The Horrible Hundred (Day Two)

My watch sounded its alarm at 4:30 AM. That was just about the time I had settled into a very deep slumber. I rested peacefully for another five minutes, soaking in the night sounds of crickets, frogs and the occasional distant hum of cars traveling on the interstate.

I slowly unzipped the netting on my tent, pretending not to hear the annoying sound it made as it would surely disturb the other campers. The bright lights from town shown on the horizon, but the stars appeared brilliant against a slate sky directly overhead. I felt a cold dew laying heavy on me as I made my way to the showers to freshen up for a long day ahead.

As I slowly drove down the dirt path toward the ranger station, a couple of small deer appeared alongside the road, seemingly impervious to my presence. An armadillo scuttled away into the thicket in front of me. It was interesting to see the night creatures that you so seldom see in town.

I got to the century ride center a full hour and a half before the start time at 7:00. Volunteers with red flashlights directed me to the far end of a grass field where I found a place to park beside a large pond. Still tired from a long night, I pushed my seat all the way back, shut my eyes and quickly dosed off.

A slamming car door awoke me just as the sun began to peek out from the edge of Lake Minneola. By now, the grass field was full of camper trucks, SUV's, Jeeps and whatever else you could cram a bike or two into. People hurried to and fro, prepping their bikes and huddling in packs where an occasional loud laugh drifted across the parking field.

Next to me was a large RV, the kind that gets around 10 miles to the gallon. An attractive woman who appeared to be in her thirties emerged clad in black spandex bike shorts and a colorful jersey. She was drinking a cup of java, holding the cup tight in her hands, allowing the steam to bathe her face as she attempted to ward off the morning cold.

Next, an older gentlemen about my age jumped down from the back of the vehicle, also clad in tight shorts and a warm up jacket. I'm pretty good with catching a resemblance between father and daughter, and I saw no such resemblance here. So I assumed she must be a trophy honey, and my assumption was validated when I heard her call him "Hun."

We exchanged pleasantries, and they explained to me that they were from New York and had occasion to do century rides like this quite often. They rode a couple of high-end bikes, fully loaded with space age carbon and the such. They came prepared with nine gears on the back and triple chain rings on the front, giving them twenty seven speeds to work with.

I too had twenty seven speeds on my Fuji Roubaix, fully decked with aero bars, a nashbar tool bag and adorned in brilliant crimson red paint. It was a recent gift from my son-in-law, and not a day too soon, as I would need every advantage to champion the arduous course that awaited us.

I sat on the tailgate of my Isuzu camper truck and nibbled on a stale bagel, a bottle of gator aid in my other hand. I pondered the virtue of partnering with a younger woman like my neighbor here. Surely she must be there more for comfort and convenience, rather than for true love.

Then again, life is full of compromises. And who am I to judge the virtues of others? Life is by its nature a struggle, and who can blame someone for welcoming comfort when and where they find it? In any case it was surely no business of mine, so I assembled my gear and headed over to the start line.

As is typical at these events, you have the club teams with matching unies, you have the small cliques of weekend riders who know each other only by first names, you have the triathletes with their time trial bikes and bibs, and then you have the singles like myself. I like to walk around and see if I can spy anything unusual, like a custom or antique bike.

I spied a Richard Sachs custom made steel bike. I had never seen one in person before. The lug work on it was meticulous. I wanted to talk to the owner, but he was busy jawing with another rider, so I ventured on after giving his bike a good once-over.

I stood at attention as the national anthem was song by a young girl. Then the race organizer barked out some inaudible instructions on a megaphone, and the ride had officially begun.

I waited patiently as more than a thousand riders passed underneath the start banner. Experience had taught me that this is the most dangerous part of the ride, and sure enough just then a middle aged man locked wheels with someone and crashed violently to the pavement.

I suspect he was more embarrassed then hurt as he slowly got up and took stock of what condition he and his bike were in. I figured there were plenty of volunteers there to help him out, so I climbed aboard my bike and glided slowly underneath the start line, punched the start button on my computer, and I was officially off on the first mile of the Horrible Hundred.

I rode tentatively at first, trying to just blend in to the flow of thousands of bicycles as they circled the lake. The colors of the jerseys ran the full gamut of a rainbow, and they were complimented by the reflection of a brilliant blue sky as it shown on the still surface of the water.

I felt a cold chill as we passed beneath the shade of oak trees that adorned the sides of narrow city streets. You could hear the clatter of chains and the clicking of gears as we traveled across an occasional patch of cobble stones. Locals sat on brick steps and shouted words of encouragement. I heard an occasional references to my Irish heritage, as I was wearing the Irish national team jersey.

We arrived at Hospital Hill about three miles into the ride. I looked up from the bottom of the hill and saw a sea of riders off their bikes, climbing wearily up the steep incline. I flipped my chain down to the second chain ring and pushed the rear derailleur all the way to the highest gear, and casually made my way past most of the riders to the summit. It felt good to get my heart pumping and actually break a little sweat. I crested the hill, pushed my chain back up to the top front chain ring, stood up and charged down the other side.

I went aero and watched my speed climb; 22,24, 27, then a full sprint to 30, then 31. I swung wide to pass other riders, my eyes glued to the pavement to watch for debris or cracks in the road. My hands were loose on the bars to absorb shocks from the road. I remained in the highest gear well past the bottom of the hill, in order to gain momentum to climb the next one.

A dark skinned woman pulled out from a draft line half way up the hill and went on an attack. I caught her wheel and jumped on behind her. She wore only a sports bra on top, and her shorts read "Ford Ironman" on the sides. Her calves bulged and rippled with each stroke.

She began to weaken a bit just before the top, so I pulled around and muscled my way past her, standing on my peddles to gain extra leverage. She met my glance for just an instant, enough time for me to politely nod and utter a barely audible "Hey". I heard no response from her beyond her panicked breathing. I crested the top with her on my wheel, and was pleased to see a level stretch of rode ahead.

I looked behind and noticed the group she was with was nowhere in site. I said "what happened to your friends?" She said in a quizzical voice "I Know, I guess they're saving their energy." I mentioned that I learned to be good on the hills from a young age, growing up in Maryland. She said she trains here in Clermont at the national training facility. She said she was an aspiring long distant triathlete.

I told here that I was impressed and mentioned that my son is also a triathlete, specializing in off-road triathlons. I told her how lucky she was to be able to follow her dreams. By now the other members of her group had caught up and overtook us. I fell in behind her at the end of the draft line and hunkered down for some speed work.

I knew I couldn't hold on for too long, but a little speed work early in the ride wouldn't do any harm. So we hammered along on the flat stretch at around 25 MPH. My eyes were glued to the wheel in front of me, not more than a couple of inches away. I felt the draft seemingly pull me forward, so much so that it felt like I was on a pair of rollers. The line of bikes tilted, dropped and rolled in unison as we turned corners and roller coasted up and down hills, almost as though we were on the same machine.

We dipped suddenly down a steep decline. I let a small gap form in front of me as I shifted to my highest gear. I went aero and rested, allowing gravity to pull me forward, ever faster. As we approached the bottom, I jumped on the pedals with maximum effort. The steepest part of the hill is toward the bottom, and there is where I gained my advantage.

I stood on the pedals as we climbed up the other side. Still in highest gear, I started to pick off members of the group, one by one. I shifted up as the hill grew steeper, one gear at a time. I glanced in my mirror and saw mass carnage behind me, the group scattered all over the hill. Accept for one rider, who was approaching fast behind me.

I judged the distance to the top and by quick analysis, it seemed I could motor up to the summit if I simply stood on the pedals and grinded it out. So I did, only to see the iron woman blow by me as if I was standing still. She took a quick glance back, ala Lance Armstrong passing Jan Ullrich in the French Alps, and she was gone. Farewell Iron Woman, I thought, as I will surely never see you again this day. Then again, there is still plenty of ride left, so we'll just have to see about that.

Things were still kind of bunched up when we came to the first rest stop, about twenty miles in. There was Hawaiian music blasting from a couple of speakers at the entrance and the volunteers were dressed up in grass skirts. I skipped the luau in favor of making up some time on the road.

I let some fast groups pass on by and settled down for some solitary riding. I calculated that it must be close to fifty years since I borrowed my brother's bike when I was five years old and learned to ride. I still remember the rush I felt when I looked up for the first time instead of down at the pedals, and realized that I could move forward without falling down. Here I was countless miles later, freewheeling through the switchbacks of Lake County, Florida.

I thought of the first ten speed bike I purchased in '73 for one hundred fifty dollars from Patapsco Cycle Shop in Ellicott City, Maryland. It was a french bike, a "Fontane" as I recall. I knocked the wheels out of true on my maiden voyage trying to hop a curb. I remember well trudging home, the brakes scraping on the front rims for miles.

I recalled loosing my balance rounding a curve on a rain-slicked road and totally wiping out, sliding a good ten feet across the smooth asphalt. I must have crashed a good ten times that senior year of high school when I first started to do some serious riding. Of course there was no such a thing as helmets back then, or riding gloves, or cycling shoes, or bike computers, or just about anything remotely professional. It was just you, a T shirt, some tennis shoes and pair of shorts.

I bought a thermos water bottle at Monkey Wards that came with a holder and strap so you could affix it to the down tube of your bike. The bottle was actually lined with glass on the inside, just like a regular thermos bottle. It weighed about two pounds without the water, but weight wasn't much of a concern back then, as my average speed was only around ten miles per hour.

My father clued me in to a bike parts company called Bikecology, located in California. They had a catalog that was about half the size of a Sears catalog. It was jam packed with just about every bike part you could imagine from all over the world. I purchased a zefal pump from them that fit perfectly between the top tube and down tube of the Fontaine, and also a set of red panniers and a sleeping bag. I was ready to do some serious touring.

Come summer time, I would take a couple of days off from my job washing dishes at the Beltway Motel on Washington Boulevard and bike down to DC. I'd camp out at a park in Greenbelt and bike down to the Mall in Washington the next day. It was exciting to ride through the city traffic, my bike fully loaded with the panniers on each side and a sleeping bag tied on top. I felt like a pioneer of sorts, almost like a country boy lost in the big City.

There was something organic about leaning my bike up against the steps of the Lincoln Monument, and pulling out some trail mix to enjoying a snack while gazing out across the National Mall to the US Capital building. The hippy movement had ended a few years before 1974, but I still looked pretty hip with my long hair and raggedy clothes. I feel fortunate now to have such fond memories of my youth.

I rounded a corner and came across a large expanse of orange groves high up on my right, and a gentle valley with a pond at the bottom of a steep hill on my left. You could see a farm silo ahead a good mile or so along with a large farm house beside it. The hills were perfectly spaced so that you could gather enough speed on the descent to make it up the following hill with minimal effort, only to then Kareem down the next hill. It was the kind of scene you might see on a painter's canvas.

I crept up on a lone cyclist near the crest of a switchback about forty miles into the ride. "Must be a rest stop around here somewhere?" I inquired as I drew alongside of an elderly gentlemen who wore a jersey that said "Belfast Bicycle Club". "Don't know, I'm a long way from home" he responded. I mentioned his jersey and asked if he had come all the way from Ireland.

"Belfast Maine, not Ireland, where I guess you must be from?", referring to my Ireland jersey."No, I'm of Irish heritage but a couple of generations removed." "You anywhere near Bar Harbor?" I asked him. He said he was not too far from there as our pace slowed down a bit. I mentioned that I had traveled there while on my way to Nova Scotia to fish for Atlantic Salmon with my father when I was in College.

That got us talking about fishing and camping and how wonderful is was to get away from the city and enjoy the outdoors. His wife had died a few years before so he spends much of his time now travelling around the country doing various events like this century ride.

We rolled into a small town and followed a group of cyclist into the fifty mile rest stop. I poured a cup of cold water on my head as it was getting hot at mid-day, grabbed some fig newtons, filled my water bottle with some ice cold gator aid, and sat down at a picnic table to rest a bit. My friend sat down across from me, extended his hand and introduced himself as Roger.

Roger was tall and fit, probably around sixty years old, but was the type that looked way better than men half his age. I asked him how long he had been married, and he explained that he had been married thirty five years before his wife was taken by cancer. He said that biking and traveling help him to take his mind off of his loss, sort of like therapy.

Roger and I had a lot in common. We were both avid cyclists, having taken up the sport at a young age. We both played golf and enjoyed fishing and the outdoors. We both raised children who become professionals and were totally devoted to our wives and families. Even though I had just met him, I felt a sense of guilt about his misfortune, and at the same time felt so totally relieved that I had not suffered such a loss in my own life.

There seems to me to be quite a bit of irony in meeting someone who is so much like yourself. It seems to happen to me a lot. Almost like there is a mythical parallel universe, in which you live out your life as if you had been dealt a different hand of cards. So much of our lives are determined by fate, as apposed to conscious effort on our part. It made me feel fortunate that I had been dealt a better hand than my friend.

I spied some of the "A" team members from back home getting ready to leave the rest stop. They wore matching jerseys with a picture of Mr. "T" on the front. They used to sponsor a ride every now and again, complete with after ride music and refreshments. I hastened to finish so I could join them, and invited Roger to come along. He refused, explaining that his weary legs needed more rest, so I bid him farewell and wished him luck on his journey.

Art Gonzales was a beast at times on the cycle, the kind of guy who would stick to your wheel like a fly trap. I pulled up alongside of him and said hello. He seemed surprised to see me, like when you go downtown and run into your neighbor at a traffic light. He and a couple other guys from the club rode down together, as they often did for events like this.

It got me to thinking about guys like him that like to spend time with the guys. That was never for me, I never had any interest whatsoever in spending time with the guys. I might play golf with a friend or maybe see a football game or the such, but I wouldn't know how to act on an entire weekend with a bunch of guy friends.

I think its because when guys get together, they generally like to get rowdy and loud and tell jokes that are more stupid than funny.I guess it started in grade school when we would line up for lunch, one line for the boys and the other for the girls. In the boys line, I would have to put up with some stupid kid behind me poking me with a pencil, all the time I was trying to look mature for La Fawn Comiford, who was constantly staring at me from the girls line.

La Fawn Comiford, or Crickett as she was known on my block. The mysterious girl that lived across the street, next to Mike Forsythe. She didn't have many friends as I remember, just a dorky little brother who always following her around. It seemed to me at the time that she was always staring at me, even though we weren't friends, as it was my policy at the age of nine to not associate with girls. She was kind of easy on the eyes though, as I recall.

We were both in Mr. Deaner's fifth grade class. Her mother accompanied us on a field trip to the children's museum once. I remember well standing next to her mother at Hemming Plaza in downtown Jacksonville, waiting for the school bus to arrive. She straightened my collar and then gently stroked my back for what seemed like an eternity. I was paralyzed by the pleasure of being touched in such a gentle manner. It felt kind of weird in a way, and a little embarrassing in front of the other kids. But I just stood there motionless, unable to break free, hypnotized in the mid-day sun.

Around about the eightyith mile we rounded a corner and I gasped as I wrenched my neck all the way up to see the crest of Sugar Loaf Mountain a good mile in the distance. It was without a doubt the steepest straight track of road I had ever witnessed in my entire life. I mean it was straight - STRAIGHT! - it was straight up!

Carnage was scattered everywhere. Scores of riders were off their mount, slowly trudging, bikes beside them, walking their way up the steep incline. After just a couple of minutes I shifted into gear number 27, the lowest gear I had. I tried to settle down, mindful that this was no time for heroics.

Locals sat in lounge chairs and around picnic tables to witness the parade of riders passing before them. They shouted words of encouragement and rattled cow bells as I proceeded up toward the mid-point. I passed a rider who was gasping for air and encouraged him to keep trying. My legs, weary from the eighty miles I had already endured, felt like two bags of cement.

Sweat poured from my forehead and splashed on the top tube of my Fuji Roubaix. I struggled with my concentration, ever mindful that if I could convince my subconcious that it was easier to ride than to walk, I would find enough inspiration to continue. I looked up to see if I could spy the summit, and what else should I see but the firm behind of the triathlon iron woman from earlier in the ride.

I grabbed her wheel and worked on timing her cadence. From my vantage point I could explore every inch of her chisled body, gracefully girating in slow motion. She was a living work of art for sure. Sweat covered here entire body, like a coat of high gloss enamel. Her well defined triceps protruded from her colorful top and her calves bulged outword with each stroke of the pedals. The bright colors of her outfit shown brilliant in sharp contrast to her jet black hair and auburn skin.

I managed to match her pedal cadence and for a brief while almost felt like we were a team, as we began to knock off other riders one by one. She noticed me when she glanced behind to see the destruction we were causing behind us. I found the strength to pull alongside her as she uttered words of encouragement from under her breath. Seeing the crest only twenty five meters or so ahead, I danced on the pedals and pulled the two of us up over the top, all the while basking in the glory of a chorus of cheers from a small crowd of onlookers at the top.

Being in no mood to slow down, I forged ahead across the the flat summit, dropping gears as I picked up speed, and in so doing, dropping the Iron Maiden. You could see the tops of the buildings from Orlando across a valley to the left. A number of motor cycle riders with their leather jackets and chromed machines stood at attention, taking in the view.

The descent was gradual but long. I found my smallest gear and went aero. Tall pine trees blocked the sun that was getting low in the afternoon sky. The air was slightly cooler in the shade, but felt like air conditioning as it dried the sweat accumulated from the climb up Sugar Loaf Mountain.

At the eighty fifth mile, I stopped at the last rest stop to fuel up for the run into town. There were only a few bikers left now, as most had cut the ride short and were already done. By now my neck, back, shoulders and just about everything else aiked a bit. But it was a good pain, the type you feel when you lift weights and get a good pump going.

I finished my gator aid and fig newtons and headed on out accompanied by a young rider who was on one of those carbon machines that weighs about fourteen pounds. All I wanted to do was to shlep back into town at a comfortable pace, but he egged me on to try and reel in a small group that had left a few minutes before us. Grudgingly I agreed, but only if he would do most of the pulling.

He had us up to twenty two miles per hour within the first two minutes. I was holding on for dear life as I saw the small group ahead of us get bigger and bigger as we grew closer. About three miles in we hit a hill and he threw up the white flag, explaining that he was a terrible climber. I laughed and charged up the hill, dropping him like a bad habit. I caught the group we were chasing on the descent and settled in at a comfortable nineteen miles an hour for the run into town.

We picked up several riders as we rolled into Clermont. It was fun returning in a Pelaton of sorts after a hard day of riding. The town was wide awake now, in sharp contrast to the slumber we had left it in that morning. Heads turned as the procession of bikes snaked its way through narrow passages. The local motorists were quite a bit more hospitable than those I was used to back home, as I didn't hear even one obscenity hurled our way.

My odometer read 101 miles as we turned a corner and to everyone's amazement stared up at probably the steepest, albeit short, climb of the day. I estimated it was only about two city blocks long, but it sure did dampen everyone's spirits. Most just got off immediately and began to walk, but I shifted to the easiest gear I could find and grinded it out for the short but challenging climb so late in the ride. Surely this bonus hill was added by an overzealous ride director who probably never actually rode a century in his entire life.

I cruised into the parking lot at the end of the ride amid sporadic applause from a few misplaced volunteers. I was pleased to see that the parking lot was relatively full, a sign that there were still some of riders on the road. I checked my bike computer and was pleased at the 16.8 average miles per hour, and the maximum speed of 32.

A band was perched under a big Oak Tree by the lake and was playing something from Lynard Skinard. The organizers had set up a big tent under which were cafeteria tables and chairs, and where a buffet of sorts was being served. I grabbed some home cooked food and a cold drink and found a vacant seat at the end of a long table.

It was somewhat surealistic sitting there so far from home, listening to the banter of strangers sharing stories about the day's ride. Most of them had traveled there with friends, allowing them to share their experience with people whom they were close to. I was more like a drifter, passing through a small town as if a passenger on a train.

A freight train moving across the desert approaches a town in the dark of night. On it, a traveler in a boxcar sees the lights grow more brilliant as he draws nearer. Suddenly, the stillness and dark of night is interrupted by the bustle of the town as the train passes through it. He sees the motion of cars and pedestrians as he passes one street after another. He squints to see past the flood lights of a ball field. He hears a siren and sees flashing lights from a police car. He sees children playing under a street lamp, and old people sitting on the stoops of row houses.

Then all is quiet and dark again as he leaves almost as quickly as he arrived. We are all travelers through time. We journey to somewhere remote and stop for awhile to explore and satisfy our curiosity. We make friends and observe the proclivities of others. We lose ourselves in the moment, not wanting to acknowledge that our stay is only temporary.

And thus is was on my sojourn to the Horrible Hundred. I went, I saw, and I left.