Stopping to Smell Flowers, Eat Berries, and Watch Dinosaur Birds, by D. Furbish

The first week of August, I had the opportunity of cycling over 300 miles of rails-to-trails in Wisconsin. Wisconsin has an extensive rails-to-trails system with several trails near Madison, alone. My brother and I chose to ride two trails we had not yet ridden: Badger State Trail and Glacial Drumlin State Trail.

While portions of the trails are sometimes paved, most miles consist of firmly packed crushed limestone wide enough for four-wheel patrol vehicles. The surfaces were suitable not only for my 700 x 32 tires but for the even skinnier tires of two tri-athletes who passed us one day headed in the opposite direction.

Trail passes are required in Wisconsin and can be purchased at trail heads and at businesses in the towns along the route. I purchased a $20 annual pass, in part, a donation to a worthy cause. (Daily passes are $4.) Park rangers stopped me on two separate occasions to check my pass. The trails are well utilized by cyclists, walkers, and joggers, but definitely not crowded. There were cyclists on the trails even on week days.

We couldn't have asked for better weather. The sunny days were cool with lows in the mid-50s and highs in the low to mid-80s. Did I mention low humidity? Although it never rained, the usual threat of afternoon showers provided protection against the sun. Below are wildflowers in the foreground and one of many glacial drumlins of southern Wisconsin in the distance.

The Badger State Trail begins at the outskirts of Madison and extends south to the Wisconsin border where it joins the Jane Addams trail. The latter is part of the 500-mile Grand Illinois Trail. Bill and I rode a 90-mile out-and-back chunk that started just south of Madison extending into Illinois. We passed through several scenic towns: Belleville, Monroe, Orangeville. Along the way, we compiled a mental list of eateries that might provide a suitable lunch stop on the return leg.

I switched on my helmet light when we came to an old railroad tunnel that required lighting. The temperature inside the tunnel was easily ten degrees cooler than outside. There was a misty shroud inside the tunnel adding to the make-believe eeriness. A real troll pretending to be a "cyclist" guards the entrance.

The railroad bed cuts through limestone embankments, crosses numerous creeks, and is generally sheltered by a cool, green canopy of poplars, maples, oaks, ashes. The trail was festooned with wildflowers: pink and yellow coneflowers, pink bee balm, milkweed, and Queen Anne's Lace. Now we were riding through a wooded valley alongside a stream, now we were riding a ridgeline with a panoramic view of checkerboard fields of dairy farms below.

Bill spotted a mulberry tree whose limbs full of ripe berries extended to the trail's edge. It was time to stop. We helped ourselves to the sweet treats. Fortified with antioxidants, we continued our quest. I'd learned long ago that when I saw acorns on the ground, I expected to see an oak tree above. Similarly, little dark spots on the trail meant mulberries hanging overhead!

Chipmunks (ground squirrels) were out in force. We saw hundreds of these storybook creatures on and alongside the trails, engaging us in a game of cat-and-mouse, scurrying away at the very last second.

Our second long ride of the week was another out-and-back, this time on the Glacial Drumlin State Trail, which extends eastward from Cottage Grove (near Madison) to Waukesha (near Milwaukee). We included a brief side excursion to Aztalan State Park, an important archeological site inhabited 700-1000 years ago.

My brother is a true randonneur: he looks upon the opportunity of riding as one and the same as an opportunity for eating. We had made good time. So we were justified in our relaxed, late-afternoon lunch in Sullivan, WI, at Jamie's where we'd been told was the best best food in town and the Milwaukee Brewers were on TV.

The glacial drumlin trail is relatively flat. It is protected for the most part by a canopy of trees. There are exposed portions through marshlands that serve as bird sanctuaries. I saw ducks, geese, herons, and Sandhill cranes. The latter are interesting birds. The first time I saw one of these magnificent birds, I had no idea what it was. It looked like a brown ostrich or a mythical giant, long-legged kiwi. The Sandhill crane is unique. In fact, according to experts, it is the oldest known bird species still living! A dinosaur bird? Not quite. But this is as close as it comes. Time once again to stop and look.

Shenandoah 1200K now under way...

Several of the N.C. randonneuring crew, including 6 PBP veterans, are heading up to Fancy Gap, Va. this evening, to man the control at Mile 440 of the inaugural Shenandoah 1200K. The ride started early this morning.

The RTP crew will be taking lots of pictures, and we'll update the blog, if possible, during the ride. We'll also be calling in updates to our good friend Ed Felker with The Daily Randonneur, so be sure to check out his site over the weekend.

Best of luck to all the riders. We're pulling for you.

Update: Bill Beck, a DC-Rand member and a volunteer at the Gettysburg Control, sent this report and a link to photos and a captioned slideshow:

The Shenandoah 1200 started from Leesburg, VA at 4AM on Thursday, June 5. These pictures are from the first control in Gettsburg, PA, which was open from 7:12 to 11:16. The lead pack of about 15 riders arrived at 7:51, and the lantern rouge at about 10:04. All the riders who passed through the control seemed to be doing well. Conditions in the morning were pleasant with no rain and temperatures rising into the low 80s. But temperatures later in the day were predicted to rise
into the high 80s, with substantial humidity. (Temperatures in the mid-90s with heat index around 100F are predicted for Saturday.)

Best of luck to all of the Shenandoah 1200 riders, and especially our fellow DC Randonneurs! -- Bill

Friday noon update: The Tar Heel randonneuring crew is set up at Fancy Gap, and we're hanging out with the Hillsville bunch. The crowd: Branson, Jerry, Byron, Chris, Annette, Susan, Claire, Jim.

We've just heard of a high DNF rate because of oppressive heat in the Valley. As many as 14 riders out of 56 that started have dropped out.

We don't expect to see the first riders until late this afternoon.

More later. In the meantime, here are a couple photos from Fancy Gap control. Click on the picture and you'll be directed to the google album Branson uploaded.

Calvin's Challenge: Ride Report by Caroline

Here's another great write-up by our Western Correspondent, Caroline Atkins. Enjoy!

I don’t want to hear one daggum word about the so-called drought. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Yew kin put yer water-deficit reports AWAY. After correcting any possible dry conditions in Northwestern France last year, I have now personally contributed to replenishing the water table(s?) up and down the Eastern quarter of the USA, by simply showing up at bike events. My selfless action has insured that it has rained, primarily in deluge-fashion, for the majority of the weekends since, oh, let’s see . . . February.

The latest community to benefit from my gracious deeds is Springfield, OH, just north of Dayton.

Calvin’s Challenge is a 12-hour road race with a proud tradition of now 16 (I think) years. The race course consists of one 50-mile loop that riders complete as many times as possible within the allotted 12 hours, and a 7-mile loop that riders move to when there is no longer enough time to complete another 50-miler. The goal is to ride as many miles as possible in 12 hours.

Calvin’s has 3 basic rules: No whining, no cheating, and you must have some sort of rear-view mirror. The race also has a reputation for weather, especially wind. The course is 99% rural—farm fields that stretch as far as the eye can see, providing nothing to break the wind. The 2008 version definitely made up for the last several years of unusually mild conditions, which made adhering to the first rule especially challenging.

The first thing I did when I woke at 4:30 am was look out the window—at puddles that revealed both raindrops and ripples from being whipped by the wind. Super. The race began at 7:30 am, in rain and driving winds (20-30 mph). The course is a loop with a number of turns, insuring that the riders were pummeled on all sides by the wind. The tailwinds were extremely rare, and, as is their nature, were over with quickly when they did occur. It was immediately evident that this was not likely a day on which course records would be set.

Although drafting is allowed in Calvin’s Challenge, in my observation, most of the riders were spread out within 10-20 miles. Anyone who knows me knows how I feel about drafting events—yuck, icky, ptooey—give me an event where everyone pulls their own weight any day. In all honesty, with the wind coming from different directions every few miles, I didn’t find that drafting felt any easier, anyway. I would’ve needed a whole posse of domestiques scurrying around me—any takers?

Riding in these conditions definitely gives one a healthy dose of humility. After holding aspirations of averaging 17-18 mph (the course is flat to rolling), I found myself STRUGGLING, hunkered down in my aerobars, heart rate in zone 4, achieving 12 mph on a 0% grade, when I was lucky. On one of the blessedly rare inclines (dead into a headwind), I found myself in my easiest gear on a 4% grade, barely able to turn the pedals. Pitiful. Anyone who has ridden in the Midwest understands this sensation: there were plenty of times when the course took a 90-degree turn and I found myself performing a sweet track stand, directly into a blasting headwind. I wonder how long it will be before, in these litigious times, someone files a lawsuit against the WIND . . . loss of enjoyment of ambulating forward in an upright posture...

Years ago, while living in Boston, I had a housemate who was a Florida native. His fine Southern mother fretted that her son was living in a “Godless region,” so-described I assume for a number of reasons, weather included. I found myself thinking of her description frequently during this race. No offense to Ohioans, but why would anyone in their right mind CHOOSE to live in this place?

Now, I do have plenty of positive memories: There were some adorable llamas on the 50-mile loop, the lilacs were blooming and fragrant (before the blooms blew off the bushes), Ohioans are MUCH better at restraining their dogs than North Carolinians (or maybe the dogs had merely blown away), and MOST importantly, the race support was phenomenal! Even though I was riding alone much of the time, I never felt alone; support vehicles circulated constantly, emitting shouts of encouragement. At one point when the wind-driven rain was particularly epic, a Honda Element rolled by. One of the race organizers was standing up, head out of the open moon roof (in those conditions), APOLOGIZING to us for the weather! Our race numbers were laminated cards with a list of mileages (25, 50, 75, etc.) pinned to our backs. We were required to stop at checkpoints, where the volunteers would punch the respective mileage, proving that we had indeed ridden these miles. These folks were incredible. They stood out in the same elements we were exposed to, got us through QUICKLY, and gave a pat on the back and word of encouragement every single time.

I kept thinking, early in the race, “Well, this certainly can’t get any worse. Conditions will improve soon.” Wrong. The 30+ mph winds (CONSTANT winds; the gusts were stronger) continued and increased throughout the entire 12 hours! The flags weren’t just horizontal, they were reduced to tatters. The noise was deafening. The rain did stop for a period sometime during miles 25-50. Then, between miles 50 and 75, the black clouds on the horizon let loose with a vengeance. The combination of rain and wind was so fierce, it felt as if someone was aiming a fire hose straight into my ears. The rain actually HURT as it hurled itself against my face, and I don’t think it was hail. There’s something to be thankful for. No thunder and lightning, either, but I must admit, the thought of tornadoes crossed my mind more than once. The depth of standing water on the roads was remarkable in places, and I found myself wishing for a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang model bike—one that can fly AND navigate through water. The wet roads brought about my only near-wipeout. Approaching a 90-degree turn in the road, with some actual speed (one of the rare tailwinds), I reached for my brakes, which hadn’t been used in awhile (who needs brakes when the wind will bring you to a screeching stop if you simply cease pedaling?). The wet brakes/rims produced no effect. Holy $@#$ batman! I used every bit of the outside of the pavement of that corner, and was thankful for my grippy, 25C Continental tires (no, they’re not a sponsor).

Then the temperature started to drop. Given that I’m prone to hypothermia, I became concerned when I found myself shivering, and slurring my swear words. Remarkably, I had a fleeting moment of clear-headedness when I passed our support coolers (one filled with prepared water bottles, one with dry clothes) at mile 50. Something told me I should stick my Showers Pass (they don’t sponsor me, either) rain hood in a jersey pocket. Now was the time to use it! It felt TERRIFIC—blocked the rain out of my ears, quieted the wind noise, and brought my core temp up. Victories, no matter how small, can be SO gratifying!

Calvin’s has a FAITHFUL following, with a strong contingent of repeat customers. All ages are represented, as well as all classes of bicycles. In addition to the run-of-the-mill gorgeous road bikes, there were recumbents, tandems, and tandem recumbents. Even one of those back-to-back tandem recumbents: the riders sit back-to-back, one facing front, one facing back. In fact, I had several face-to-face conversations with the rear-facing gentleman (while riding). Reminds me of the two-headed llama in Dr. Doolittle—wasn’t that called a Push-me Pull-me? And there were HPVs racing, too (human powered vehicles). Close as I can figure, they’re some sort of recumbent with a shell that fits tightly around the rider. A rain shield! Anyway, they’re FAST, especially in the wind. Kinda like being passed by a giant yellow beetle.

About that mirror rule. The race course involves 36 turns, many of them lefts. Tragically, a Calvin’s racer was killed in the past while making a left turn (driver approaching from behind). Thus originated the mirror rule. I had some hesitation about the mirror issue, but settled on one that takes the place of my left bar end. I’m now a convert—it’s very helpful, saves me time in left turns, reveals stealth wheelsuckers, and I believe it ultimately conveys a certain respect for drivers, showing that I’m aware of and accounting for their presence. And the dork factor of this particular mirror is minimal!

The rain DID stop before I reached mile 100. The sun shone brightly, and the wind created conditions similar to what one experiences driving through the final step of an automatic car wash (the thunderous blow driers). The roads dried QUICKLY (except the potholes). Mercifully, I dried quickly, too. I took a porta-john break at mile 125, and as I was walking back towards the course, I looked at a bike on the ground and thought, in my fussy road biker mentality, “Man—that bike looks NASTY! Who rides a bike in THAT condition? Oh—it’s mine.”

I abandoned my goal of completing four 50-mile loops plus a couple 7-milers within the first 3 miles of the race. This was not to be a 200+ mile day (for me), but there was no reason not to try my hardest. Ultra-distance riding is all about adjusting one’s goals on a minute-by-minute basis, and making the best of it. I staggered through the 150-mile checkpoint and started riding the 7-mile loops. By now, the wind speed was increasing(!). There was a stretch on the 7-mile loop where we turned DIRECTLY into an air-compressor-like headwind. I could only laugh, and try to keep the bike upright at a blistering 8 mph on 0% grade. Hey—although I was passed by the beetlemobiles, I actually passed a few riders myself. I wasn’t the only one feeling rough.

I finished with 171 miles. I would’ve gone back out for another 7-mile loop to snag a few extra miles, but here’s the scenario I had to account for with my compromised reasoning (?) ability at that point: I finished a lap at 7:16 pm. The race ended at 7:30 pm. There were marshals at each mile marker out on the course, and I would’ve gotten my card punched at the last mile marker I passed within the 7:30 time limit. THEN, I had to get my card back to the start/finish line by 7:45, or I would get credit for NOTHING. And I had to ride the entire 7-mile loop to return to the start/finish line, even after the 7:30 race end. In other words, I couldn’t turn around and ride in reverse if that were closer. Given that my lap times were getting slower and slower, my asthma was rearing its ugly head, and the wind speed was getting higher and higher, I didn’t trust myself to get back in less than 30 minutes, especially accounting for some time to get my card punched. So, the actual total time spent with my butt on the saddle was 11:24 (12 hours less water bottle/potty/hole-punching breaks, plus ending 14 minutes early).

I hobbled back to the car, sputtering/mumbling something to Tony over the cell phone. Packing up was a real exercise in determination and patience in those wind conditions: open car doors resulted in a distribution of the contents of the car across the vast farm fields, until the car doors SLAMMED shut (luckily not on any body or bike parts), and bikes blew over as they patiently waited to be placed in a civilized environment after their day of toil. All I could do was watch in a stupor.

The awards ceremony was fantastic. The organizers made us all, even the newcomers, feel like family. They made it a point to announce a little something personal about each award-winner. I got to see ultra-distance riders who I have read about in awe for years. And there were several who will be RAAM (Race Across America) competitors in approximately one month. God bless ‘em. Surprisingly (and happily), I won a gold medal for the Women’s 45-49 age group. It’s always nice to bring some hardware home!

As we left Springfield the next morning, the sky was crystal-blue, with no wind. Just like the day after a hurricane.

Rain Men / Spartanburg 300K brevet

The calls and email started trickling in on Friday afternoon. Was I still planning to do the Spartanburg 300K?

Well, yes.

Had I seen the forecast?

Umm. Yes, I’d seen it.

In fact, seen it on every weather Web site I could pull up. Looking for one that promised something more optimistic. But I couldn’t find it. They were all the same. 100 percent chance of rain. Heavy at times. 1-2 inches expected.

Yes, several of my riding buddies had been eyeing the weather. Now they were bailing like the management team at Enron. But I was in, come hell or high water – and most likely the latter. I’d signed up for the S.C. 300K, and I had pride on the line, that suspect human emotion that usually comes before the fall.

I’d promised to give riding buddy Jerry a lift. When I talked to him he was still gung ho. And riding buddy Branson was still in.

And so there you go. Rain Men. Without the math skills.

Jerry and I drove down to Spartanburg after work, stopped for a barbecue dinner at Jimmy’s in Lexington. As we neared our destination, waves of driving rain lashed the car. At one point we hydroplaned helplessly, a sick feeling of the car slip-sliding at 60 mph until the wheels found a shallow spot and grabbed asphalt.

I feared this was just the appetizer tray for the storm that would be dished up tomorrow.

We pulled up to the Quality Inn near the start and began unloading the bikes in a heavy rain. That’s when Jerry discovered he was missing one of his nuts – specifically, the one that fits on the end of his front wheel skewer. Without it his bicycle was unrideable. We searched for about a half hour on the wet, black pavement and in the back of my car. We even recruited the guy from the front desk. No luck. It looked like Jerry’s ride might be over before it started.

Jerry went off to his room, perhaps to contemplate his good fortune, while I went to mine and did a final set-up on the Coho, the Weather Channel in the background painting a meteorological picture of Doom and Gloom. Not much had changed in the forecast, except now the forecasters had begun to overlay tornado warning grids on the region just east of us.

How to pack for this ride? The only thing I knew to do was overpack. And so I crammed two extra pairs of socks, an extra skull cap, extra gloves in my Berthoud bag. The thing bulged like a beer belly in a Father’s Day t-shirt. Overpacked? You bet.

Branson arrived about 11:00 and took the second bed in the room. We talked weather and we talked PBP07, another epic rain event with better pastry options.

Come morning, the streets were still wet, the skies jam-packed with low clouds, but no rain was falling. Perhaps the weather forecasters had missed it. Perhaps the sky would lift and the sun would come out and we’d have a good laugh at all of our buddies who’d bagged the ride.

Perhaps I’d find a gold nugget in a creek bed while fishing for speckled trout. Anything could happen.

Speaking of finds, Jerry located the skewer nut. Catastrophe averted. Turns out it was in the last place he looked. He was back in the big show!

We had breakfast with Tom and Mary Florian, a delightful randonneuring couple from Lumberton. They’ve only been cycling for three years but they’re as gung ho as the rest of us and exceptionally strong riders. For a flatlander, Tom is a monster up the hills.

Over a toasted bagel Tom told the story of how a ferry gate (!) had busted his seat at the start of a multi-day ride, forcing him to ride about 100 miles with a duct tape repair until he found a replacement. During the ride, Mary would tell the same story, but with a few details that were lacking in Tom’s version.

We rolled over to the start at 6:40 or so and met SC RBA Bethany Davison. She was all sly smiles. Yes, there’d be a bit of rain, she said, but it would taper off by the afternoon. Haha, hey what’s that shiny thing in the creek?


Here's Bethany, Branson and Jerry at the start.

There were six hardy randonneurs lined up for the event. Rounding out the field was an S.C. rider named Jack.

Our ragtag crew hit the road promptly at 7. No lie: it began raining within 200 yards of the start. Light at first, the kind of rain you’d call refreshing if you happened to see it out the bay window of your living room while you lounged next to a crackling fire, your favorite book open in your lap.

Five miles up the road, we were caught in the middle of a sho nuff rain storm. We stopped at the first turn and I pulled on the rain jacket. My feet were soaked. My hands were soaked. This was going to be a long day. I sat on the back for a good part of the morning as the pace was a little rich for my puny legs.

Mercifully, the heavy rain abated and the light or misty rain we enjoyed until mid afternoon was bearable and at times downright pleasant, especially with the mild temperatures. We were wet, yes, but we were never really cold.

The roads were a mess, the worst I’d seen on any ride. The gully washers from the day before had littered the asphalt with gravel and mud and debris. I was the only one with fenders. The others soon had their jerseys and jackets splattered with red mud.

We lost Jack off the back shortly before Marietta. As for me, I struck out on my own from the 55-mile control when the others stopped for a biscuit and a break. That gave me a chance to gather myself back up with some easy pedaling at my own pace, a perfect tonic for tired legs.

Branson reeled me like a mackerel near Liberty, while Jerry caught us about 10 miles from the turnaround in Piercetown. Tom and Mary apparently dropped back when Mary had a mechanical issue coming up a hill.

We had a burger or fish sandwich at the turnaround, where Bethany’s husband Steve took a couple snapshots, signed our cards and cheered us on.


Here's Branson at the turnaround....


...And Jerry...


...And Mike.

I suffered back to the Holly Springs store before finally getting my legs back. Odd, as I filled my water bottles out front, one of the locals came out with a toy fishing rod. Maybe there was a good trout stream nearby.

We stopped again in Marietta for a meal and chatted with Bethany and her husband Steve at the Burger King. Our spirits were good, but as we sat inside, eating the second fast food meal of the day, the rain returned, this time as heavy as at the start. We rode for the next hour in a downpour before it tapered off to a light rain and a mist.

We finished at 9 or so, about an hour or two after the dark curtain dropped. Bethany and Steve were waiting with V8s and turkey sandwiches. Branson and I chatted them up while Jerry rode back over to the hotel and talked the desk clerk into a half-price room where we showered, washing road grime down the drain before the four-hour drive home.

When we stopped for gas on the way back I had a hunch. I went inside the gas mart.

One Gold Rush game ticket, I said.

Sorry, the clerk said. Sold out.

Haha. So much for hunches.

Postscript: I nearly forgot a highlight of the ride. With so much water on the roads and on the bikes, the only thing that was dry were our chains. For about 20 miles we endured that horrible scraping sound of metal on metal. My chain felt brittle. On every hill I expected it to snap. When we climbed up to a T-intersection, we saw a guy in an AT&T van pulled off the road. Jerry rode up to him and asked whether he might have a small bit of oil on board. Yes he did, as it turned out. He fished around in the back of the van and pulled out a fresh quart of Valvoline motor oil. Will this work, he asked? Damn straight! He may as well have handed a quart of sweet wine to a street drunk. I poured a healthy dose on the bottom pulley of our derailleurs as Branson worked the pedals.

There were no more squeaks that day.

Update: Looks like the forecasters were dead-on with their predictions. A local newspaper article reported that "1.2 inches of rain had fallen at the [Greenville-Spartanburg] airport as of 9 p.m. Saturday."

Brother Rich Quits The Club

Here’s a post I never thought I’d be making: My buddy Rich is out of the competition. He's no longer in the Century A Month Club.

For the first time in seven years, he has let a month slip by without doing a century. He missed February.

And so the mantle, and the burden, has passed to me.

Rich is one of the guys who got me into randonneuring. The story: as a new year’s resolution in 2002, I decided I’d do a century a year. I looked up rides online a found a century rolling out the door on January 8th or so. I decided I might as well knock it out early.

The day of the century was cold as hell. It had snowed a few days before and there were still traces of snow in the shaded ditches. I should have been suspicious of any riders that would show up for that event. As it turned out there were six of us. Most of the guys were randonneurs. Who else? Honestly, I’d never heard of randonneuring, I’d never heard of Paris Brest Paris. I thought it was foolhardy to attempt 200 miles in a day.


Here’s the picture from that day. Rich is holding a winning lotto ticket. The ride was called the Lotto Century. At the time, North Carolina did not have a lottery, so we rode up to Virginia to buy em.

On the way back, Rich asked me why I was along for that ride. I told him about my resolution to do a century a year.

“A century a year?” he said. “You’re supposed to do one a month.”

Rich already had 12 months in a row at that point. I thought he was a damned fool. But guess what? That Lotto Century turned out to be #1 in a streak that is now 74 months long. I guess Rich knew a kindred spirit when he saw one.

There have been others who joined the Century A Month Club for brief periods. JoeRay, Danno. But Rich and I were the only ones crazy enough to keep it up.

Until now. I never thought I’d catch Rich. He had a full year on me. But the fact is that I’ve watched his priorities change in the past year. He has the Appalachian Trail in his sights, and his bicycle training is now secondary.

I’ve enjoyed calling him up or emailing when I got a century early in the month, just to say “Got Mine.” One of my favorite cell phone calls was the traditional one I made to Rich on the Blackbeard Permanent, my annual ride to the beach. Since I’d leave out of the house at 2 or so in the morning, I’d hit the century mark at about 8 in the morning. I always made a point of pulling over and ringing Rich up. Ideally, I'd wake him.

I told Rich it was a sad day when he dropped out of the competition. I took no joy in it. It won’t be as much fun without the rivalry.

But I’m in it for the long haul. Or at least 12 more months, when I’ll pass his record of 85 months in a row. Of course, once I get there, I’ll be so close to 100 months that….you know….

Ground Hog Day 200K

The groundhog definitely saw his shadow on yesterday’s 200K. How could he miss it? Out in the Pacific Northwest, rides were cancelled for snow and ice at elevation. Here in the Tar Heel state, the sun blazed after an icy start and the afternoon temperatures made the ambitious climb to 60.



Tony Goodnight has done a great job hosting our two early season rides. An appreciative crowd of 20-plus riders showed up for yesterday’s 200K or 300K.



The field included five or six riders from Raleigh, and Brother Rob from Charlotte, who is pedaling his way back into shape this season. We also had a guest, Chris from Ohio. He’s an exceptionally strong rider, and he was one of the five riders in our little peloton, which formed after Wes and I struck out ahead of the others at the 55-mile mark in Landis.

For a while we had a sixth member, Joel, but he went his separate way at mile 80 to complete the 300K. I enjoyed Joel’s company while it lasted. He spun a wonderful tale of his rich family history of beekeeping. You’ll recall that I received a pound of Richard’s Gold at the Jan. 1 ride, and he gave me another jar yesterday. Which means I’m all set for making dessert crepes. C’mon over. Richard is a terrific booster for randonneuring, and you can always count on him showing up at the start to cheer on riders.

We also had Lin and Jerry helping out with pulls. Lin has been riding the best carbon randonneuring frame I’ve seen so far. It’s a Trek Pilot. There’s room for 25 tires with fenders, and the rear dropouts have eyelets.



Lin has it tricked out with Brooks leather and bar end shifters. Very sharp. But not as sharp as Lin’s old beater pick-up truck. He must be living right. Speaking of Jerry, he’s doing a NCBC talk on PBP tomorrow. Definitely worth checking out, and I know he’ll do a fine job representing the local riders.

Our little group began to show signs of wear at the century mark, especially after the four-mile stretch on busy Hwy 64, one of the only choices for crossing the Yadkin River. However, Chris found his legs toward the end of the ride, so much so that we jokingly tagged him with the “Sandbagger” moniker. He was in fine form with several strong pulls back into Lexington.

We finished a few minutes after 4:00 and waited on Branson and Paul to roll in. Being in Lexington, aka Hog Heaven, we had a post-ride barbecue feast at Jimmy’s, which Branson noted served vinegar-based Eastern cue, rather than the Western style which is the trademark of Lexington. For $7, I got a big plate of chopped pig, French fries and red slaw, plus all the hushpuppies and rolls I could eat. It don’t get much better…

As I headed home, I got a call from Susan, Rob’s wife, wondering what time she should start worrying about Rob. I told her there were no worries – he was probably in good company with Sridhar and a few others. That was indeed the case. Rob himself called about a half-hour later to say he was safely in. A big congrats to the Bro!

Another great day on the bikes.

Phun Phud Photo.

My buddy Ende. He's like a duck in a pond. No word for days on end. Then boom, he surfaces, fires off a string of emails, then slips back underwater.

Capn has been working on an ad campaign for Lantiseptic. He's going to be a Butt Cream Spokescapn. Essentially, he's making a run at stardom through the back door.

I think this has him going through some old pictures. He just sent this masterpiece along. Check out that plate!


His caption: 'THE BEST RANDO MEAL EVER.'

Yes the place was self serve. Yes it was all you can eat. Yes it was on a brevet -- the Bonifay 1000K. Yes the food was delicious.

Capn will remember the name of the restaurant. Maybe he'll weigh in with a comment and give us the locale -- the next time he surfaces.

Benson & Back

Just back in from a 47 miler with Dean and BobO. The route from Dean's house to Benson was surprisingly hilly. I was expecting an easy, flat out & back. My GPS showed about 2,000 of climbing. Not too shabby for that part of the state. I think we dropped down to every possible creek along the way and climbed back up to every ridge.


Here's the intrepid trio ready for take-off.


Here's our route.


Now a Trailer Park quiz for you loyal readers, suggested by Deano: See if you can spot the jackass in this photo...I vote for the guy behind the camera...


We rode under this mottled sky and beside this muddy field on the way down....


And passed by this old mill pond and waterfall....


We lunched at the Benson Main Street Cafe...and everybody ordered the special: turkey and stuffing with two sides and corn bread. Dean and I had the chocolate pie for dessert.




We had lots of sunlight on the return. This tree begged to be photographed.


A roadside shot of Dean...



And one of Bob....


A fun time was had by all...

2007 Doublewide Awards: Most Popular Permanent

When you've only got three established routes, it ain't hard to become the favorite. N.C. randonneurs nearly wore out the 208K Kerr Lake Loop in 2007. It was ridden at least once a month as a group ride, and several riders did it solo. The biggest ride took place in September when a dozen riders looped the loop.


Here's a picture of 10 from that ride.

In October, nine riders completed the Loop under picture-perfect skies.


Here's a photo of that hardy group.

Lexington 200K / Barbecue Heaven

Yesterday I joined Tony G, Tony F and Joel, the son of High Point RBA Richard Lawrence, for a shake-out ride of the Lexington 200K. A good time was had by all. A personal thanks to Tony G and Joel for pulling me along all day.

The ride started and finished at a Wal-Mart parking lot just off exit 91 on I-85. Richard Lawrence showed up a few minutes before the start to see us off.



I brought my Silk Hope for the second 200K this month and was delighted to show it to him. He is the proud owner of this magnificent 25-inch Silk Hope.



For those heading up for the Jan. 1 brevet, here’s the route according to my GPS.



If you look closely you’ll see where we rolled into several controls along the way.

The elevation gain is about 5,700 feet over the 126-mile course, or 450 feet per 10 miles. That’s pretty typical of the rolling hills in the western Piedmont.



I looked at the other 200Ks I’ve recorded. This has as much gain as Bethany Davison’s Caesars Head course. However, there’s nothing too steep and nothing too long. I’d say it’s easier than that ride or the Siler City Express permanent. But it's still plenty challenging.

Most of the Lexington route is on extremely quiet back roads, which allowed for lots of side-by-side socializing. Here are the two Tonys rolling up to a stop sign.



One highlight of the course: Bringle Ferry Road below the High Rock Lake dam (where that first photo was taken). Here's a shot of Tony, Joel and Tony with the dam in the background.



Another highlight: The quiet run into the former boomtown of Gold Hill. Here's a shot of Joel rolling up to the historic marker.



There were a few busy stretches, including a four-mile stretch on Highway 64. Apparently there’s not a good way to avoid that because there are only so many bridges across the Yadkin River. However, there was a pretty good shoulder along that section. It also got a little busy as we headed back into Lexington.

Lights and reflective gear were a necessity. We rode the last half-hour in the dark.

Here is the crew riding into one of the controls.



For those who like western N.C. style barbecue, this ride will be heaven. I’d say we passed four roadside restaurants with pigs on the signs. By the time we rolled back into Lexington, I’d built up a powerful hunger. Joel arranged a dinner at – where else? – the Lexington Barbecue Restaurant, also known as Honey Monk’s after the owner’s nickname.

Richard and his wife joined us for a post-ride chowdown. Talk about local knowledge: Joel ordered what was essentially a plate of chopped pork edges. I followed suit. Delicious!

Postscript: Joel filled me in on the local history after seeing my barbecue commentary.

Discussing BBQ can get you in hot water very quickly. The topic borders on politics and religion. (Okay, around here it is a religion.) The type of BBQ you had on Saturday night was “Lexington style”. To me “western style” conjures up the image of a ½ ton spit of beef being cranked beside a Conestoga wagon.

I’m not sure where you heard the local name “Honey Monk’s”. (You were pretty much dead on.) I have never seen it printed anywhere. Growing-up, we always referred to the place as “The Monk” or “Lexinton BBQ #1”. Every once in a while, I would hear an old timer refer to it as “The Honey Monk”. Several years back, I asked Wayne Monk, the founder, the origin of the name. He told me that originally a guy named Honeycutt was going to be his business partner. About the only thing the guy contributed was part of his name. “Lexington BBQ #2” was located at the other end of town and was run by Wayne’s brother, Tommy. It closed a number of years ago. Although Wayne’s son, Ricky, runs the place now, Wayne is still there helping out. He was the older gentleman behind the counter on Saturday.

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For those who can't get enough of all these maps I've been posting, here is the route in mapmyrides and bikely.com.

Lexington 200K

Share your bike routes @ Bikely.com

Gyro Century Route

Duration: 6 hours, 9 minutes, 53 seconds
Length: 103.3 miles
Vertical up: 2969.6 ft
Vertical down: 2925.4 ft
Average speed: 16.8 mph
Ride time average speed: 19.3 mph

Morrisville, NC 200K

Length: 124 miles
Vertical up: 4149.2 ft
Vertical down: 4142.9 ft

High Point, N.C. 200K

Here is Richard Lawrence's 200K. A tough route, especially the first half.


Length: 123.7 miles
Vertical up: 4835.2 ft
Vertical down: 4868.3 ft

Pancake Route

Eric asked that I post our Raleigh-Durham ride. Here it is, in 2 directions.

Ignore that one long, straight line.

Breakthrough: Fixed Route from Google Maps

Ah ha! I played around long enough and I figured out which online programs to use.

I did not have the middle portion of Blackbeard, about 30 miles, but had recorded both ends using my Garmin Edge.

In the previous post, I put up a Google Map with that middle section. But how to lock that as a route map, like the other two legs?

I found an online program called GM2GPX that converted the Google map I'd made into GPX coordinates. Once I saw the code it generated, I knew I had the final piece of the puzzle.

I copied that code and pasted it into the map generator at GPS Visualizer. Once the map was created, I saved it as a route in EveryTrail.com (I could have done the same thing in Bikely.com, I believe.)

That program created the map you see above with the waypoints. Those waypoints are coming out of the original Google map. Those are the markers I used to nudge the Google line onto the Blackbeard route.

This has huge potential for creating permanents and other cycling routes. It also allows cyclists with GPS units to download the routes.

You may notice that the route is not drawn on top of the roads like the other Google maps. Not sure why that is, but I'll keep digging.

Lake Loop Map Again

After saving my route in Bikely, I was able to save the map on the blogsite.

Lake Loop / 200K

Need a reason to do a Flèche?

Besides the Big Adventure you're sure to have, you also get a cool certificate. Mine arrived today.

Half the fun of the event is naming the team. Ours was "Team N.D.D." That's short for:

Night of the Day of the Dawn of the Son of the Bride of the Return of the Revenge of the Terror of the Attack of the Evil, Mutant, Hellbound, Flèche-Eating Subhumanoid Zombified Living Dead, Part 2, In Shocking 2-D!

See the Big Adventure link above for more details on where that name came from. Or check this link.

Also, note the distance: 364 kilometers. A Flèche team must complete a minimum of 360K in 24 hours. Team N.D.D. had the stated goal of coming in as close to that mark as possible. Incredibly, another Flèche team managed to come in right at 360K. Typically, the real honor goes to the team with the highest mileage. So N.D.D. was even a failure in its attempt to be last.

Check out that profile of Paul de Vivie behind the type. So who is he? For the answer, we turn to Bill Bryant, RUSA writer extraordinaire:

Paul de Vivie (1853-1930) was an early French cycling pioneer who devoted his life to bicycling, especially long, hard rides several days in length with little or no sleep - rather like a brevet. The Audax Club Parisien's Easter weekend "Flèche Vélocio" 24-hour team rides are named in his honor. He was also an ardent bicycle inventor and an early proponent of the derailleur; this helped cycle-tourists haul themselves over hills that scared off the racing types on their single-speed bikes. Among his many various cycling endeavors, he used the pen name "Vélocio" and wrote at length for decades about the glories of all forms of cycling, but especially long-distance bicycle rides.

Click here to read Bill's article on Vélocio's Seven Commandments.

Thanks to N.C. RBA Richard Lawrence and his son Joel for hosting our local event.

Our next Flèche ride is already in the planning stages. Stay tuned.

I predict the turnout for the 2008 Flèche rides will set a new record. The reason: a successful Flèche is required for the R-5000 award. And there's lots of interest in that following the latest PBP, another event you need for the R-5000.

Pointing a middle finger – and pulling the trigger

I’ve just read about a disturbing incident on the West Coast.

SIR rider Peter McKay, one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met on a bike, was shot with two BB pellets this week while commuting home from work. Far from being a harmless prank, the shooting pierced one of Peter’s lungs and sent him to the hospital.

This is Peter’s own account of the event and here’s a newspaper account with quotes from RUSA president Mark Thomas.

Here’s to wishing for a full recovery by Peter. And here’s to hoping they catch the guy who pulled the trigger.

The level of violence that Peter witnessed at point blank range may be at the extreme end of what we cyclists encounter. The level of animosity is not, in my experience.

An example: about a month ago, JoeRay, Wes and I were riding along, miles from anywhere or anyone. It was a rural road with almost no traffic. We were just chitchatting, enjoying another pleasant day for cycling.

Now comes a car in the other direction. We’re not in his lane, not slowing him down, not even heading the same way.

Still, the guy finds it necessary to stick a hand out the window, flip us off.

What the…? Where did that come from?

JoeRay has a name for it: Embedded hostility.

He’s on to something. Long before the motorist crossed our path, he’d developed a deep-seated anger toward cyclists. We did nothing to him except appear in his line of sight. We were merely the flashpoint for his hatred.

The simple fact is that lots of motorists resent bicycles on the roads. You’ve heard all the reasons: We slow them down or hold them up. Only kids ride bikes. Roads are for cars, sidewalks are for cyclists. Bikers don’t pay gasoline taxes and don’t have any right to use the road. Cyclists wear stupid clothes.

On and on it goes.

When someone yells out the window, or flashes the bird, I want to react in kind, and sometimes I do, a fact I’m not proud of. It’s counterproductive and potentially dangerous for me and my buddies. And it ruins the ride.

I don’t have any solution for defusing the hostile motorist. I have no clue how, short of wearing a Kevlar vest, to deal with the kind of unprovoked attack that Peter saw.

But I take small steps, nearly every time I ride, to promote our cause with the rest of the motoring public.

I wave at the motorists who go out of their way to pass safely and courteously. Ditto to the drivers who nod and wave hello.

I wave at the kids playing in the yards. They’ll soon be drivers.

I give a passing hello or nod to the parents sitting on their front porch or mowing the lawn. They’ll be behind the wheel soon enough.

I try to ride in a predictable manner and use hand signals to indicate changes in motion or direction.

As much as practicable, I avoid running red lights and stop signs. My reasoning: The motorist who sees me disregarding traffic laws might be more tempted to disregard my rights.

I know where to find the motor vehicle laws that apply to bicycles. In North Carolina, my home state, they’re here. I’ve found it’s hard to educate motorists about my rights if I don’t know what they are.

I stay alert to cars approaching from behind, especially when I’m riding in groups.

And I always use a mirror to watch my back. As this incident shows, there’s a lot of embedded hostility out there. Sometimes it's aimed randomly at nice guys like Peter. And sometimes it can leave a permanent scar.

In praise of urban riding

Yesterday four of us – me, JoeRay, Danno & Branson – did a variation of our Pancake Ride, which is typically a 60-mile out-and-back from Raleigh to Durham, with a stop at Mad Hatter for breakfast.

With cool temperatures, sunny skies and northwest winds, it was the perfect day to deviate from our standard course and explore the Triangle’s eclectic collection of greenways, historic buildings and outdoor art. It goes without saying that the best vehicle for urban exploration is the nimble bicycle.

Dan, JoeRay and I left from West Raleigh before hooking up with Branson in Research Triangle Park. Normally, we shoot straight out through the fairgrounds to Morrisville. But yesterday, we turned into Meredith College and hopped onto the Raleigh Greenway, crossing the majestic Bike/Ped Bridge across I-440. Here’s a good description of the structure:

The longest pedestrian bridge in North Carolina (660 feet) spans the I-440 Beltline between the Museum Park and Meredith College. It is constructed in three 220 foot long sections, each a “bow-string” steel structure, set onto concrete “bents” or upright supports that were made with form liners in the pattern of stonework.

The path winds down to a creek bottom before climbing back up to the N.C. Museum of Art. There are several outdoor displays there, including a stone sculpture, Crossroads/Trickster 1, by Martha Jackson-Jarvis, and the three hoop “Gyre" by Thomas Sayre. But my favorite is the kinetic sculpture, Wind Machine, by Vollis Simpson. It’s the one in the video at the top of this entry.

Here's a slideshow of shots near the museum.



An aside: Vollis’ property in Lucama is dotted with a dozen or more of these sculptures. He lives on a very pleasant biking road. I met him once while riding with friends from Wilson. To learn more about Vollis, check this PBS story.

After passing the museum, we crossed onto Reedy Creek Road and cruised uphill to Umstead State Park, crossed I-40 and then pedaled into the SAS complex in Cary.

This is the first time I’ve been through there. Impressive, indeed. I snapped shots of these outdoor sculptures as we rolled along. Not sure if all are on the SAS campus.



From there, we picked up Weston Parkway, one of those roads cut through the woods so a dozen corporations could set up shop in the bee-loud glade. We turned right on Evans, left on Aviation Parkway into Morrisville, then right onto Church Street, where we hit another cultural center, Al’s house, the finish to our Raleigh brevet series.


We found our Fearless Leader in his garage, hard at work on the next batch of his home-brewed beer.



Here’s his set-up. By the looks of it, I’d say he’s about ready to go national.

Back under way, we picked up Branson in RTP and crossed back over I-40, left on Cornwallis until we hit the American Tobacco Trail. A description from that link:

As proposed, a 22+ mile multi-use trail will traverse urban, suburban, and rural landscapes in route from downtown Durham, at the site of the Durham Bulls Athletic park, to New Hill Road in western Wake County. At this terminus point, trail users will have the option to board the New Hope Valley Railway and take a train ride to the community of Bonsal.

And here’s a PDF of the route.

We came into Durham right at the Durham Bulls Athletic Park, for my money the best minor league stadium in the country.



Right next door is the American Tobacco Complex, an example of urban restoration at its finest moment.



A series of buildings that once housed the American Tobacco Company have been converted into a mixed-used complex of offices, shops and restaurants. The complex is 0-shaped with an open courtyard in the middle. The Lucky Strike water tower now stands in the middle of a series of pools and small waterfalls.

Here are pictures from the complex. As JoeRay noted, they don’t really give you a sense of the scale of the place.



Normally, we eat pancakes at Mad Hatter, another two miles into Durham, but yesterday a waiter from the Symposium in the Tobacco Complex persuaded us to give that restaurant a shot. The view couldn't be beat -- the restaurant has windows looking out toward the Lucky Strike tower. But the meal was just fair and a bit pricey.

Breakfast over, we headed home to Raleigh, stopping in at Al’s again to see how the home brew was coming along. We took our normal route home through the fairgrounds, passing the RBC Center (Home of the Hurricanes) Carter Finley Stadium (Home of the Wolfpack) and the historic Dorton Arena .

Here's a photo I snapped as we rolled past:



Here's a quote from the above link:

The arena's bold parabolic design was conceived by Matthew Norwicki, a Polish architect who helped lay out the rebuilding of Warsaw following World War II. Norwicki assisted in designing the United Nations complex in New York before coming to Raleigh, where he served as acting head of the School of Design at North Carolina State College (now North Carolina State University).

I have my own historic associations with that building. It’s where I saw my first concert – Led Zeppelin – in 1970. I’ve actually heard a bootleg copy of that show.

We came up Beryl, passing the JC Raulston Arboretum, before angling through the neighborhoods to Dan’s house. After a relaxing half-hour of latte-sipping, we parted ways until our next urban tour.

The Al Johnson Bachelor Ride

A big congratulations to N.C. RBA Al Johnson who is getting married in October to Dorothy Jones.

On Saturday best man Mike O’Connor organized a pre-nuptial bike ride.

I signed up under the mistaken belief we’d be heading to Hooters for a bucket of wings. Wrongo, Bucko. Our ultimate destination was Yanceyville’s annual Brightleaf Hoedown, a small street-fair named for a variety of North Carolina tobacco that was first cured in Caswell County in 1839.

Pre-ride, I put the Schmidt hub and rear lights on my bike -- you never know what time of night a bachelor event will wind down and you sure don't want to get caught sans reflective gear. I rolled out my door at 7:30 a.m. for the 15-mile ride to Al’s house in Morrisville.

Al, Mike and I struck out at 9 on the 63-mile course to Yanceyville. We followed a route Adrian stitched together, traveling first through RTP, then past the weekend’s Gay Pride celebration in Durham and north on a busy artery or two before we hit the rural roads.

Although we had a headwind most of the way up, nobody much cared or complained. The sun was out, temps were in the mid 70s and life was grand. There were several long flat stretches where Al and I swapped PBP stories.

The conversation trailed off as we hit a couple short, steep climbs.

“Who put up that wall back there?” Al asked as we chugged up from a creek bottom.

Fittingly, we rode past a dozen tobacco fields. Most of this year’s crop is already in the barns although we saw one farmer harvesting the top leaf.

Here’s a picture of a new-fangled curing barn near Gordonton. Not as picturesque as the old wooden structures, but you get the same heavenly sweet smell as the tobacco dries to a golden brown. If cigarettes tasted half as good as that aroma, everybody would smoke.




We stopped for Cokes and carbs at a corner store in Leasburg before the final 11-mile push into Yanceyville. The last mile up Hwys 86/158 featured a lung-busting ascent. Fun!








The Hoedown was in full swing when we arrived in Yanceyville and we made our way to the town square. It was roped off, with a central stage as the anchor point for dozens of craft booths and food stands.








We parked our bikes in the rack beside Gilbert Anderson’s shop. Here’s a picture of the storefront in the old A.H. Motz Building.









It's just across the street from the magnificent county courthouse.







Gilbert is a PBP ancien and the owner of one of the finest René Herse bikes on the planet. His shop is a randonneur’s delight. Out of the way, but well worth a visit.









We didn’t have to wander far to find the pork rinds. There they were, in the booth right in front of Gilbert’s shop. A dozen varieties, including the “whole wheat” bag for those who prefer a “heart healthy” label on their pig skin. Haha. Hehe. Hoho.






Beside Gilbert’s shop were a variety of antique farm devices: an old steam tractor, a 1920s hay baler, several “hit-miss” engines, toy tractors, and a Ford Model T or A converted into a “Hoover Tractor” through a unique gearing system.

Here's a video of A.C. Culpepper explaining how his hit-miss engines work. He had three on display, including the Moonshine Special, which ran on alcohol fumes.



I wondered the square and videotaped this tobacco auctioneer holding a mock sale. Those auctioneers and their singsong chants were once as common in the Tobacco Belt as late summer locusts.




Today there are two surviving traditional flue-cured tobacco auctions in the United States. Here’s an NPR story about that dying craft.

Meantime, Alan’s fiancé Dorothy and Mike’s wife arrived with a sheet cake to celebrate the upcoming nuptials. Gilbert rousted several riders -- Mike R, Adrian and Byron -- who’d ridden up the night before and were camping down the hill. Everyone crowded into Gilbert’s shop. We applauded Al and Dorothy and in true rando style nearly demolished the cake in 15 minutes flat. Only a small corner, I'd call it a cake edge really, remained. Byron vowed to polish it off at breakfast.

I decided I’d had too much bachelor cake to bike home (better safe than sorry!) and hitched a ride with Mike and Alan and their better halves. I crowded into the back seat, apologizing in advance for the smell, which was not at all like the sweet aroma of cured tobacco.

Congratulations, Al and Dorothy!