What's a Century?

Yesterday was Saturday and on Saturday I rode with the Staten Island group in New Jersey for just under 62 miles. (This particular ride is usually a hair over 63 miles, but without the initial detour to the rest rooms, the full ride came in at just under 62 miles.)

Today, I went out and did 105 miles up here in Westchester with one other member of the Westchester Cycling Club, all of which means I have to finish this update as quickly as humanly possible so I can spend the rest of the day relaxing in bed.

Oy. I spent so much time leaning on my hands today that as I type this, my left pinky finger is refusing to cooperate. And around 2:30, after a shower and a meal that could have fed at least two or three hundred Ethiopian children, I was laying in bed for a power nap when a charley horse sprang up along the inside of my thigh, causing me to scream like a bitch as I jumped out of bed and hobbled from one side of my room to the other. Then, after thirty seconds or so of excruciating pain (I would liken the experience to giving birth, but my frame of reference for such an analogy would cause me to lose all credibility), the cramp simply disappeared, yet it left a little leave-behind. Two hours later, I can still feel something along the inside of my thigh, like a charley horse calling card, constantly reminding me that if Mr. Charley Horse so pleases, he can easily cripple me with little to no warning.

Goddam that guy.

Anyway, the Cheesequake ride yesterday. Dr. Rob called the previous night with an invite. “Can’t do it, buddy,” I explained. “Already have riding plans for tomorrow,” but then, after pressing END on my phone, my pea-sized brain began to churn. You’re spending the night in the city, jackhole, so why not drive in with your bike and your gear and head down to Jersey the following morning?

Not a bad idea, said one of the other voices in my head. Not a bad idea at all, Mr. Donaldson.

At 7:45 Saturday morning, I rolled into the commuter lot and waited. It wasn’t until 7:52 that Anne D. pulled in. Thank god. I was thinking that maybe the guys cancelled the ride and never called me because I had said I wasn’t going to be there in the first place but when I spotted that red VW Beetle, all my fears were put to rest.

Ah.

Once Anne arrived, I started to gear up and strapped on my heart rate monitor, quickly checking my watch to see my heart taking it easy at roughly 70 beats per minute. A second later, Dr. Rob drove by followed by Lester, the crazy Pole. As soon I laid eyes on Lester, my heart rate immediately shot up to 110 or so. For whatever reason, I was sort of hoping for a ride not too nuts, but as soon as I spotted Lester’s face, all that hope vanished.

Damn.

Remarkably, though, the ride wasn’t all that nuts despite Lester’s presence. Don’t get me wrong--there are others in the group who can make my life and my heart rate miserable if they so choose, people such as Dr. Rob, Anne, Lester’s nutjob brother Robert, Mr. E. Dalton, and a host of others--but Lester tends to be the one to do . . . how should I say this?

Crazy shit. Does crazy shit work? I think it does, because that’s exactly what Lester does--crazy shit. Like sprinting down route 35 . . . in the right hand lane . . . in summer beach traffic.

Two other worthy mentions as per the attendees. Dr. Rob brought Canada Jeff. Apologies if that’s spelled G-e-o-f-f, but since I don’t know the correct spelling and considering my currently gimped-out pinky finger, let’s stick with J-e-f-f, okay? I call him Canada Jeff for the simple reason Canada Jeff hails from Canada. He’s Canadian, born and raised in Canada which, as we all know, is the correct country to blame whenever anything goes wrong here in the States, including regional blackouts and local riots in Harlem as well as Washington Heights. Other than his Canadian-ness, all I can say about Canada Jeff is that (a) he seemed like a nice guy, (b) had come to know Dr. Rob via former mountain biking excursions, and (c) he was wearing a Francaise des Jeux cycling team kit.

My apologies, Canada Jeff, but I really can’t let this slide. Myself, as an American, I severely doubt I’d be able to bring myself to wear a French team kit. Granted, at this point in my cycling career, I can’t bring myself to wear any professional team kit considering I’m about as fast as a three-legged sea turtle (and the fact that team kits tend to be a bit pricey also keeps me from investing in an actual kit, but if I did, it probably wouldn’t be a Francaise des Jeux outfit). While I do enjoy the clean simplicity of the predominantly white and blue Francaise des Jeux design, the bottom line is . . . it’s French. Most Americans, including New Yorkers, would just not go there.

Yet, Canada Jeff, you yourself explained that you live somewhere near Toronto. My understanding is that there’s a significant French population up there in the Yukon, I mean Canada. Perhaps you have French roots. Perhaps some of your immediate family if from France. If that’s the case, or if you found the kit at a disgusting, rock bottom price, then all is good. All was good to begin with, but I only raise the point as it’s not every day we see someone wearing a French racing team kit.

Okay, let’s move on.

Dr. Rob’s friend Greg was there too. I don’t know Greg’s last name but then again, I don’t know most of the guys and girls last names, so what does it matter? Greg, like Canada Jeff, is a nice guy, but he yells a lot. Myself, I’m not much of a yeller unless a car comes dangerously close (see previous post for my thoughts on that).

(Hold on a second. I’m gonna go munch on a few potato chips in the kitchen but I’ll be right back. If you want to take a break for a quick bite, I would suggest doing so now.)

All right, I’m back.

So that was the crew. With the exception of a ungodly wind blowing as we chugged our way through Sandy Hook, the ride went off, excuse the cliché, without a hitch.

And then I stopped by my parents’ place and rotated the tires on my truck. Sheer excitement.

As for today, I had the genius idea to try and ride my first century the day after the 62-mile Cheesequake ride. If you put a gun to my head and asked, “Why’d you do that?” I’d probably tell you to pull the trigger. Why’d I do it? Because sometimes smart people do dumb things. Actually, that wouldn’t apply to me, so mark it up to dumb people doing really dumb things.

Thinking it’d be more interesting to have some others along, I posted the ride last minute on the WCC site that turned out to be a great idea because a guy showed up. One guy. Just one.

No biggie. I wanted to do the ride and, at the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter if I did it alone or with others. Regardless, I did a 105 miles with Rupert, a man who has a heavy passion for both history and architecture. Until this morning, I never realized how many stone walls there are in Westchester. Once Rupert started pointing them out, well, he started pointing them out. I, my usual self, felt little need to comment. Instead, I tossed out plenty of “Oh yeahs?” and “Reallys?” as I learned that the British were never able to advance beyond Washington’s colonial forces near a certain point close to route 100.

(Despite my lack of conversation, my sarcastic, cynical nature--I know, hard to believe--was incredibly tempted to pull up next to Rupert between architectural point-outs and ask, “So. You get laid last night, buddy?”)

After two hours, we reached Pleasantville and the end of the first loop when I said, “We need to stop, Rupert, and we need to stop right now.” I was running on fumes (having forgotten to buy milk the night before so I only started out with half a bowl of Raisin Bran), so I helped myself to a bagel with butter and jelly and we hit the road again for lap number two out of three.

With 80 miles under our belts and another 35 to go, I asked Rupert, “What would you think about turning around once we reach route 22? That way we avoid all those frigging hills.”

Rupert was cool with that, but I know, I’m a loser for knocking the ride down from 115 to 100 miles, although I was beginning to reach a point where I’d glance down at my legs to see what was up, to see why they were acting the way they were, and my legs would simply frown up at me and tell me to get the damn ride over with. And when your legs reach that point, you really have to listen to what they say, otherwise they’re capable of shutting down the entire operation. If the legs go on strike, there isn’t much else you can do other than walk or call a taxi, so I slashed those last 15 miles from the ride in order to appease my sorry excuse for legs.

And it worked. I survived, albeit barely. By the time we reached the end, my legs didn’t seem much interesting in turning out a cadence much higher than 60, which is about 30-40 RPM lower than I normally pedal.

That was it. A hair over 105 miles in total. Nothing exciting happened with the exception of sighting a few deer, but that happens a lot up here. Rupert actually complained about the deer population and the deer ruining his garden until he finally installed a fence. Myself, I don’t have a garden, so the deer can munch as much corn and carrots as they please as far as I’m concerned.

As for these century rides, I don’t see myself doing a lot of these. Much too taxing. I’ll leave the long excursions to the psycho professional riders who seem to enjoy stage racing. Let them kill themselves.

[Author’s note: I know the length of this post got out of hand, as they normally do, but I can’t help myself. With that said, I would suggest printing the post and reading it on the printed page, which is infinitely easier than reading off the screen.]

Oh. Hey. If you want to watch something really, really funny, CLICK HERE.