http://www.ridefetish.com/blog/428/douglas/4/30/2006/the-nightmare-tour Sat, 05 Jul 2008 20:58:03 GMT http://www.ridefetish.com/blog/428/douglas/4/30/2006/the-nightmare-tour Doug’s Ride-The Nightmare Tour As far as I am concerned, the Nightmare Tour is the hardest one day ride there is. Picture climbing the Empire State Building 9 times over the course of 177 miles in 100+ degree heat (did I mention all in one day?). Sure you could find another ride with little more climbing, or a few more miles, but once the statistics are in the ballpark of this ride the stats are just details to boast about. For a recreational rider like me, taking on a ride like this is a physical and mental promise of epic proportions. A day that can change your life. As I wait to sign in, Mike (the ride organizer) draws a “58” in magic marker on the back of my calf. It is a practice I have only seen in triathlons and such events, it made me feel like a professional athlete. With a racy painted number and a yellow “Nightmare” jersey, I’m suddenly transformed into a professional cyclist, ready to take on the Tour de France. OK, at least a one day ride with a reputation for being harder than any single day of the Tour. It is about 4:00 AM, and already its 85 degrees with 100% humidity. By the end of the day this will have been the hottest day of the year, and most of the riders who are around me now will not make it back here on their bikes tonight. Mike delivers a few announcements, including the fact that someone will be attempting to hand-cycle the entire route today (whoa, if it was me it might as well be a unicycle…). Two quick pedal clicks and before I know it I am rolling along in the middle of the peleton. Everyone is pretty quiet, spinning and breathing, following our headlights through the muggy darkness. The first half hour or so is always strange, floating along on 120 psi, going over a mental inventory/itinerary, knowing that this moment will feel like yesterday when this ride is over, and yet, there are few times when I am more in the now. I roll into the first hill, open up my lungs, and “dance on the pedals”. I arch my neck back to see if I can spot any stars, even though I am sure that there is only one that can be seen through this haze. Every mile covered before I see it will be cherished… So I pedal hard. I know that it isn't the best idea to burn your matches so early, but I decide to keep in contact with the leaders as long as I can without maxing out. The sunrise is absolutely beautiful, even though I know it means it’s only going to get hotter. I’m already soaked, my helmet is dripping sweat onto the inside of my sunglasses, and my arms and legs are steadily leaking into my socks and gloves. I stop to fix some issues with my pedal cleats, and find it difficult to get myself to slide my feet back into soaking shoes. The reality of the challenge today is starting to sink in. Its not just 177 miles with 12,000 vertical feet of steep hills to climb, it’s all that plus trying to keep from getting fried to a crisp in the process. There is only one way to beat the odds on a ride like this. Be absolutely determined to enjoy every mile of it. I think of how lucky I am to be able to do this at all. How good it feels to be outside swiftly cruising along on my own power. How everything is just a little more real on days like today. I am thankful for everyone supporting my ride, turning my pedal revolutions into dollars for the Anthony Robbins Foundation. I am also grateful for the fact that Lenore understands why I’m out here, and devoted her weekend to making this ride a success. After some time, I settle into a rhythm. It is a rollercoaster heart rate game of efficiency, trying to maintain the best pace possible up and down the hills without “blowing up”. I find myself smiling from ear to ear because I found a flat and shady road. This may be the only one I find all day so I take it down a notch and breathe a little into my reserves. And just as I reach for my water bottle to have a little toast to this stretch, a spoke decides to eject itself from the ride. This bends the rest of the wheel to equal out the tension, wedging it firmly in the brake. A problem I am unprepared for. Only 50 miles into the ride, and I have no spare wheel or spoke. So I disconnect the brake and try to ride it as is. Unfortunately it is bent so far that it rubs the frame every time it goes around. Having no tools to straighten the wheel, I have no choice but to power through it. So for the next ten miles, rub-rub-rub-rub.... tire dragging on metal, eating away at my legs and mind. After about 10 miles of this, I meet up with Lenore. The wheel problem is taking its toll, and I find myself getting very emotional. I have well over 100 miles to go, and the intense heat, killer hills and damaged bike are making this a battle of willpower. I say that I will finish the ride even if I have to pedal the wheel until it wears its way through the frame. But as the words come out, my eyes are getting glassy—this is not the day I had in mind. I call my friend John, who owns Cycle Works, and he talks me through how to fix the wheel enough to get through the ride. "That should get you by for now. How far do you have left to go?" "About 120 miles." Short Pause. "Better you than me...Good Luck!". This phone call saved my day. Although my wheel is slightly oval now, it fits through the brake and the frame; I just need to be a little careful with it, especially on the downhills. I settle back into a rhythm, feeling connected with my surroundings and my bike. Attacking some of the hills with short bursts of power, and spinning up some of the longer ones, breathing and using every gear I have to my advantage. People sometimes ask what goes through my mind on long solo rides. You would think with all this time pedaling, I would be thinking deep thoughts or making some massive mental breakthroughs, but for me, it’s just the opposite. I take this time to get away from thinking so much. I find great pleasure in simple things, like the sensation throughout my body as I experience a drink of ice water, or the feeling of sun on my skin and the sound of chainlinks threading gears, pushing me through the wind. I work out simple time/distance calculations in my head. I eat good food all day. I stay hydrated and alkalize my body so I can pedal to my full potential. All the while experiencing nothing short of flying, my bike is my magic carpet, efficiently zipping along. Free. Of course there are always low points, and around 85 miles into the ride I find one. I am pedaling up and down rolling hills through cornfields with no shade anywhere, learning what a steamed vegetable must feel like. The sun on my back feels like pins and needles. My legs become mechanical, feeling kind of rubbery and automatic. My mind tries to escape the ride by dreaming of water parks and bodysurfing 55 degree ocean water. This is the longest stretch of the ride mentally. I begin to question why I am here, as if the excited determined guy who planned and trained for this has left me here to suffer through it by myself. I set my sights on only one thing—making it to the next rest stop. For the first time I try to rationalize quitting early. What I have overcome so far has been more difficult than the entire ride was supposed to be. I have done something amazing today, why push it and risk getting hurt? I have reached the limit of my endurance, and there is no shame in quitting after you have put 100 percent in. I quiet these thoughts with another escape down a waterslide, and push for the rest stop. Although my mind seems made up, I choose not to make any decisions until I get there. Finally at the rest stop, I roll up to the pop up canopy, and ooze off my bike onto the pavement in its shadow. There is a rock under my butt cheek, and I desperately want a drink, however I can do nothing more than sit here and stare at the table of water and snacks, waiting for my brain to reboot. I still refuse to make a decision on whether to continue or not. I wheel my bike over to Lenore's car for some ice water, green drink, and hopefully some inspiration. I find a small towel that I threw in the car just in case. It is about 1 foot by three feet, thin and almost feels kind of silky. I dunk it in the cooler of ice water and drape it over my head. My entire body smiles. I feel like Frosty when the kids put the magic hat on his head. Alive again! I dunk it back in and repeat this again and again occasionally putting it on my legs and arms. Lenore mixes up some supplements which help to replenish and refuel me. Suddenly I realize that over an hour has gone by since I arrived here. It is time to go (I forgot that there is some decision I am supposed to make...). I dunk my "woobie" in the ice water again and stick it over my head so it covers my ears and neck. It is my new buddy; I've gone all Linus now and decide not to leave it behind. As I pedal away cool beads of water drip from it and roll down the center of my back under my jersey. Bliss... Before I know it, I arrive at the 108 mile rest stop. Indoors and air conditioned. I am hours behind where I want to be now, and hoping to leave here with a group of people. I'm a little tired of riding solo, so I am delighted to find about 30 people here. Maybe I'm not as far behind as I thought. I talk to a few people, trying to get a feel for when they are going back out. I don't want to get stuck eating and stretching my feet while a group rides away without me. I am disappointed to find that no one I talk to is planning on continuing from here. In fact, as I am putting my helmet on and getting ready to go, everyone else is getting on a bus. I am the only one here who gets on a bike to leave. (I will later find out that there is at least one person behind me.) Some of them have a few comments of encouragement, and I just say that someone will have to physically pull me from my bike to get me to stop. "That's hardcore, man, Good Luck!" one of them says, and I am off, just slightly aware that a proud smile is pulling my face a little tight. I even begin to enjoy the sun a little, knowing that I will still be out here after it has gone down. I know at this point that about 10 miles up the road is the hardest climb on the route. The hill on Swamp Church Road is only about ½ mile long, but is steep enough to take a big bite out of your day. A few miles before it, I catch up to a couple of riders. It’s great to have some company, and to know that I’m not alone and the last guy out here. I close in on the sign until I can read it -Swamp Church Rd. Adrenaline starts from the pit of my stomach and I let out a firm confident laugh. I stand and let the rush pump into my legs as I look at the wall I am approaching. My head to foot layer of sweat and road dirt feels like a veteran’s weathered armor, ready for battle. I breathe resolve into my veins. I will crush this hill. The road turns up and I can see the first 200 yards of it before it bends left and into some trees. I picture myself roped to one of them. I am a winch motor straining to reel in something from a ravine. I find my “bail out” gear pretty quickly—the lowest ratio I have. The trouble is I wish I had one lower, I actually look back to make sure the chain is actually on the right one even though I know it is. This is it! I pull hard on the hoods and turn over my legs, trying to use every muscle between my hands and feet to some advantage. My bike makes some creaking noises as we strain against gravity. The two guys that started up this right behind me crank their way slowly past me, clearly having the lower gear on their bikes that I am now craving. Anyone who has ever been in this position knows how devastating this can be. I put out absolutely everything I have, only achieving a snail’s pace. Getting passed at this moment of vulnerability feels like they’ve let the air out of my tires as they went by. I am now aware of more than reeling in those trees. The noises my bike is making start to worry me. Is that my broken rear wheel falling apart? I feel the 100+ degree heat on my back and it evaporates the energy from my shoulders. The adrenaline needle hits E and my legs start to burn. I am steadily falling behind and slowing. It seems that getting off and walking would be easier and roughly the same speed. But I will not give up, I mash my guts down with my diaphragm to stretch my lungs open with three or four hard controlled breaths. I need at least enough to get me to the shade under those trees. And that is exactly how far I get, to the trees and not even half way to the top of the hill. Straddling my bike, slumped over the handlebars, I watch as they ride up the next bend out of sight. As soon as my heart stops trying to escape from my chest I decide to continue. I am a little relieved not to feel any pressure to keep up with anyone now. I will ride at my own pace, but I will ride the whole thing. I clip one foot back in and push off, my other foot doesn’t engage properly, my momentum stops and I fall over as I start to go slightly back down the hill. This happens twice due to exhaustion and the steepness where I am standing. After crashing twice and muscling my way up to 4 MPH from 0, I am exhausted again and can only continue for about 100 feet. I recover one more time and crank my way to the top, fueled by pure determination. I stop at the top, hoping someone would be there, but I am alone again. I look back down the hill and say out loud “Next year I will own this @#%$ing hill!!!” I pedal away and leave it there, not just the hill, but also the disappointment. It is a very long day, full of ups and downs (literally and figuratively). I decide to focus on right now, spinning my pedals and taking in the scenery. I have been on my bike so long it is part of me. I can feel the texture of the road as it slips by under me. I picture myself standing still, rolling this giant ball under my wheels like a big treadmill. Some of the thoughts my brain creates at this point start to make me think maybe I have been on my bike too long… But I figure as long as I’m still moving along and enjoying the trip, temporarily letting go of the reins to my brain may be okay for a while. I begin to see support vehicles more often now, and assume it is because there are very few riders still out here. Mike finds me and asks how I am doing and whether I have a light with me. I had not planned to finish after dark, so when my batteries died this morning I thought nothing of it. Luckily for me Mike has a spare light. As he hands it out the window to me I again feel like a VIP cyclist with a support team and whatnot. I put it in my back jersey pocket for now, knowing it will soon be required equipment. Today I will pedal longer than the sun will shine. I catch up to the two guys who dropped me on the Swamp Church hill and ride with them for a while. But at a point where nothing has been said for a few minutes, I start to feel a magnetic pull to the finish. My legs are feeling anxious so I stand and crank it up a notch to test the waters. I suddenly realize that I have poked a hole in a huge reserve of energy that was hidden until now. It isn’t long before I have put some distance between me and the other two riders. I decide to ride this out alone. With only my own thoughts to keep me company I reflect on the ride so far. I laugh to myself as I think of what appeared to be a lemonade stand at the top of a hill that turned out to be a kid selling VHS tapes (Clearly not a marketing prodigy). I am a little embarrassed to have so clumsily asked a couple of Amish riders how they could possibly wear pants today. I think of Lenore somewhere within 20 miles or so, earning the nickname “Water Angel” as she helps me and the other riders stay hydrated and motivated. Soon the sun goes down and I think I can count on one hand how many times I will watch both a sunrise and a sunset on the same day. This is the first time I see both from a bicycle. But as the light fades, so does my mind. I become a pedaling machine, simply breathing pushing. I top off my bottles at the last rest stop and put the headlight on my handlebars. The small tunnel of vision it gives me is very similar to the width of my thoughts now—A beeline to the end. The last 30 miles or so is dark and mostly downhill. The cooler it gets (cooler being a very relative term) the faster I get. I am again attacking the small hills standing, and using the drops to tuck in for the downhills. The bugs are out now, colliding with my face and buzzing in my throat. I put my head down and pedal harder, letting them ricochet off my helmet instead. I use the white shoulder line next to my front wheel to stay straight for a while. As I watch my left brake lever cutting through the wind I remember something that snaps me back to reality. Earlier in the day there was a mailbox sticking out of the pavement in the middle of the shoulder. The thought scares my heart rate up a notch and I peer into the little patch of pavement I can see ahead. I would much rather have bugs in my teeth than gravel. The cue sheet, street signs and marks on the road are nearly impossible to see now. My world has been reduced to pedaling into the headlight patch on the road. Kind of like a carrot dangling out there. I find that the last part of the ride is more downhill than up, which is great, as long as I don’t miss a turn, get lost, and have to retrace my steps lost in the dark. The thought of climbing back up these hills, straining to read street signs, and stopping frequently to read the cue sheet is my worst nightmare right now. Luckily for me a volunteer named Bill has already thought of this and stops at each turn with his headlights on. This is when I am so grateful for the way Mike has organized this ride, and for all the people who volunteer to get us through this (especially Bill right now). The faster I go, the farther the last few miles stretch out. I can’t see my odometer anymore, but I was sure there were only a couple miles left a little while ago. Twenty minutes maybe, but it sure seems to be taking an hour. I have entered the twilight zone where time and space are no longer fitting into my calculations. I begin to think my mind is playing tricks on me or that I somehow missed a turn. Was it 7 miles or 17 left? I put some pressure on the brain cells that are still vaguely interested in these sort of thoughts to remember and calculate how much longer it is to the end. “Are we there yet?!?”…“Are we there yet?!?”…“Are we there yet?!?”…my legs keep saying like a two year old. I suddenly find myself on the familiar street behind the school where we started... Then on the short hill into the parking lot… Under the lights coming around the building… Then suddenly surrounded by people cheering. It is almost surreal that everyone is still here at the finish. The sound triggers a sensation that starts in my chest and floods out into my arms and legs. A smile opens up my face to take in the moment. Lenore finds me through the crowd and kisses me ‘Congratulations’ as I kiss her ‘Thank You.’ I pace around in bare feet to dissipate some muscle momentum. We linger for a while talking to other riders and support volunteers and cheering the last few riders in. We get back to the room and it all starts to sink in. I feel proud of what we did today, but also know something is missing now. This dream is now a reality, a touchstone in my mind. As I drift off to sleep I know that it is time to dream bigger. Success lets you sleep well at night, but big goals get you out of bed in the morning. This day has been everything I thought it would be, and many things I never could have predicted. I know that I could not have finished it alone. Most of all right now I feel gratitude. I list all I am grateful for in my head like counting sheep. I offer my most sincere gratitude to everyone who helped make this ride a success, and for directly making my dream of conquering this Nightmare Tour a reality! (And thanks to anyone who took the time to read this!) Fri, 29 Dec 2006 14:19:22 GMT http://www.ridefetish.com/blog/show/428 DouglasPalen@aol.com