Accidental Century

The Century. In the cycling world, this means 100 miles. It is not as difficult in any way as a marathon, but it is also not something to be entered lightly or without some training. They are supported (which means stocked rest stops where your entry fee gives you the right to stuff your face), well organized, and widely attended. Some of them have gut busting intentions (a local mountain century here is charmingly called Blood, Sweat, and Gears), others are slower and rambling.

I had signed up for my first century, the Fletcher Flyer, about two weeks ago. Last Saturday I did my thus far longest ride distance at an event called Cheers n Gears: 80 miles. I rode with a friend 20 slow easy miles to the event, and then blazed a 19.6 average for the next 62 organized miles, stopping to (yes) stuff my face at mile 32, and lazing at a vineyard drinking wine and eating pasta at ride's end. Hence the cheers.

Today, I gracefully backed out of plans for a 75 mile 3 mountain climbing ride in favor of a 62 mile 18/19 flattish ride that left from Lewisville at 8am. I thought it would be a nice ride before my century on the 6th, and the pace was fast enough to be interesting without the possibility of bonking, especially since this was a group ride, NOT a supported ride.

It was lovely. Well organized, fantastic strong riders, double pace line, no hammering or breakaways or sprints. It was exactly as advertised. We stopped halfway at a gas station for a little break, and the ride style allowed for easy conversation with your "partner" along the way. We got back to the parking lot with an 18.9 average. Not blazing, but not standing still, either.

I started driving home feeling awesome. Apparently, feeling a bit too awesome, because I realized that a C/B ride left from the Farmer's Market (which I was driving right by!) in exactly 30 minutes.

Perfect! A 16/17 mph spin to cap off my total at around 90, a perfect step up from last weekend! PLUS, I had refueled and rested my legs for a good 45 minutes. What luck! What timing!

I pulled into the parking lot, unloaded my stuff, and gamely prepared for the ride. It was a set route, so everyone but me knew the way. But I wasn't worried. 16/17 mph? meh.

Except that the ride leader was at the beach this weekend.

Very quickly, the pace turned from 16/17 to 19/20. This is my upper limit. This is what I average when I'm fresh on my Tuesday night rides. This was fast for me at my best. This was just plain fast.

And fast for a lot of other people as well, because very quickly we split into two groups. I was still hanging with the front people, though, and when I could tuck in and draft, things were fine. The momentum carried me through.

We never stopped to regroup, though. Leaders were riding through stop signs when cars were coming, clearly meaning that not everyone would be able to go at the same time. Which also meant that whoever was left behind (hand raised), had to double time WITHOUT a draft to catch back up to the group.

After two such incidents, both of which times I managed to catch up, my previous 62 miles reared their heads with a vengeance. It was mile 19 (28ish total). We were coming to a big hill. It was my turn to pull. Instead, I gracefully let the person behind me take it, and dropped back so I could get in line.

Well, take it he did, to a whole new level of pain. He hammered up the hill, with everyone else following behind.

And just like that, I was dropped. For the first time.

Sooner than I would like to admit, I couldn't see them anymore. I wasn't worried, though, because the group behind me would eventually sweep me up.

Or not, because the group was SO far behind me that they turned off on a road I didn't know I was supposed to turn on.

Yes, ladies and gentleman. I was not only dropped on legs that had gone about 80 miles at a hard pace, but I was also irrevocably and utterly lost. With no cell phone (why take a cell phone? I'm riding with a big group!)

Never fear. After lucking upon a road I recognized and knocking on a door for directions, I found myself pulling into the parking lot 8.7 miles over the normal route. A few gentlemen who were waiting for me were about to go driving in search.

The stats?

96.99 miles

17.8 average (which says a LOT about how fast we were initially going, since I slowed waaaaay down after the droppage).

An accidental century.

Am I completely happy about this? No. My body got whacked out today. Tomorrow is not going to be fun. My muscled are spent, and who knows what my arms/wrists/elbows are going to feel like. I gambled and lost.

At the same time, though, I was SO CLOSE to winning. Really. I honestly believe that if I hadn't had to bridge the gap (bike speak for catching up to the group) twice with tired legs, I could have gone on with the big boys for the whole shebang. I'm still up and walking, still coherent, and still ready to play. I rode 96.99 miles, baby! Fast miles! I'm a demon! I'm a beast! I'm a little bit stupid! I'm a little bit disappointed in myself for NOT staying with the group! I'm psyched for the Fletcher Flyer! I'm psyched for Tuesday night!

In other words, when not even getting lost when exhausted on a wicked hot day can sap your enthusiasm for a sport, you know it's for real.