Second day of the "Seagull Century Virtual Ride" - 50.7 miles
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I know my plan was to be out the door and riding by 10am...but that plan is ALWAYS a moving target. I am not a morning person, first of all. Second, while I could have swung my leg over the bike reasonably close to my goal time that day, I ended up instead standing around trying to convince my old cell phone - which I'm still, despite its continuing shenanigans, using solely for listening to my music while cycling - to work. It didn't want to talk to my Bluetooth that morning, and even went as far as going into an indefinite loop tantrum pretending to turn itself on over and over and over again without ever actually doing so. I finally had to yank out the battery to stop the insanity, threaten to irrevocably fling it in the trash and started to make good my promise before - lo and behold - it redeemed itself on the final try by suddenly agreeing to send my music through to the Bluetooth headset, thus no longer delaying my departure. One of these days I'll take the time to download my music to a more reliable, less temperamental device. One of these days. Not today, tho. The sun was already high in the sky, and the roads beckoned.
I was ready to roll on the 2nd day of my 2 day 100.
My choice of routes for the first 25 mile leg was an old tried-and-true paved road loop down through the beautiful horse country of upper Middleburg, Virginia. The goal was a swift ride, and the Vado was more than happy to comply.
The rains the night before had washed the roads sparkling clean, leaving a glazed sheen on them so bright that it challenged my ability to actually see the road even through my polarized sunglasses. The contrast of the sunlight glittering on the wet surface amidst patches of dense shade made it especially difficult to judge the road surface. Puddles of mirror-bright reflective water lying in various and sundry places on the road bed didn't help either, their presence made worse anytime my speed increased. I squinted through their brilliance at the best of time, and raced down the road blind, relying solely upon my memory and the feel of the road through the Vado's frame, at the worse of time.
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But it was the colorful falling leaves that held my attention. Those spiraling down in slow, steady graceful fall all around me as I cycled along, bits of colored tree confetti let loose in a silent airborne dance by the brisk winds that were accompanying me on my ride. At times the winds blew a bit more energetically, enticing the stalwart trees into releasing a malstorm of flying leaves. I watched the leaves lying on the road as cars passed over them, every leaf rising up into a swirling wake behind the cars, a brief mad whirlwind of color twisting and spinning in the air before slowly settling back onto the pavement to await another wild ride into the air with the next car. Many of the leaves, after multiple flights behind the cars, had settled off the road, piling themselves into lined rows on the road shoulder and at intersections where they convened in decorative piles, as well as solitary dots of color, at the base of the road signs.
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Enroute I happened upon someone's obviously successful attempt at humor - a lone hand lawnmower parked next to the closed gate of a massively overgrown field. The tiny machine stood patiently as if ready, for all intents and purposes, to attempt the Herculean task of actually mowing the field. However, I knew from past rides that this mower had been standing in the same spot since springtime, keeping the old pipe gate company while watching the grass grow. And hadn't moved an inch in all those months. I would like to think that someone had actually intended to use the mower, but was called away for another project and had yet to return. I suspect the reality was that the little mower has been forgotten completely. So here it sat, hidden and alone with only the handle showing, overwhelmed and enveloped by the tall field grasses it had been sent to subdue many months prior. I wonder if it will still be here this winter when the snows come.
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While many of the farm fields, full of late summer grasses, still awaited mowing and haying, the corn fields had already finished their cycle of growth and no longer sported their endless acres of tall green stalks each proudly holding aloft thick dual ears of ripe yellow corn. Those green stalks had withered and died in the last few weeks, decomposing into thin tall brown spikes that rattled like bony old skeletons at every breath of a breeze. Their time had come to be harvested and taken away, the fields that had provided nourishment and growth being left to lie fallow and empty for the winter.
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The familiar roads seemed to be shorter for some reason, and while I did stop periodically to snap a few pictures, I was surprised to see how quickly I had reached town. A quick loop on the back streets through the town and I was on my way home, the first leg of the 25 mile already halfway complete.
My route now set pace towards different scenery, passed different estates, one of which was engaged in some major landscaping renovation. Several very old, very dead trees had been marring the perfection of the pristine front lawns of said estate, and the landowner had obviously taken steps to rectify the situation by engaging a tree removal company to remove the deceased arbor blight. I stopped at the scene, finding one guy busy at work in a big machine digging up the stump of one tree while his companion, chewing gum while he sat parked on the trunk of the felled tree, dutifully holding the tree in place so that it didnt get up and stroll off for parts unknown. Both guys, the one working the machine and the tree sitter, kept their eyes on the stump being excavated until I rode up to watch and take a picture.
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My presence was plenty enough excuse for Machine Guy to shut down the motor and engage in some conversation. He pointed out yet another stump, even bigger, further away on the lawn, explaining that he had taken that stump out this morning. "It took 4 hours" he said, obviously out to impress me with that feat of endurance. I, of course, graciously agreed it was impressive. I asked how long he had been working at the current stump, still firmly entrenched in the ground and doing its utmost to remain where it had been planted for nigh a century. "Three hours", Machine Guy said proudly. "It will probably take another hour to get out". "So you've been working all day at..." I waved my hand vaguely at the carnage of sliced up dead tree carcasses and dirt clogged uprooted stumps littering the once pristine lawn..."all this?". Machine Guy, quite pleased with my awe of the extent of the felling and excavations project, said that he had. Throughout the entire conversation Tree Sitting Guy sat on his tree and didn't utter one word. He simply grinned at me while chewing his gum, his sole purpose obviously to keep his tree right where it was, and to provide moral support by watching Machine Guy dig up the stump. I've seen enough road crew workers throughout my lifetime to known that drill. I thanked both guys, told them I'd taken up more than enough time out of their day and that stump wasn't about to go anywhere until I let them get back to their work. They both smiled for the camera and I took off on my bike sharing farewell waves with them as I departed.
I was close enough to home at that point to enjoy a slower pace on the gravel roads leading back, which they did in a pleasant meandering manner, to my farm. I reached my driveway at almost 25 miles on the dot. It was time for lunch and a bit of relaxation while I let the Vado sip some electrons while it waited for me to return for the final 25 mile leg of my 2 day 100 mile ride.
To be honest lunch and relaxation was almost a little too enjoyable, and I found myself, while still ready and able to hop on my bike for the final 25 miles...less inclined to do so every passing minute as the warm sun, good food, comfortable seating at the bistro table in the front rose garden, and casual conversation with hubby, who had joined me to discuss his morning events, all conspired to keep me in my chair. I watched the clock ticking the minutes away, and had almost decided to postpone the final 25 miles until tomorrow and just be lazy the rest of the day when a text came through my phone from my cycling friend 100 miles south of me wishing me good luck on the final 25. And then another text from my sister in Key West Florida, 1,000 miles south of me asking how my ride was going. My resolve to sit and do nothing the rest of the day but read and relax was waning. The final straw was an email from my endurance friend, waiting to hear how I did on today's 50.
That was the deal breaker. No way could I palm off the final 25 miles until tomorrow, and explain to everyone I had been too lazy to continue. Not happening. There was still plenty of daylight, and plenty of roads to make this ride complete. But only if I left right now and hurried.
The Vado had sipped enough electrons to push the battery level up to 86%. More than enough, I reckoned, for a simple 25 mile race through the countryside. I debated just going up the paved road and back again in a straight line to accumulate the miles in the fastest time, but that negated the entire concept of a touring ride. Instead I chose to head in a northern loop on a mixed route of paved and gravel - the former for speed, the later for safety where the paved was not as bike friendly as I wished.
Back on the bike I now put the assist up to maximum and let the bike run at speed. And speed it did, setting fire to the pavement as my eyes teared behind my sunglasses from the wind. I pushed the bike to the max, taking every downhill at full speed, and charging up hills as fast as I could push the pedals. It was a heady experience, and I was astonished to find the Vado, for all its commuter inspired attributes, had found its hidden "wildman mountain bike" persona in tackling the cross-country course of twisting gravel road hills with breathless alacrity. So much so that at times I felt the bike on the verge of bolting, once grabbing the brakes in alarm to slow the headlong flight when the bike leaped over a narrow deep rainwater trench in the middle of the road as if it was Becher's Brook in the Grand National steeplechase. I had never gone that fast on this bike. It was both unnerving...and addictive. I squashed the former in deference to the need for speed, and encouraged the later while trying not to kill myself in the rush. I flew past an all brown woolly bear at one point, the little creature apparently forwarned of a crazy lady cyclist out to break the land speed record. As fast as I was going, that caterpillar was booking it even faster, at least for a caterpiller, that is. Every teeny leg was giving it everything it had to get that tiny body out of the road and out of my way. I was impressed and for the briefest of seconds debated stopping to take its photograph. But by then I was already a mile further down the road, and not inclined to turn back to look for the caterpillar which had probably been blown clear across the road into the weeds by my draft.
I kept going, burning through the battery like there was no tomorrow and ( on the paved roads) scaring the beejeebers out of the motorists following me because I was sure they'd never seen a bike, outside of watching the Tour de France, go so fast. I actually had to slow down a few times and wave a "go ahead" signal in order to get a reluctant motorist past me. Guess they had just never seen the like.
When I finally noticed (10 miles in) that my speed had resulted in an unprecedented drain on the battery down to a mere 49%, I decided I had plenty of time left to slow down for the remaining 15 miles. Honestly speaking, I needed to stop draining my battery dry or I'd be hoofing it home under my own power. Not the auspicious conclusion I would want.
So, I pulled back in the speed, encouraging the bike into a more sedate, yet still businesslike, pace. No more leaping potholes and washboard ravines. We were going to be more civilized, enjoy the scenery, and take photos - like the one below. I had always wanted to stop and read this sign to learn a bit more history of the events, peoples, and stories along this route.
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Shortly after the sign was my turning point south again. It would be gravel roads back from here on in. Slower, more sedate, more ladylike riding. No more wild hooligan antics. The battery drain was consistent and I began counting down the miles as each one passed beneath my wheels, logged faithfully on my GPS.
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The sun was still blindingly bright, but the breezes had turned deceptively cool. I had debated leaving my jacket at home, but the wisdom I had accumulated through years of endurance riding had made sure I had taken the jacket with me. I'm glad I had as the wild ride for the first 10 miles would have been far too chilly to endure with simply a shirt, even a long sleeved one. I had learned the hard way never to leave my tried-and-true warm clothing at home. The last 2-day 100 mile ride I had done that, much to my deep regret and fury, although afterwards it provided great fodder for a funny story:
I had been on my horse in an endurance ride, in late November, in New Jersey. 2-day 100s were not common in endurance. Unlike the pinnacle of endurance: the 1 day 100 which allowed 24 hours to complete for 100 mile points on your competitive ride record, the two day gave only 50 points a day (12 hours to complete). However, a completion for both days awarded a "2 day 100 Mile" designation on one's record. I couldn't ride the 1 day 100s because of the glow sticks used at night to mark the trail. The up and down glow "movement" in the pitch blackness brought on by the horse's trotting made me seasick. As in sliding-down-out-of-the-saddle-and-ralphing-in-the-bushes type of seasick. The very thought of constantly throwing up trailside all night long while riding my horse in the cold darkness while dealing with the endless nausea produced by miles of glowing lights - well, that was a big "no way" for me. And no way was I, or my horse, capable of finishing a 100 mile ride before sunset. Thus, the only way to get a 100 mile ride designation on my record was to do it in two days.
So here I was in New Jersey, 6 hours from home (via truck and horse trailer), in November, in (are you ready for this?) a nor'easter. An icy, rainy, sleety, snowy bitterly cold nor'easter. Two days, 50 miles a day, in weather that only wanted to make you go home and wrap yourself in a warm blanket and sit in front of a raging fire in the fireplace with a bottle of the finest malt at your side, and a glass of the same in your hand. That was not me. No, I was out in that weather, listening to the
plinkplinkplink of sleet and ice pellets bouncing off my helmet, head down with eyes watching the trail, shifting my gaze only to check that I was following the trail markers and to check the GPS watch on my wrist that was counting down the miles, my horse's stride steady and rhythmic beneath me.
On the first day, the abysmal weather was already in full swing before the riders had even gathered at the start. I had donned a brand new British waxed "foul weather" coat (I think it was called a "Partridge" or some overly pompous like that) I had recently purchased under the misguided presumption the jacket was actually suited for foul weather. Maybe in its country of origin it was suitable. Maybe in a fine British or Scottish mist, or the "soft" weather of perpetually wet Ireland it performed to perfection, thus earning its laurels. But in a true raging New England winter nor'easter? It was not up to snuff. Not by a long shot. That coat just pulled out the white flag at the first wave of sleet and frozen rain, and laid down surrendering without a fight. I was to discover it's abysmal limitations all too soon to my everlasting regret. I had NOT packed any other warm foul weather gear - an ommision that only made matters worse and would come back to haunt me the second day of the 100 mile ride as the weather settled to become true, unadulterated foul weather misery. Misery only because that lousy coat sucked up every drop of moisture into its waxed fabric within the first 5 miles the first day to become a sopping wet ice encrusted deadweight on my back for the remaining 95 miles. Worse still it resolutely refused to dry, at all, overnight. It didn't "breathe" either, so it was a sauna while buttoned closed, which made me sweat like a stevadore, and then instantly froze inside if I opened it up to let in some cool.
I cursed that coat every step of those 100 miles. I cursed it even more when the near-hurricane level winds picked up the following day, pelting ice, sleet, rain, and intermittent snow at me and my patient horse - who was quite warm in his natural fur coat plus the rump blanket I had placed with loving forethought and tender consideration for his comfort on his hindquarters - turning the sauna inside my coat into a deep freezer because there was just a thin fabric lining that had less than a zero insulation factor from being drenched in sweat from the day before. The only thing keeping me warm was the language I was using, heated enough to scorch anything within hearing range, and the self-rightious retribution I was planning which involved either scissors for dismemberment, a blowtorch for torching a fabric bonfire, or just flinging this useless piece of expensive cloth in the trash the second I arrived home.
It was a long icy cold, gale-force-winds with-sleet-and-freezing-rain-blowing-sideways filled ride. A long battering 7 hours each day to finish. My horse did great, was kept toasty warm in his blankets each day and at each check while I shivered uncontrollably in my wretched poor-excuse-for-a-coat coat. My horse and I finished in 2nd place, and I loaded up horse and camp for the 6 hour ride home as the sun was setting. The icy nor'easter had locked down the main highway going home by rendering I95 into a frozen parking lot, forcing me to wind my way - with the help of a paper road atlas by my side because this was in the good old days before vehicles came with built in navigation systems - through nighttime back streets and unfamiliar back roads of three different states before reaching Virginia. It took me longer to drive home than to ride the 50 miles, and even longer to get warm again even with the truck heater on full blast.
And yes, the first thing I did once home is pitch that expensive, utterly useless coat right in the trash. I learned my lesson that weekend: never leave your tried and true jacket behind on any ride where the weather is iffy. Never.
So on this 2-day 100 mile bike ride I remained comfy warm, even as the breezes and periodic wind gusts did their best to toss in a chill while I hurried down the road, counting down the miles.
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The finish was enjoyed on my local paved road. A finish that floated me home on a carpet of well laid smoothness that only a cyclist could truly appreciate. It was a nice way to fill out the final leg of the ride, and I'm glad I chose it. I'm glad it was beautiful weather, and not a nor'easter. I glad it was soft autumn leaves gliding around me and not freezing rain and sleet. I'm glad it was paved roads and sweet gravel roads with a beautiful cornucopia of scenery in which to ride and not a deep sandy roller coaster trail through the endless sameness of a 1,000 acre pine barren. I'm glad I could roll right out of my driveway and turn any direction for a splendid ride of miles, and not have to drive 6 hours to do so. I'm glad the Seagull Century did not cancel but instead gave its participants a chance to do their own century, in any place, in any way or format they desired.
Next year, corona virus willing, I will be riding a 1 day 100 on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. No glow sticks required. No nor'easter either. Just sun, fun, me, my bike, and two thousand other cyclists, all enjoying the event.
Can't wait!
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PS:
@RabH - I think I bested your time on my final leg. 16.7mph.
Oh, and for those inclined to ask about the woolly bears and their winter predictions? The following cut-and-paste from the internet came from (of all places I kid you not) the National Weather Service (US Department of Commerce, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) webpage. Weird, but true. Then again this country's highest level is at war with science right now, scoffing at reality while trumpeting heresay, so finding folklore on a goverment site isn't all that surprising. On its own page, no less. I'm amused that the woolly bear has so much notable screen time:
According to folklore, the amount of black on the woolly bear in autumn varies proportionately with the severity of the coming winter in the locality where the caterpillar is found. The longer the woolly bear's black bands, the longer, colder, snowier, and more severe the winter will be. Similarly, the wider the middle brown band is associated with a milder upcoming winter. The position of the longest dark bands supposedly indicates which part of winter will be coldest or hardest. If the head end of the caterpillar is dark, the beginning of winter will be severe. If the tail end is dark, the end of winter will be cold. In addition, the woolly bear caterpillar has 13 segments to its body, which traditional forecasters say correspond to the 13 weeks of winter.
As with most folklore, there are 2 other versions to this story. The first one says that the woolly bear caterpillar's coat will indicate the upcoming winter's severity. So, if its coat is very woolly, it will be a cold winter. The final version deals with the woolly bear caterpillar's direction of travel of the worms. It is said that woolly bear's crawling in a southerly direction are trying to escape the cold winter conditions of the north. On the other hand, woolly bear's crawling on a northward path would indicate a mild winter.
The webpage details the likes of communities hosting annual festivals, races, and parades dedicated to, and participaded in by, these furry little rascals. It boggles the mind. Who would have guessed that this adorable little caterpillar would have become such a meteorological wonder, honored everwhere and even involved in sporting events. I wonder if they wear jockey colors for their races? At any rate, I will treat the next one I meet on the road with more respect and dignity whilst flinging it into the roadside weeds. Promise.
