Back in September, I closed out one of my posts by saying that

These days, the descriptor “epic” gets thrown around pretty casually, but “epic” is a very fitting word for the ride that demands everything a cyclist has got.

EPIC Insurance Solutions

Six weeks later, cycling newscasters GCN got in on the act by releasing a video entitled “How To Make Every Ride EPIC”. Their clip begins by also observing that “‘Epic’ is one of the most overused words in cycling.”

That got me curious about my own use of the term. After all, I’ve been sharing my cycling exploits for fifteen years and written 375 blogposts. And we all know I’m a devilishly wordy sonofabitch.

So here’s a quick summary of my use of the term EPIC:

For my first seven years of writing (2003-2009), I never used the term at all. Yay!

Its first appearance was in a 2010 description of my first 130-mile Outriders ride from Boston around Cape Cod to Provincetown. Using “epic” for such a noteworthy ride seems reasonable to me.

In 2011 my friend Jay and I drove up to Vermont and rode big ol’ Jay Peak in the rain. At that time, it was the most climbing I’d ever done in a single ride. I called it “an epic excursion” and “an epic trip”, which are reasonably accurate.

In 2012 I rode my first Mt. Washington century with my boyz. It was a challenging ride and an amazing trip, and I’d say it was worthy of being called “epic”; tho it might not have justified the four times that I used it!

In 2013, the Tour d’Essex County was “an epic struggle”, and Outriders was “an epictacular ride”. That was probably my most egregious use of the word. Epictacular???

That was four years ago now, and “epic” hasn’t appeared since. Yay!

But just because I haven’t overused the word “epic” doesn’t mean I’m not guilty of a little self-indulgent hyperbole. Probably my biggest sin (as a cycling writer) is describing things as “brutal”, usually with respect to hills or the heat.

On that account:

I used “brutal” twice in 2003-2004, then went six years without. Yay!

But something changed in 2011. In the six years since then, “brutal” appears no less than 27 times in my blog, peaking in 2013 when I used it nine times. The weather was particularly hot that year, specifically during my Tour d’Essex County, Mt. Washington Century, and Fourth of July weekend rides.

On the other hand, without words like “epic” and “brutal”, it would be impossible to relate the emotions, intensity, and suffering that we cyclists experience. Riding a bike is not a purely intellectual experience, so my descriptions must use language that is both vivid and visceral.

Plus, dramatic adjectives make for much better reading than the flat monotone of unadorned facts.

To the uninitiated, endurance cycling would seem exclusively about the legs. Looking at a rider, there isn’t anything else going on other than propelling the bike forward, mile after mile.

But the reality—and one of the things that draws me to it—is that long-distance cycling involves nearly every part of the body, and stresses many bodily systems to their maximum capacity.

Imagine bringing your heart rate up to 80 or 90 percent of your max and holding it there—not just for a few minutes, but for seven or eight hours. Imagine the load on your circulatory system of 50,000 extra heartbeats. Think about the demand that big muscles, hungry for oxygen, place on your lungs and respiratory system.

Cyclists' legs

Working muscles also need fuel in the form of glycogen. A cyclist quickly depletes what’s stored in the muscle tissue, then burns through the larger reserves stockpiled in the liver. After that, it’s up to the digestive system to make the carbohydrates you ingest available to your muscles as quickly as possible. And do it without making much demand on the circulatory system, which is already overtaxed.

Meanwhile, your body is trying to cool itself through perspiration, losing precious fluid and electrolytes. Here again, you dehydrate quickly, then rely on the digestive system to rapidly replace what your body loses through sweat. While sweating, the skin is also protecting you from wind, dirt, insects, gravel, and solar radiation.

While your legs are pumping to propel you forward, the rest of your muscles are working, too. Arm muscles are used to maintain your grip on the handlebars, and to pull against the bars while climbing. Your back, neck, and core muscle groups constantly adjust to maintain your balance as well as an unnatural and somewhat uncomfortable aerodynamic position. When I finish a long ride, my traps are usually in far more pain than my legs.

All your weight rests on your hands, feet, and butt, and these contact points are sometimes worked raw. And your hands are constantly working: shifting gears, braking, manipulating the bike computer, delivering food and fluid, signaling your intentions, and more. Your eyes and ears are equally busy, watching for threats, maintaining balance, and helping you navigate.

All of this input data is fed up to the brain, where it’s all coordinated: maintaining your balance, making decisions, assessing your effort level, calculating angles on descents, figuring out how to react to the immediate conditions, and at a higher level how to navigate from Point A to Point B. And it’s doing that while impeded by a very limited amount of fuel, since it relies exclusively on glycogen to function, which your muscles burn through at a prodigious rate.

I’m always taken by surprise when non-cyclists ask what I think about all day on one of my long rides. What to think about? There’s precious little time or energy or attention to spare for contemplation. In fact, on a lengthy ride, too much thinking is probably a sign that something has already gone wrong!

Even when the ride is done, your body continues working hard, repairing itself, recovering, replenishing, and building stronger muscles in response to the training load.

… Looking back at what I’ve written, even enumerating the bodily systems that cycling calls on still fails to communicate the raw intensity of those demands.

I often simply collapse on the bed for an hour or two at the end of a real hard ride; there’s precious little left over that you would call human. And ironically, that very emptying out provides a transcendent experience for the rider. A challenging ride is the crucible wherein we surpass normal human limits, and breathe the same rarified air as the greatest athletes among us.

These days, the descriptor “epic” gets thrown around pretty casually, but “epic” is a very fitting word for the ride that demands everything a cyclist has got. Every cyclist’s palmares is speckled with rides that truly are that monumental: destined to become oft-recalled personal legends. Such epic rides transform the cyclist, no matter how mundane, into an heroic figure, for having the simple audacity to test not just the strength of his legs, but all the diverse limits of his bodily endurance.

Bobby Mac

Mar. 24th, 2014 04:43 pm
Sometimes things that are pertinent to cycling overlap with the rest of life, in which case they might appear in my other, primary blog.

Such is the case with my notes on the passing of my cycling mentor, Bobby Mac.

This year’s blazing hot Tour d’Essex County (TdEC) century was tremendously difficult, and Noah and I were the only two people out of 75 starters who completed the ride.

Last year, I had to rely on the Commuter Rail to get to the start in Manchester, and since the first train didn’t arrive until an hour after the ride departed, I had to ride the entire route solo. This year I convinced my car-owning buddy Noah to come, which ensured that I’d at least be able to start with the rest of the group.

However, as Memorial Day weekend approached, we both had second thoughts. The weather was going to feature a cold, wind-driven rain and temperatures that barely reached 50 degrees. Thankfully, the organizers chose to postpone the ride by a week.

Aside: we hoped to ride a make-up solo century on Memorial Day itself, but I had to cancel that when I discovered my water heater had started leaking that morning.

While the original date had been cold and rainy, the make-up date (the following Saturday) had the opposite problem: blazing sun and temperatures well into the 90s. Nontheless, Noah drove up at 6am and we loaded my bike into his car. In the process, we got black chain grease all over my new bike’s (almost) pristine white bar tape (sigh). Then we headed up to Manchester for the start.

After arriving early, we set off with the rest of the riders, but the group thinned out very quickly. In fact, after riding 18 miles, we never saw another rider on the course. The first half of the ride is really scenic, and we set our own pace. Despite the fact that the roads weren’t marked, we only got off-course once in Middleton, which we realized very quickly when the road surface turned to gravel. As the temperature climbed through the 80s, we stopped at the West Village Provisions in Boxford before continuing on.

Fifty miles in, we reached the first rest stop: a bike shop in Newburyport. At this point, the route diverged from the one I’d ridden in 2012. From the bike shop, this year’s ride would do a 25-mile loop up one side of the Merrimack River and down the other, returning to the shop for another rest at mile 75 before returning to Manchester.

At this point, the temperature had exeeded 90 degrees, and we had emerged from the woods and begun traversing roads which were more exposed to direct sunlight. All the other riders, most of which were from the Essex County Velo cycling team, decided that the heat was too much, and they were going to skip the river loop and go straight home. Pussies, all of them. Noah and I were the only people who wanted to do a complete century, so I downed a package of crackers and some berries and we (perhaps stupidly) headed off toward the river.

The Merrimack loop was pretty scenic, but brutally challenging for me due to the heat and a surprise bout of exhaustion. While we’d averaged 17.5 mph over the first 50 miles, my speed dropped to 14.5 on this segment, and my average heart rate climbed up to 86 percent of my max. I’d lost all power, and that was reflected by the fact that I needed to stop and rest three times over that 25 mile stretch. Fortunately, one of those stops was right next to a stream emptying into the river, so I walked in and at least cooled my feet off!

When we finally got back to the shop, I was seriously overheating and just sat in the shop for about 15 minutes. Having assumed that all the riders had gone straight home, the shop had put away all the supplies for the ride, so the only thing they could offer us was room-temperature water. We took it gladly and reluctantly climbed back on our bikes for the final 25 mile trek home.

Half of that leg follows Route 1A, which is a busy main road with absolutely no cover. It was another brutal segment, and I found myself having to stop every couple miles just to bring my heart rate down. It was an epic struggle to make any meaningful progress. At this point, Noah decided to go on ahead of me, subsequently getting lost and finding his own route back to the shop. He did break 100 miles, but that left me as the only rider who was going to finish the ride according to the published route. Hopefully…

Several miles later, having drank the lukewarm water and poured an equal amount of it over my head, I needed to refill my bottle. As I crossed the Ipswitch town line, I spied a restaurant—The American Barbecue— and figured they might not turn away a dying cyclist. I went in and spied Nirvana: one of those soda machines where customers walk up and dispense their own drinks… and ice! SCORE!

I jammed my bottle full of ice and filled it with lemonade, then pulled up a bar stool and drained it. I also sucked down a disgusting apple-cinnamon energy gel. It was the first time I’d ever had an energy gel, so this was either a really great thing or an absolutely stupid idea, but things couldn’t really get any worse, could they? Knowing that whatever liquid was in my bottle would wind up being poured over my head, I refilled with ice water and headed back out onto the road.

Just one-point-seven miles later I rode past an ice cream stand. Well, when I say “rode past”, I actually mean “rode straight into”. There really was no conscious contemplation about whether I was going to stop or not; it just happened all by itself. It didn’t matter that I’d just rested, or that I’d just downed a quart of lemonade, or that I’d just swallowed that pukey gel; ice cream was cold, and if my delirium allowed me any thought it was that cold equalled good. So on top of all that crap already in my stomach, I threw in a big pile of chocolate chip.

This was either going to save me, or I would be leaving a huge smear of technicolor barf in the breakdown lane of Route 1A.

Much to my surprise, once I got back on the road I managed. I can’t say I felt much better, but instead of having to stop and rest every 2 miles, I managed to go 5 or 6 miles between stops. It remained a slog, but I managed to maintain a 13.4 mph average speed and eventually crawled into the finish in Manchester. Again, because they didn’t think anyone would actually do the whole century, they had already shut down the post-ride cookout. But it didn’t matter; I was happy to just grab a Coke and some ice.

Even though every other rider DNF’ed, and despite how ridiculously difficult it had been, I alone had kicked it! I was damned proud of my accomplishment, even though I averaged only 15.5 mph and took 8 hours 14 to do it. It was my second century of the year, and probably good hot-weather training, which I will need to get me through this year’s upcoming Mt. Washington century and Pan-Mass Challenge.

But even sooner than that, I will need that reservoir of strength to complete the grueling 130-mile Outriders ride—always the longest ride of the year—which is now a mere week away.

The TdEC ride was last Saturday, and on Tuesday I had my first full postride massage appointment. He did a lot of therapeutic work, which left me pretty sore the next morning, but I tested his work with a hilly 50-mile ride. I have to say, scenic Glezen Lane in Sudbury has to be one of my absolute favorite roads in Massachusetts.

Then I came home in time for my annual expedition to the Scooper Bowl, where I demolished 34 cups of ice cream, in the interest of charity, of course!

This weekend’s a family visit, so no riding, which should give my legs a little time to recover and prep for next weekend’s big ride to Provincetown. Here’s hoping the weather cooperates!

Prelude

Epic rides deserve epic ride reports, so here’s the tale of the 2012 Mt. Washington Century…

The story begins with last July’s Climb to the Clouds ride. For at least the past three years, my Pan-Mass Challenge training culminated with that century ride up Mt. Wachusett a couple weeks before the PMC. But that ride isn’t well run, and last year my buddies and I reached the breaking point (ride report). As we sat around recovering from a brutal ride, all four of us concluded that we never wanted to do that ride again.

So this year I proposed a different ride that occupies the same spot in the New England cycling calendar: the Mt. Washington Century. It took very little convincing that a different ride would be more fun than yet another disappointing Climb to the Clouds.

The bonus is that this isn’t just another ride; it is an epic 108-mile ride over three named passes in the White Mountains. The route accumulates more than a mile of vertical by traversing the well-known Kancamagus Highway, Bear Notch, Crawford Notch, and Pinkham Notch. Billed as “New England’s most challenging century”, it circumnavigates most of the Presidential Range, including Mt. Adams and, of course, Mt. Washington, which is the highest peak in the northeastern US.

Preparation

In anticipation of the most difficult route I’d ever attempted, I spent a couple weeks doing hill repeats on the biggest hills in the area. On July 3rd I did four ascents of Great Blue Hill… and, of course, four high-speed descents, which I would also need to be ready to tackle. And on July 8th I did six trips up Eastern Ave to Arlington’s water tower… again with six screaming descents down the Route 2 on-ramp. While I wasn’t sure I was ready for 108 miles of mountains—especially after my self-destruction on my attempted Harvard century two weeks earlier (ride report)—I figured I was as ready as I was ever going to be.

I also wanted the Plastic Bullet to be ready, and it needed help. After a recent cleaning, my shifting had started skipping around. It had been more than a year since my last tune-up, so on Tuesday I brought it in and had them true the wheels and replace the chain and cassette. Seemed like a wise idea, right? Let the shop make sure everything was in good order for the big ride.

On Wednesday I biked to work, and the shifting was just as bad, if not worse. It was bad enough that after work I rode directly to the shop and asked them to fix it up properly. But as soon as the tech touched it, the shifter cable snapped at the shift lever: a problem that has happened to me two or three times in the past. When it happens, your shifter locks into the hardest gear and there’s nothing you can do about it. In short, had that happened during the Mt. Washington ride, I would have been absolutely screwed. I had really lucked out.

Getting There

The day before the ride, I left work at 4pm and met my buddy Noah drove me from my place out to Jay’s in Waltham. Rather than try to fight Friday rush hour traffic, we followed the first of several insightful suggestions I offered: get Thai from the restaurant around the corner. Everyone loved that idea… even me, who’d already eaten Thai for lunch for two days in a row. Hey, I figured it was good veggies and carbs! So that was my first good call.

Hanging at Jay’s, the sandbagging began. It was clear that each of us had some level of anxiety about the ride. Paul hadn’t ridden in a while. Noah hadn’t ridden much all year. Jay was surprised to learn that the ride’s site had lied about how much climbing was involved, proclaiming 4800 feet of vertical instead of a more realistic 6000'.

We also took a moment to acknowledge that this would be our last major ride together as a group, with Jay moving to Florida next month. We’ve had a great run together, and I think everyone’s sad to see it pass. On the other hand, doing the White Mountains would be a fitting and memorable way to go out!

The 3-hour ride up was pretty uneventful, and we arrived at the hotel Jay had booked at 10:30pm. That’s when the fun began: the woman at reception couldn’t find our reservation. Jay whipped out his laptop, but all he could come up with was some followup spam that Marriott had sent him. Apparently their central booking agent had added him to their spam list, but never bothered to make our reservation! Thankfully, by the time all was said and done, the local manager gave us a two-bedroom for a ridiculously low price; another crisis averted!

Departure & the Kanc

After grabbing some stuff from the hotel breakfast, we hit the road to the start: the Tin Mountain Conservation Center just outside Conway. We were already running later than Noah or I wanted, since it promised to be a very hot day. We signed in, got all our stuff together, and finally rolled out at 7:30am. The first mile featured a screaming descent which we all knew would be a kick in the teeth on the way back.

Within a mile, we turned left onto the Kancamagus Highway, arguably the most famous road in New Hampshire. It was a bright, beautiful morning. The road was smooth and steady. The mountains towered above us, the evergreens covering the hillsides offered fragrant shade, and the granite boulder-strewn bed of the Swift River ran along the road, keeping us company as we climbed toward its source.

My buddies stopped to stretch for a while, but I was eager to keep moving, so I went on ahead alone. The Kanc climbs gradually but steadily, but I kept a comfortable pace, knowing that I’d need lots of strength in reserve for the peaks that lay ahead. Still, I kept my buddies at bay until shortly after making the left turn onto Bear Notch Road. The Kanc had ascended about 800 feet in 12 miles.

Bear Notch

Ornoth climbing Bear Notch

On the course’s elevation profile, Bear Notch looked like the easiest of the three ascents, with more gradual, easy climbing. And that’s pretty much how it turned out. It never seemed to get steep for any sustained period of time, and I climbed alongside my buddies, who had finally caught me. It was cool that three of us were together when we passed the event photographer, who captured us.

The climbing we’d done on the Kanc (800 feet over 12 miles) had put us more than halfway to the top, so the actual climbing on Bear Notch Road really only amounted to another 600 feet over 4 miles.

Then, without really expecting it, we were over the top and coasting at 35 mph down a winding, wooded road. Thankfully, the road surface was beautiful, and we zoomed down almost without touching our brakes, admiring the mountain and valley vistas that opened up on our left.

After a long descent (over 1000 feet in 5 miles)—but still too soon—we were dumped into a little village called Bartlett, where the first rest stop sat in a public common. We all had big grins on our faces as we recounted our experiences to one another. So far it had been a wonderful day, and the temps were still in the low 70s.

Crawford Notch

We rolled out and turned left onto Route 302, a somewhat busier road. Paul and Noah caught and passed me, but Jay hung with me as we fought an unexpected northwest headwind—the only time that happened all day.

Again, the ascent was long and gradual but very manageable (550 feet over 12 miles). As we got close to Mt. Jackson, we stopped for a photo opp at the Willey House pond, close to the source of one of my favorite rivers (the Saco).

We caught a slower paceline just as the road started kicking up at the summit. Jay and I debated passing them, but that soon sorted itself out, as some of them distanced us while others went backwards. The last two miles or so was a real struggle, gaining another 550 feet, but that made it all the sweeter when Jay and I crested Crawford Notch together, yelling weightlifter Ronnie Coleman quotes at each other (“Yeah buddy!”, “Whoooo!”, “Lightweight baby!”, and the ever-popular and slightly-modified “Everybody wanna be a cyclist; nobody wanna climb these big-ass hills… I’ll do it tho!”). It felt like a victory worthy of celebration, and thus it was nice to share that moment with Jay.

The problem with Crawford was that there wasn’t any real descent afterward. The road leveled out and angled down just a hair, but not enough to really make a big difference. The road was also barren, having emerged from the woods, and the temperatures were into the mid-80s.

Fortunately, the second water stop materialized in a convenience store parking lot. Surprisingly, the organizers had run out of sports drink, and we had to go buy our own from the convenience store. That was the organizers’ one obvious shortfall: we shouldn’t have to pay for Gatorade out of our pocket on a ride we’d paid to do!

Going Round the Mountain

Jay and I left Crawford and continued north on 302. I pulled him for a few miles as we turned east by cutting across Route 115 to Route 2. Here there was a mix of rolling climbs and a few long descents, but nothing like that off Bear Notch. Jay pulled away but Paul caught up and rode with me for a while before he too moved on.

Then, shortly before we reached Gorham, I rounded a corner to find myself facing an immense wall known as Randolph Hill. In the distance, the road looked like it took off like a jetliner, soaring into the sky (in reality it climbed 200 feet in less than a mile). By this point, temps had climbed to 90 degrees, and there was little if any shade along the route. I poured the last of my Gatorade over my head and plodded up the brutally steep climb.

Fortunately, the third water stop was at the top of the hill, where I collapsed in the heat. Thankfully, the organizers had cold drinks on ice in coolers, and I shoveled ice into my water bottle for the next segment. I also had a couple sips of Coke, which certainly went down nicely.

It was at this point that my stomach started doing flip-flops. At the rest stops, I felt bloated and queasy, full of too much liquid, which I’d been pouring down my throat; but on the bike, I felt pretty good for the most part. This would continue for the rest of the day.

Mount Washington and Pinkham Notch

Jay and Paul left the rest stop shortly after Noah showed up. Noah was pretty cooked, but I rested for a few more minutes and we left the stop together. The good news is that the road continued to descend (650 feet in 4 miles) after the rest stop, and Noah and I rode together through Gorham, where we finally turned south onto Route 16 for the climb up to the base of Mt. Washington.

Route 16 was a really long, steady climb, but a bit steeper than the easy slopes we’d taken to approach the other notches. It was grueling, but I found it manageable, so long as I kept pouring water on myself. On the other hand, Noah was still struggling and fell behind quickly, although he stayed within sight of me much of the way up.

Eventually I pulled into the gravel parking lot at the base of the infamous Mt. Washington Auto Road. Again, no shade was to be found, but with the temp peaking at 95 degrees, I loaded up on ice and headed out with Jay and Paul, who quickly gapped me as the climbing continued for another 4 miles to the top of Pinkham Notch. Overall, that climb had ascended 1200 feet over 11 miles.

Then came the final payoff: a 15-mile, 1500-foot descent down from Pinkham Notch, into the woods and down to Jackson. My legs were so beat that I didn’t push the descent, but just rolled with it. Just as I was thinking I could go wade in a mountain stream, Noah caught up with me and left me behind, so I plodded on.

I eventually reached the town of Glen, where 16 rejoins 302 and again becomes a major thoroughfare. As I looked left, I saw a moderately-sized hill that just wasn’t going to happen. So I pulled into a Dairy Queen parking lot and rested for a few minutes before finishing the final two miles to the last rest stop. That was the only unscheduled stop I made during the ride; I hadn’t gotten off on any of the hills, but I needed to gather my strength before attacking that one just before the rest stop.

The Final Countdown

The last rest stop was a grassy lawn—essentially someone’s yard. I laid on my back and just gasped due to the heat. It was only 13 miles to the finish, so I would certainly finish it, but I needed another good rest first. I downed half a can of Coke, filled up with ice, and poured ice water over my head before following my buddies, who had left five minutes earlier in hopes of finishing within eight hours.

Again, once I was back on the bike things settled into place, and I made okay time. I wasn’t strong, but made steady progress. With all the climbing behind me, it was just a question of closing it out, and surviving that final mile.

The final segment—West Side Road—was a long but nice ride, although it felt like I was still climbing a false flat. Finally I came back out onto Route 16, and half a mile later passed the point where we’d turned onto the Kancamagus. I marshaled my strength and made the turn onto Bald Hill Road that led up a punishing ascent up to the finish at Tin Mountain (officially it gains 300 feet in 1 mile). It was as steep and difficult as anything we’d done, but I finally drifted into their driveway and hung gasping over the bars for a minute before signing in and meeting up with the guys.

Final tally: 108 miles in 8:15, with 5800 feet of climbing and an average speed of 16 mph. For the mappy junkies, here’s a link to the GPS log.

The After-Party

I tried to eat a bit as we sat outside the Tin Mountain cabin, but really only managed to down a couple chocolate milks. It was still too hot to let our core body temperatures drop, and we all were feeling the effects. But this is where my second grand pre-planning idea paid off in a huge way.

I knew it was going to be hot. I knew we were going to be near lakes and streams. I knew we were going to be four stinky, grimy, sweaty guys stuck in a car for three hours. So one of my pre-ride emails suggested that everyone bring swim trunks, and they had. We briefly discussed where to go, then went back to the truck and exchanged our sweaty kit for trunks and drove to the nearest possible water: the Swift River we’d ridden by on the Kancamagus at the start of the ride.

We quickly found a swimming hole others were using, pulled off the road, and picked our way down to the torrent. As I said earlier, the whole area was just a pile of granite boulders: the smallest being the side of a dog; the largest being as big as a tractor trailer. The water was absolutely blissful: cold yes, but not blisteringly frigid. We dunked in the deeper parts, then sat in the middle of the rapids and let the cold water flow over us. Jay clambered around and found a way to swim underneath a huge monolith in the middle of the river. Everyone agreed it was the perfect way to relax and cool off.

At this point, I saved the day again. Jay jumped into the water and lost his sunglasses in the torrent, but I was able to spot them, so that was gratifying. Less gratifying was learning that Noah had stolen a towel from the hotel, when we had earnestly promised them we wouldn’t incur any incidentals. That was the one sour note of the trip.

The road home included a stop at a donut shop that featured (for me) more chocolate milk and a blissful rest in a big overstuffed armchair. Then we hit the Wolfetrap, a restaurant in Wolfeboro, Paul’s home town, so that was kinda cool, and my huge burger and cornbread were precisely what the chirurgeon prescribed. That was also where I saved the day yet again, pointing out to Paul that—despite his claiming otherwise—he really was about to leave his credit card behind with the check.

We got that straightened out and hoofed it back to Boston, where I was anxious to begin my next task: recovery! It was still Saturday night, and I had all day Sunday to shower, relax, fuel up, and rehydrate.

Das Ende

I really enjoyed the Mt. Washington Century. I think it lived up to its billing as a very challenging ride, but it was also just an awesome day all around. The scenery—the rivers, the mountains, the woods—was just breathtaking. The climbs were long and steady which made them very manageable but they still packed some challenging sections, and the descents were long and smooth. Sure, with a newer bike I could have pushed the top speed on the descents, but it was just as nice to let gravity do all the work.

The Plastic Bullet once again did its job admirably for an old bike with more than 20,000 miles on it. After the cable was swapped out, I literally didn’t once think about the shifting problems I’d had earlier that week.

This was my third complete century of the year, which puts me about on pace with my previous two years, and it certainly puts me in good shape for the PMC, which is only two weeks away (as of this posting). I’d love to do this ride again, but I’m not sure whether that will happen, with Jay moving away and the group likely to fragment.

Which brings me back to the idea that this was the last major organized ride for Jay, Paul, Noah, and I. From the ride to the post-ride swim in the Swift River, this was a perfect day and a fitting way to honor our friendship and our mutual encouragement. It was epic.

And I’m so glad I was able to convince them to go for Mt. Washington instead of the Climb to the Clouds. After last year’s CttC, we were too exhausted, overheated, and demoralized to even stay for a post-ride swim in nearby Walden Pond. The contrast between that and this year’s relaxing dip in a wild mountain stream just underscores what a truly awesome time we had on the Mt. Washington Century, making memories that we’ll take with us for years and years to come.

Chapeau, boys!

There are heroes, and then there are superheroes.

I first started riding with the folks at Quad Cycles in 2002, seven years ago. Even back then, the ebullient guy who led the rides was already a living legend. The name Bobby Mac will evoke a smile from anyone who has ever ridden in the exceedingly popular triangle formed by the towns of Arlington, Lexington, Bedford, Concord, and Carlisle.

Bobby Mac

Although Bobby’s rides can be whatever you make of them, they’re primarily oriented toward charity riders, and Bobby does an amazing job encouraging novices. He passes on his cycling wisdom by routinely barking out phrases such as “Ride with love in your hearts and smiles on your faces,” or “Be nice to everybody you meet out there”, as well as gems like “If you’re gonna fall, do not fall on me!”.

He is a charismatic leader who never speaks ill of anyone, and his demeanor is always oriented toward fun. Despite riding the exact same route hundreds and hundreds of times over the years, he still finds the enthusiasm to sing a modified version of a 1987 Was (Not Was) song in tribute to his favorite hill, “The Dinosaur”, so named because of a sculpture at the mini-golf course at its summit. Bobby has also named the statue “Sarah”, because he’s Bobby: he can do that.

Bobby barks a lot, but it’s all out of love for the sport and his fellow man. While he casually tosses out aphorisms like “Indifference to the plight of others is a sin”, he backs that up with action, participating in rides that benefit causes from AIDS research to cyctic fibrosis. He even helped organize the Massachusetts Red Ribbon Ride, which carried on the tradition of the former AIDS Rides after Pallotta Teamworks’ criminal mismanagement came to light. Several magazines and newspapers have run features on him and his work.

As you might imagine, Bobby’s an amazingly strong rider, too. But to hear him tell it, it wasn’t always like that. He came to biking when he was over 300 pounds and unable to make it more than a couple miles without collapsing from the effort. Biking helped him lose weight and recover his overall fitness, which he maintains despite his off-season job as a chef for one of MIT’s fraternities. It only adds to his mystique that although he works with food, no one has ever seen him ingest anything but Cytomax.

Bobby Mac

Bobby’s been our leader for so long that it’s difficult to think there could ever be a day when he won’t be there at the head of our pack. But as much as none of us want to face it, that day is inevitably coming. Bobby has macular degeneration, which causes a loss of vision in the center of the field of vision while leaving most of one’s peripheral vision unaffected. As you might imagine, this isn’t good for a cyclist, especially considering Boston’s monstrous roads and notorious drivers. It’s something Bobby has worked around, but who knows how long that will suffice?

In addition, last week Bobby celebrated his 60th birthday. While 60 is hardly ancient, and it’s not difficult to find 70 and even 80 year old riders, it again raises that question in one’s mind of how much longer Bobby will be able to ride.

On June 17 2006, we held an emotional ride in appreciation of Bobby’s tutelage, and called it the Tour de Mac. Last weekend we held another celebratory ride to observe Bobby’s 60th as well as the grand reopening of Quad Cycles, which has moved into new digs about a half mile closer to town. Although the early April morning was cold and the forecast promised rain, the sun came out and provided a fittingly beautiful day for an early season ride with good friends, and perhaps fifty people turned out, including former US Professional Road Race Champion Mark McCormack.

Bobby Mac deserves recognition for the inestimable amount he has done for cycling in the region. He inspires everyone he comes into contact with and is the undisputed and irreplaceable center of our cycling community. He’s nurtured hundreds of new cyclists, and mentored nearly as many charity riders, and done so with gentleness and flair. Like scores of others, I’ve grown as both a cyclist and as a person in the past eight years as a result of my contact with Bobby Mac and the community he created. He is truly one of the greatest heroes I’ve had the pleasure to meet, and I’m thankful for every day I am able to ride with such an inspiring examplar.

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