Fall mornings are my favorite. I love the refreshing feeling of waking up to crisp air and a red crescent of light peeking over the horizon. I ache my way out of bed, tip toeing across the bedroom, hopscotching my way over the icy bathroom floor, my toes burning cold while I shiver my way through a steamy, two-minute morning piss. I would have preferred this type of morning today. But I was not so lucky.
It was a long night. I went to bed excited, pumped about the epic ride at 7am. By midnight, my excitement had turned into restlessness. A few hours later, my restlessness turned into apprehension. And by 4:45am, my apprehension turned into no less than three episodes of nervous diarrhea. There I sat, frozen on the john, bathed in pale starlight, looking something like a big, naked blob of pizza dough, with my intestines unravelling like yarn into the toilet below. But aside from the complete lack of sleep and less-than-ideal poopage, I was in surprisingly high spirits.
I warmed myself up with a hot cup of steel-cut oatmeal, spiked with cinnamon and New York maple syrup. At 5:50, when my stomach was settled, I got dressed, packed up my gear and launched myself into the chilly dawn that would begin my 100-mile AIDS Ride For Life.
We congregated for the opening ceremony at 6:45am and were flagged for departure around 7am. I made the smart choice of being in the first group, a speedy throng of fifteen cyclists who would blaze out of the park and up the hill around 17 miles-per-hour. I held on with alpha group for the first hour, burning my way up a twenty mile ascent to the first aid station. Being fully loaded, I decided to pass and zoomed forth into the wind. I rode solo from miles twenty five through forty, seeing no one ahead of me and no one behind. It was a cool, breezy descent down from King Ferry to Union Springs, which is almost at the top of the lake. Things began to heat up around mile 40, as my chamois cream dwindled and dried and my ass began to chafe something awful.
I stopped at one aid station to refill my hydration pack, but other than that, I pedaled all the way to Seneca Falls for lunch, which was at about 60 miles into the ride. As I passed the 50-mile mark, I remembered thinking that this was the longest ride I had ever done, and that anything more would be uncharted territory. Among the few, unpredictable outcomes, I had considered the idea that I might bonk and not be able to finish. I also might get super pumped and dance my way to the endzone like Deon Sanders. But nothing really changed. I ate a light lunch and continued on. There were many more miles to go.
I left Seneca Falls feeling weary and strange, almost as if I were intoxicated with fatigue. I was meandering along the busy road, giving high fives to spectators, posing for photos, and otherwise making a fool of myself in my wet and form-fitting jersey, which did a great job of showing off my tits in pictures. When I left the crowds of supporters, I was alone again on the highway, heading home with just 35 miles to go. One thing I hadn't really noticed until this point was how boring road riding is. I have seen this part of the country a bazillion times. The corn fields and wineries all look the same to me. And over time, The loud and blustery wind scraped away all sense of reality, and I had to consciously day dream just to keep myself busy. I spent lots of time rehearsing my Medal of Honor acceptance speech.
With 25 miles to go, I was on the edge of failure, suddenly overcome with the immense desire to quit and curl up under a shady tree and sleep for the rest of the weekend. I was riding into the sun, into a head wind, and up some really annoying false-flats. At this moment, I knew it was time for my secret weapon. Disregarding the strict rules of the AIDS Ride, with no regard to my own safety, I busted out my headphones and pumped Tool's Lateralus for the next hour.
My last effort, aided by the loudness and intensity of the music, brought me within eight miles of the finish line. The road got really narrow here so I decided to ditch the headphones and grind my way in, relying on my ego to carry me to the end. Then there were just five miles to go. Then there were just three miles left. I was almost heartbroken when I hit the last hill, a gruesome half-mile-long climb up about 500 feet. I summoned my last bit of strength and intestinal fortitude, just barely making it to the top. This was pretty much the finish line for me, because the last two miles of the ride brought me back down to the lake level and into the park where the massage therapists were waiting patiently for me. I crossed the finish line with a time of 7:26 and then promptly collapsed in a tangle, unable to speak or walk for the next ten minutes. When I finally got moving again, I got a fifteen minute massage then called the team car to bring me home for some much needed sleep.
I finished the day feeling rewarded by two things, that I completed a 100-miler (much of which is still throbbing under my gently raspberried ass cheeks) and that I was able to raise over 1000 dollars for an important cause. Many thanks to everyone that supported me in donations (especially you, mom), training and much needed motivation throughout the duration of the ride. My fellow riders were friendly, the volunteers were dedicated and gracious, and the spectators were instrumental at keeping me focused during my lowest moments. At the opening ceremony this morning, we were reminded to think of the "shoulders we stand on, and who stands on ours." I think the AIDS Ride, more than anything lately, has reminded me that the community has the power to help itself, as long as we keep letting people stand on our shoulders.
Read more about the AIDS Ride for Life here.
See my GPS stats for my ride here.
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