Fat Cyclist

The Surge

10.12.2005 | 2:14 pm

A Note from Fatty: This Best of Fat Cyclist post, rescued from my MSN Spaces archive, was originally posted October 12, 2005. It seemed strangely appropriate to move it over to my fatcyclist.com domain today.

I am a clumsy oaf who can only barely manage to make a bike do the most mundane things: go straight, turn, go faster, go slower, stop. I was reminded of this recently (um, today) when I sat up to ride no-handed on my fixed gear bike, and immediately started veering hard to the right. I just — but only just — managed to put my hands down in time and avoid dropping into a ravine.

Really, this was lucky. It served as a reminder: I am not the guy who can do tricks on a bike. I am not the guy who can pull pranks. I am not the guy who impresses the neighbor kids by riding a wheelie down the street or sitting backward on the handlebars and riding the bike facing the wrong direction.

Because when I show off on a bike, bad things happen.

The Surge
The most powerful example of my oafishness happened three years ago, the day before the Leadville 100. Kenny, Mark, Serena, Bry and I were out on a short ride, just to keep loose. We were joking around, doing 5-second sprints, trying to ride our bikes up stairs, and just having a good time in general — enjoying the nervous energy that comes before a big ride.

Caught up in the moment, I forgot that I am incapable of doing anything clever on a bike, and decided to try a prank that Kenny had played on me once: pass someone on the left, and as you go by, grab their bike lever to slow them down. Finish off by pushing off on your victim’s handlebar to give you an additional surge of speed.

When Kenny had done it to me, it had worked beautifully. He brought me to a near standstill, and shot on ahead of me 30 feet or more before I was able to get back up to speed.

So, thinking how funny I would be, I passed Bry on his left, grabbed his brake lever, and pushed off, yelling “Surge!”

To say it didn’t go off very well would be an understatement. A vast understatement.

I had grabbed Bry’s brake too hard; I didn’t just slow him down, I put him into a nose-wheelie. And my push-off was way too enthusiastic. It didn’t so much as push me forward as crank Bry’s handlebar hard to the left.

The result was as predictable as it was embarrassing: Bry’s handlebar hooked up nicely with my seatpost. Everyone gasped as Bry tumbled down to the left, landing squarely on top of me. I landed half on the pavement, half splayed on my bike.

It took half an hour and a borrowed pair of the Jaws of Life to untangle us.

Later, the scrapes and bruises from the fall would hurt like crazy. At the moment, though, the only thing I could feel was intense humiliation. I had just caused a good friend of mine to wreck the day before a race he had been training for for an entire year. Probably ruined his bike, too.

Whew
As it turned out, Bry hadn’t been hurt much at all. He had landed on something soft: me. His bike had some scratches, but nothing severe. I’m lucky; Bry’s an easy-going guy and he didn’t get anywhere near as mad at me as he should have.

However, every time we ride together now, Bry shies away from me if I get too close. “Please, Fatty,” he begs, “Don’t try The Surge.”

Don’t worry, Bry. I won’t try that kind of thing ever again, or at least not until the next time I forget that I’m a spaz.

Comments (30)

Respect for the Bonk

10.12.2005 | 7:13 am

A Note from Fatty: This "Best of Fatty" post, rescued from my MSN Spaces archive, was originally posted October 12, 2005.

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.

Comments (16)

Respect for the Bonk

10.11.2005 | 9:19 pm

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.

Comments (25)

I Would Be a Terrible Randonneur

10.10.2005 | 3:54 pm

Last week, four different people forwarded me email messages telling me I ought to do an upcoming ride: the Seattle Randonneur Club’s 100k Populaire, sometimes called “The Issaquah Alps.” Strangely, each of the messages had a vaguely ominous tone. For example, Mo Lettvin explained, “I’d be there, but I’m gonna be out of town next weekend. Or if that fails, I’ll be cleaning my garage…or perhaps washing my hair…or maybe finding some old x86 ASM code to optimize a little bit.”

I understood. The idea of this ride is to string together as many climbs in and around Issaquah as possible, starting off with The Zoo. It sounded ugly, but there were some mitigating factors that drew me in:

The event was free.
I was curious what randonneuring was about.
I love climbing.
The event’s starting line was only eight miles from my house. Which meant I’d be able to ride to and from the event — no car needed.
I figured that even if I was slow, I’d still learn some new routes around the area.
I could always bail out and ride home if I wasn’t having fun (for example, if I was hopelessly off the back, was seeing spots, and had had a heart-to-heart with Elvis).

I Have One Superpower

The thing about randonneuring is that you’re supposed to be totally self-sufficient. Carry the water and food you’ll need for the ride. Carry the clothes you’ll need for the day. Carry the course directions with you (two pages long, in this case) and follow them as you ride.

Not necessarily in the spirit of randonneuring, I wanted to keep things minimalistic for the ride. I figured that the less stuff I brought, the less stuff I’d be dragging up the hill. So I wore tights, a short-sleeved jersey, and arm warmers, and figured that would cover a pretty good range of weather. If it rained (predicted), I’d be in big trouble. Likewise for an unseasonably warm day.

I’m going to take a moment to boast here. I have an uncanny ability to pick the right clothes for the riding occasion. What I chose to wear turned out to be the exact right thing for the whole day. From time to time I would pull down the arm warmers for a climb, then pull them back up for the descent. It did not rain at all.

Yes, by day I’m the mild-mannered Fat Cyclist, but in real life I’m Pick the Right Cycling Clothes for the Occasion Man!

Let the Ride Begin

I swung a leg over my newly-fendered road bike — wow, I’m going to have to check and see how much my bike weighs sometime; that thing feels heavy) and headed over to the Issaquah Park and Ride, where the ride was slated to begin.

After riding less than a mile, I realized: I had forgotten to bring any Gus. I turned around, checked my watch, and turned around again. I didn’t have time. I’d do this ride without Gu. After all, I had three Clif bars and two bottles of water. That should be plenty.

As everyone gathered for the start of the ride, you couldn’t help but notice the people who were actual members of the Seattle Randonneurs (since this was a “Populaire,” it was open to the public; there were lots of other non-randonneuring-types there, too): they were the ones in long-sleeved old-school blue jerseys with “SEATTLE RANDONNEURS” in plain white stitching across the chest.

Their bikes were intriguing, too. Most of them had very expensive frames, around which they had built serious touring bikes: panniers or front-loaded packs were common. Fenders were universal. I noticed a couple with generator hubs and lights setups. I was caught in the strange position of both admiring the practicality of the bikes and being repelled at how boxy they looked.

And then I remembered: my titanium-framed, hand-built boutique bike was sporting a brand new set of black fenders. I had no room at all to talk about clumsy-looking bikes.

Jan Heine gave us the very simple directions on how things worked, and at 9:00am sharp, we were on our way.

My Very Clever Riding Strategy

Randonneuring events aren’t races, but there was an open competitiveness to at least some of the riders. Other riders — like me — were pretending to just be along for the ride.

Ask anyone I ride with: I am terrible at navigation. My sense of distance is pathetic, my sense of direction is non-existant. So my competitiveness had to take a backseat to my worry that I’d get lost and would never be found. Or worse, that I’d get lost and would have to call my wife and get her to give me Mapquest directions over the phone on how to get home.

So I came up with a plan: I would always ride within site of somebody who looked like he knew where he was going — one of the blue-shirted randonneurs.

The first climb of the day was not a problem, because I was familiar with it: The Zoo. My bike felt heavy, but I felt good. I passed about as often as I was passed, and in general got sorted to about where I belonged in the group — right about mid-pack.

Meet Your Fellow Riders

After zooming down the other side of The Zoo, I came to the first Race Control. Here, a volunteer stands and initials your card, to show that you really did do the ride you said you did. I’m a little foggy on who would ever ask, but perhaps some people have more suspicious-minded spouses than I have: “Dear, I know you said you went randonneuring, but I’d like to verify by checking your control station signatures.”

Anyway, just after this first descent, Simeon — who I’d met at the group Zoo climb a few weeks ago — caught up with me, and before long we were riding together in a group of about seven. “Do you know this course?” I asked, hopefully.

“No,” said Simeon. “I’m keeping a close eye on the blue shirts, and just staying with them.”

Well, it’s nice to know that I’m not the only one who isn’t going to get his randonneuring merit badge anytime soon.

Simeon and I spent most of the day riding in the group we had latched onto. In particular, two of the “Blue Shirts” (as Simeon and I now called them) we rode with seemed to match our speed well: Mark and Peter. From Mark, I learned what Randonneur means: “Super Tourist.” He also taught me what “brevet” means, but I can’t remember anymore. I’m confident it’s French, however, and believe it means “certificate” or something like that, but for our purposes it means “ride” or “event.” It didn’t matter, though, because a “Populaire” is not a “brevet.” Alas.

As we rode and I talked with a number of Blue Shirts, I noticed there’s a common set of character traits about them. They were uniformly nice, they all seemed to know where they were going, and they were all cheerful. They were all, essentially, like your favorite river rafting guide from that whitewater tour you took a few years ago. Or like Boy Scout leaders on bikes. Whatever. My point is that they were good guys, and I’m glad they didn’t lead me on a wrong turn and then ditch me.

Nice Day for a Ride

Before long, I really had no idea where we were. I was just turning the cranks and enjoying the day. It was overcast and a little chilly, but — if you had selected the proper clothing, as I most certainly had — perfect riding weather. Leaves were changing color, pumpkins were ready to be picked at the farms we rode by, and people were riding in a haywagon. It was the very definition of bucolic. As I rode in the countryside, I noticed Simeon was gapping me, and I just didn’t have the legs to stay with him. I couldn’t see anyone else around, either. Oh well. If I was going to get separated and off-course, this wasn’t a half-bad place to do it; I knew I was less than ten miles from home and could bail out anytime.

As I rode, I became more and more fascinated with one thing, though: caterpillars — the black-and-brown fuzzy kind everyone thinks are cute — were all over the road. I wonder how many hundreds of these I swerved to miss that day, each time thinking “Awwwww.” I’m a sucker for caterpillars.

Foreshadowing Comes to Fruition

The last formal control for the day was at a coffee shop in Carnation, WA — go in and ask the person working the counter to sign your card. Most everyone doing the race also took the opportunity to also get something to eat there. I, however, had stupidly brought no money. I ate my last Clif bar, realizing it wouldn’t have much effect on the big hunger I could feel coming on, and then waited around for a Blue Shirt to finish his sandwich and go, so I could follow him.

We had three big climbs left, and I was dropping further behind Simeon and Mark for each of them. Luckily for me, Peter had apparently taken me on as his pet project, he ushered me up each of those climbs, even as I increasingly ran out of gas. Chances are, if I’d have asked him for something to eat he’d have given me something, but I just couldn’t. This was about self-sufficiency, and I would be self-sufficient. I kicked myself mentally about 500 times for not going back to get those Gus.

Final Climb

Most of the climbs were tough, but the final climb — the one to the finish line — was a brute. I was completely cooked even when we started it, and I had no idea of how long the climb went on. I noticed, dully, that the streets in this neighborhood were all named after famous mountains. “Some real estate developer’s idea of clever,” Peter noted. Stupid real estate developer.

And then we were there. I was hungry and thirsty, but I had finished it. From the looks of things, I had finished it somewhere toward the front of the midpack group, too. So that’s something, I guess.

I knew, though, that I had a problem: I needed to ride back home, and there were a couple of big climbs I was going to have to do to get there. And I could tell that I was either bonked or about to bonk. The eight-mile ride home would take me more than an hour, after which I would spend the next 45 minutes eating anything that was even near the fridge.

And then I would spend the rest of the weekend eating, as well, just to underscore the point.

Afterward

The Seattle Randonneur’s Club has not contacted me since the ride, asking me to please, please, please join them. Nor do I expect them to. Unless they need someone to provide anti-pattern demonstrations at club meetings, that is.

Today’s Weight: 165.2. Wow.

Comments (21)

The Alpine Gauntlet

10.9.2005 | 4:09 pm

First of all, I’ve got a new article in Cyclingnews.com published: New Armstrong Allegations from L’Equipe!

Second, I’d like to indulge myself by posting a little blast from my past. But I’ve got a reason. Namely, tomorrow, I’ll be posting a writeup of my experience riding in the Seattle Randonneur’s 100Km Populaire, which is sometimes known as the "Issaquah Alps." I wanted to put that ride — which totally cleaned my clock yesterday — into context of a ride with a similar purpose as the Issaquah Alps: string together as many climbs as I could in a single road ride. The difference was that this ride was in Utah County, Utah. I named the ride "The Alpine Gauntlet" and wrote the following story about it after the first time I did it, about five years ago, when I was clearly much more fit than I am now.

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

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