Rolling With the Hills

I’m going to bed early tonight. It’s now 7:18 on Sunday evening and if I hopped between the sheets right now, I’d probably fall asleep inside of nineteen seconds and if I didn’t set my alarm, I could probably sleep until Wednesday.

After taking my sweet-ass time getting up this morning, I helped myself to five Eggos (delicious), two glasses of OJ, spent an hour reading The Count of Monte Cristo while waiting for the temperature to reach fifty, and then hit the road, my cue sheet in my pocket.

(I’m not going to lie to you. Getting geared up in my the comfort of my own place and then stepping out the front door with my bike is such a luxury compared to loading the bike in the truck, driving to Staten Island, getting dressed in my truck, and then reversing the process a few hours later.)

Which cue sheet? The one I mapped out on Friday before leaving the office--the one I put together using Google Maps online. As far as I could tell, the ride up to Bear Mountain would take roughly twenty-five miles or so. After a few miles in the park, I would be able to put sixty-five miles under my belt in a single ride, give or take a few miles.

Taking a right out of town and then another right onto Hardscrabble Road, the first ten minutes of the ride had nothing to offer but climbing. Glancing down at my heart rate monitor, I had been on the bike all of eleven minutes and already I felt ready to pass out.

What I can say is this, though: there are hills up here, amigos. Big ones. Lots of ‘em. Granted, I’m not talking Alpe D’Huez, but you know the rolling hills on the Cheesequake ride? The ride I put together today was like that--just more frigging hills, and steeper, too. As a matter of fact, the rolling hills never stop--ever. Well, there was a two-mile stretch along the New Croton Reservoir that were relatively flat, but outside of that, you’re either going up or you’re going down and considering how much faster we all seem to go when we’re going down, it felt like I spent my entire afternoon going up.

After thirty miles, I began what looked to be a never-ending climb up Albany Post Road north of Peekskill and simply turned around. After thirty miles, I was still a relatively long haul from Bear Mountain, so I figured sixty-miles roundtrip would be enough. Of course, I’m somewhat disappointed in myself for ditching when I did, although with only a Clif Bar in my jersey and half a bottle of water left, I knew I’d need all those calories simply for the ride back. Actually, I became somewhat concerned with the possibility of running out of gas on the way back, so when I spotted a deli in the middle of nowhere on Maple Avenue, I pulled off and offered a twenty to a girl taking out a bag of trash.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she said, tossing the garbage in the bin.

I checked my watch. “It’s only 2:30.”

“We close at two on Sundays.” She pointed at a sign hanging from the front of the store.

“Come on, kiddo, all I need is a Gatorade and a Powerbar,” I said, again offering her the twenty, feeling very much like a crackhead begging a dealer to hook me up.

She did hook me up, thankfully. While they didn’t have Powerbars, they did have Nature Valley granola bars, and I enjoyed every dry bite sitting on the side of Route 134, still half an hour from Pleasantville (which is where I live, in case you’re wondering).

Rolling up to my house, I hit the STOP button on the heart rate monitor. Three-and-a-half hours of riding, fifty-five miles. How did I come in under sixty miles? Well, on the way out, I made a few wrong turns where certain corners were without street signs (and ended up doing a bit of muddy cyclecross at one point), hence the extra mileage.

On paper, taking that long to ride fifty-five miles may seem like a walk in the park. If I were you, I’d probably be saying the same thing, but fifty-five miles in the hills really kicked me in the ass. After showering and stuffing my face with food, I took a walk into town to grab a few groceries and on the way back, walking up the steps to the front of the house, I almost had to stop considering how heavy my legs felt.

That’s enough bitching from me. We’ve all been on those long solo rides that, when considering the long miles back, you think to yourself, Jesus Christ, worrying if you’re even going to make it. You do, though, and you’re a better rider for it.

And that’s it. I know Pleasantville is considerably farther from Staten Island compared to Cheesequake, but when the weather finally turns, some of the views on the ride I did today will be quite impressive, so if anyone’s interested in crucifying himself in the hills up here, I’ll print up some cue sheets and we’ll hit the road.

Adios.