that if you do a Google or MSN search on "best cake in the world" the top result is right here. So, I guess that settles it: it really is the best cake in the world.

The Unnecessarily Long Prologue
I’m an evil, scheming type. Conniving. Strategizing. For any given event of which I am party, you can bet that I’m looking for a way to turn it to my benefit. So last Saturday, after my wife had spent the entire day away shopping, seeing a movie she knew I wanted to see, eating out and what-not, all while I took care of the kids, you can bet that I noticed her appreciative-yet-slightly-guilty tone. I was prepared to take advantage of the situation.

"Hey, any chance I could get in a fairly good-sized ride Monday?"

"Sure, honey. What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, I dunno. Let me think about it." Actually, I knew exactly, but part of my scheme was that I didn’t want to come off as scheming.

The next morning, after letting my wife sleep in, I told her what I wanted to do: "You know, Hon, there’s a road ride some of us have been talking about for a long time, but none of us have ever done it. I think it would take about five hours. Any chance I could get away for that long tomorrow? I’d leave around 6:30 a.m., so I’d be back before or right around noon—we’d still have most of the day to do stuff as a family."

Instant approval. Nearly twelve years of marriage has taught me a thing or two.

So Sunday night I laid out all my stuff: food, two bottles of diluted Red Bull, shorts, mesh jersey. I set the alarm clock for 6:00 and went to bed.

Monday morning dawned cold, dark and wet. No, seriously, it really did. When the alarm went off, I looked out the window and saw nothing but clouds and wet roads. There goes my ride. I went back to bed.

A couple hours later, I was sulkily playing Crash Bandicoot with the kids when my wife looked out the window and said, "It looks like things might clear up; do you want to try your ride after all? If the weather turns on you, you can bail out and come back home." Yes, that’s right: my wife was encouraging me to take off for most of the day. I dug out knickers, a warm jersey and arm warmers and was out the door.

The Ride
The reason I wrote such an unnecessarily long prologue is because I don’t think epic road rides are as inherently dramatic as equivalent mountain bike rides. You’re on the road, for crying out loud. So, in order to make the story longer (the Epic Rides site pays by the word, after all) [editor's note: I originally wrote this story for a site I used to maintain called "Epic Rides," which of course did not pay anything at all], I padded. I still am padding, I guess.

Anyway, the ride I had in my head is based on a beautiful road in Utah County: the Alpine Loop. By itself, this loop curves through aspen and pine trees on Timpanogos mountain, consists of about 38 miles and 3000 feet of climbing. The pavement is good and the scenery is spectacular. What I wanted to do was ride this loop and all the "spur" roads on it. I figured this would about double the length—both in distance and climbing—of the ride. So here’s how it went.

Note: the "Altitude Gain" numbers below reflect the amount of climbing I had done to that point, not the actual elevation of that climb. The elevation of this ride ranges from 4800 feet to 8000 feet.

Spur 1: Squaw Peak
Ordinarily, this is a tough little 4.3-mile climb of its own; while climbing it all I can think about is getting to the top—especially the last third of a mile, which is truly brutal. Today, though, I was taking it nice and slow—I didn’t want to fry myself early on, knowing that I had a lot more climbing to do after this.

Coming down Squaw Peak was miserable—I had a fierce, cold crosswind that made this normally fast, fun descent feel trecherous as I got pushed around on my bike. Sometime during this descent my toes went numb from the cold (hadn’t thought to substitute warm socks); I wouldn’t feel them again for twenty miles.

The numbers for the Squaw Peak Climb:
Distance: 4.78 – 9.11 miles (4.33 miles)
Altitude Gain: 210 – 1890 feet (1680 feet)
Climb Time: 0:17 – 0:58 (41 minutes)

Spur 2: South Fork
The rotten crosswind I had coming down Squaw Peak became my friend as I rode up Provo Canyon to South Fork. The tailwind pushed me fast, making it easy to go upwards of 20 miles an hour. Uphill. Now, South Fork is the road ride a lot of us do when we’re not in the mood to do a hard ride. I made a point of riding spinning nice and easy on this relatively easy climb; I wanted to be strong for the nine-mile Alpine Loop climb, which would be next.

About the time I got to the turnaround and headed down, I got a good omen: the sun came out and the wind calmed down. I was still cold, but at least I wasn’t freezing anymore.

The numbers for the South Fork Climb:

Distance: 17.5 – 21.7 miles (4.2 miles)
Altitude Gain: 2230 – 2950 feet (720 feet)
Climb Time: 1:15 – 1:36 (21 minutes)

The Alpine Loop Climb
If the Alpine Loop weren’t so beautiful, this would still be a great ride. The fact that it’s situated in one of the most gorgeous mountain passes I’ve ever seen makes it a favorite recreational ride for cars, motorcycles and bicyclists; the narrow road can get pretty crowded. Luckily, the overcast day seemed to discourage most people; I didn’t have to contend with traffic much at all.

I should also mention that the Alpine Loop is a pretty strenuous climb, especially the first 2.3 miles that bring you to the Sundance ski resort. I stopped there for water (and to give the blood a chance to stop spurting out of my ears) and churned up the rest of the way to within a quarter-mile of the summit — the Cascade Springs turnoff. I was starting to tire, and was worried that I just didn’t have the strength to pull off that section of the ride.

The numbers for the Alpine Loop Climb:
Distance: 27.2 – 35.6 miles (8.4 miles)
Altitude Gain: 3000 – 5720 feet (2720 feet)
Climb Time: 1:53 – 3:00 (1:07)

The Cascade Springs Spur
I was now at the point I had been thinking about the whole ride. This was the only spur I had never ridden. It’s also the only spur that starts by going downhill, meaning — of course — that the return trip is uphill. A couple of friends of mine—Dug and Brad—who had ridden it had told me that this return trip was a seven mile brute of a climb that dwarfs the difficulty of the Alpine Loop climb. And there’s no easy bailout; once you get to Cascade Springs (at least on a road bike), the only way out is back up. "I’ll recuperate on the way down," I thought.

I had no idea that the first three miles down Cascade Springs could go so fast. Between the steepness of the road and a stiff tailwind, I hit my max speed for the day here — 54mph — without even trying (in fact, I was a little spooked). Then, to my surprise, I found there’s about a mile of climbing. Dug and Brad had told me about this, but I had forgotten. Another quick three miles of mostly downhill brought me to Cascade Springs. I filled up my water bottles here and talked with the chain-smoking, hugely overweight ranger, who assured me that with all the walking he has to do in the parking lot each day, checking windshields to make sure people have paid their fees, he gets as much of a workout as I would riding my bike back to the top. "I’m sure you do," I agreed, finishing off the last of my Red Bull and squirting down two PowerGels.

Time for the big climb. As Doug and Brad had predicted, it was a brute; in particular the final three miles hurt. Remember that tailwind that helped me downhill so effectively? Well, strangely enough it had turned into a headwind on the return trip. I put down my head and did my best to suffer with poise. When I got to the top, though, I still felt good — I had blown the difficulty of the climb out of proportion. Plus, I knew that the rest of the ride would be easy. Jubilant (yeah, I was jubilant, and what of it?) but light-headed, I sat down at the Alpine Loop summit parking lot and ate my sandwich.

The numbers for the Cascade Springs Climb (to Alpine Loop Summit):
Distance: 42.7 – 49.97 miles (7.22 miles)
Altitude Gain: 6090 – 8180 feet (2090 feet)
Climb Time: 3:30 – 4:19 (49 minutes)

Granite Flats Campground Spur
Dropping down the American Fork side of the Alpine Loop is usually a hoot. It’s got fun curves and switchbacks, with a couple of straight sections where you can really open it up. On this descent, though, the crosswind/headwind was strong enough to scare me to death — you’re riding on exposed road; a big screwup could kill you. So I was relieved when I got to American Fork canyon and could begin riding the final spur up to Tibble Fork reservoir — home of the best singletrack in the entire world. It’s a quick, flat little spur, and when I got to the parking lot and noticed that the road continues after it, I decided it would be cheating not to take the spur to the end. Soon I realized what a lousy decision that was. The road turned uphill and I realized I was completely beat. Having made the choice, though, I didn’t want to back out and slowly, slowly made it to Granite Flat Campground. Now all I needed to do was make it back home.

The numbers for the Granite Flat Campground Climb:
Distance: 55.8 – 59.09 miles (3.29 miles)
Altitude Gain: 8200 – 8840 feet (640 feet)
Climb Time: 4:45 – 5:04 (19 minutes)

Wrapping Up
The sixteen or so miles to my house are mostly downhill or flat; I started feeling considerably better before long. In fact, I started hatching a new plan: when I got home, I’d beg my wife for another hour or so, ride out to South Fork and back and make this a road century with 10,000 feet of climbing. That was before the four-block climb that leads to my house. By the time I got to the top of that, I had no inclination to do any more riding that day. I coasted the final two downhill blocks to my house, wrote down my final stats and steeled myself for what I knew would be the hardest challenge of the day: acting like I was fine and ready to go on a picnic, or to the park, or wherever else my wife wanted to go for the rest of the day, when in reality all I wanted to do was lay very, very still.

Final Numbers for the Alpine Gauntlet:
Ride Time: 5:14
Total Time: 5:57
Avg. Speed: 14.6mph
Max. Speed: 54mph
Distance: 76.78 miles
Altitude Gain: 9350 feet

Nobody reads The Fat Cyclist for useful advice. Or at least, I hope not, because I never give useful advice. Unless you count a detailed recounting of "how to eat like a sideshow freak" or "how to fall off your bike and hurt yourself, while still looking comically ridiculous" as useful advice.

No, I think it’s safe to say that I’m long on absurd overdisclosure and wild exaggeration, and short on practical information.

And yet, last night I started thinking (hey, your brain’s got to do something while you brush your teeth): I’ve been riding for ten years or so, now. Certainly in that time I must have learned something of real value I could share. And in the space of three minutes (ie, the period of time required for  a good teeth-brushing), I had thought of three simple, useful pieces of advice that have significantly improved my riding experience over the years.

So yes, one day after I reveal that I can behave like a complete lunatic, I’m asking you to consider taking my advice. Here you go:

1. How to Breathe

When I first started mountain biking, I got cramps in my side every single ride. Cramps so painful I would get off my bike and wait for the pain to go away. While I was thus waiting once, Stuart rolled up to me and asked what the problem was. I told him about the stitch in my side, and Stuart said four words:

"Breathe deeply. Exhale fully."

I got back on my bike and tried it. I inhaled to capacity, and exhaled as far as I could. He was right. I had been breathing too quickly and shallowly. With that, I went from being the guy who was always having to stop and rest to being the guy who could turn the cranks forever. If I wanted more power or speed, I would do the same thing, but faster.

Those four words of advice very nearly make up for the fact that it was Stuart who basically caused me to get a concussion on my first mountain bike ride ever.

2. There is No Such Thing as Bike Burnout

Toward the end of just about every riding season, I’ll try to set up a ride with friends, but will get a variation of this response: "No, I’m sick of bikes." Or sometimes, I’ll be the guy who says, "No, I’m burned out on riding."

This is just stupid.

Here’s what’s really happening if you don’t want to get out on your bike: you’re in a rut. You’ve been riding the same kind of bike, in the same way (or same set of ways), on the same terrain too much. It’s become routine.

Any time I’ve kicked myself off the couch and tried a different kind of ride, I’ve been astounded. If I’ve been riding road exclusively, I’ll say, "I’d forgotten that mountain biking can be so intense and beautiful and demanding." If I’ve been mountain biking a lot, I’ll say, "I’d forgotten that road riding is so fast and quiet and smooth." Or, in my case right now as I learn to ride in the velodrome, "I had forgotten what it feels like to be an absolute beginner." Or when I ride my fixie to work and back, "I had forgotten what it felt like to be completely demolished by a climb."

If you’re not having fun riding anymore, mix it up (even if it does go against the routine Chris Carmichael personally wrote for you). You’ll find you still like riding as much as you ever did.

3. Remember to Have Fun

I have been on lots and lots and lots of endurance races and rides. I have never quit, even when I’ve been really slow and fat. This is because of my very most clever trick:

I have fun.

I think lots of cyclists look forward to a long ride or race forever, but then once they’re on the course think of nothing but the finish line. I propose that if you remember to actually ride in the moment, look around and consider what a cool thing it is to be on a bicycle, that — whether you’re doing an afternoon-length ride or a 24-hour race — you’ll have a better time and won’t get tired as quickly.

OK, I just made up the part about not getting tired as quickly. But if you resist the urge to think about the end of the ride, I guarantee you’ll enjoy more of the ride itself.

Today’s weight: 160.8. I did this by basically not eating anything yesterday, and then not fasting after 5pm yesterday. So, yeah, I made my weight goal. But I’m sure my weight’s going to be higher tomorrow, and I’ll have a lot of work to make my weight goal next week.

Bonus blood pressure / cholesterol info: I — as usual — blew things out of proportion. My blood pressure yesterday was only trivially higher than it should be, and my cholesterol levels aren’t dangerous. Basically, I need to cut back on the salt and eat more fish (or take flaxseed oil supplements), and I’m good.

Bonus weekend event: I’m doing the Seattle Randonneur’s 100km Populaire (110 km, 1650 m/5400 ft of elevation gain) tomorrow. Unless I chicken out.