Orny's Cycling Journal

How do I even start to summarize my experience of the 2026 Red Poppy Ride?

Let’s start with the ominous omens. Last month I did my first event ride of the year – the Rosedale Ride – and endured a litany of frustrating mishaps, as explained in that blogpost. The only previous time I’d ridden the Red Poppy Ride was in 2024, when the route was terribly marked, and I suffered a flat tire and limped home gingerly (ride report). I also mused about whether my 113th imperial century would be an ominous number or not. And as I got ready to drive to the start at 6:20am, I spilled half a glass of orange juice all over my computer desk. Hmmm…

Counterbalancing that, I thought I was ready to undertake my first 100-mile ride since a very satisfactory Livestrong Challenge six months ago. I’d done 100k rides on three consecutive weeks, along with steady Friday Truancy group rides and a good night at the Circuit of the Americas F1 track. And knowing that 160 kilometers would be a major increase in distance, I’d been careful to taper my training so that I’d be fresh for that challenge.

That’s the mise-en-scène. But before I describe the ride, a quick diversion…

About 700 riders at the start

A very sprinkly rollout

Three days before the ride, Inna and I bought a new car. As we sat in Jason the financing guy’s office, out of the blue he looked at me and asked, “So how long have you been a cyclist?” Apparently he’d noticed the tan lines on my hands: what Inna calls my “distinctive markings”. That was a surprise, but even more noteworthy was that he would also be doing the Red Poppy Ride that weekend, as his own first 100-mile ride. Small world!

With a field of around 700 riders, I was surprised when Jason found me as I was pulling my bike out of the car before the start. I wished him well, checked in, made double-sure that I hadn’t forgotten anything on my pre-ride checklist, then lined up for the start. Conditions looked perfect for a Texas ride: not too warm at 24°C, not too sunny with a heavy overcast, and a benign 7 km/h south wind… although the weather was predicted to clear and warm up considerably.

The ride begins in Georgetown and takes in some of the same familiar farmland and rural roads northwest of Austin that are covered by the Barrow Volksride (starting in Salado) that I rode back in October; the Rosedale Ride (in Taylor) that I completed in March; and the Stampede on the Chisholm Trail (in Belton) that I hope to do next month. But those are all 60-mile “metric centuries”, whereas Red Poppy is a full 100 miles.

This year’s revised route was an odd one. In 2024 we rode a big outer loop and then a smaller inner loop to round out our century. But this year it was structured as an out-and-back, doing 80 percent of that big outer loop and then turning right around and heading back to the start by covering the exact same roads in the opposite direction. At least this year the organizers provided downloadable GPS routes!

The century route comprised four equal segments: a long drag northeast, turning southwest into the wind to the halfway turnaround, then returning northeast before a long final haul against the wind. So I’ll use those four segments to describe my ride.

The first segment went easily, and I covered 40 km in 2½ hours. The weather repeatedly fluctuated from overcast to misty to a steady sprinkle… Heavy enough that water droplets reacted with my bike computer’s touchscreen, somehow causing the power and distance fields on its display to swap places! I had a funny exchange at the first rest stop, overhearing one rider say he was from Dover, Massachusetts, and the volunteer he was speaking to from Andover, whereupon I offered up my hometown of Gloucester. Ominously, my Garmin offered two foreboding data points: my “Performance Condition” had dropped from +4 to -3, and it estimated I would run out of stamina 20 km before the end of the ride. I had no idea why its estimate of my stamina had fallen so precipitously, but those were just numbers, right?

Welp, the next 40 kilometers were into what was now a 17 km/h headwind, and the sun was starting to burn away the clouds, yielding a warm and very muggy 27°C. I pulled into the turnaround rest stop at 11:15am with 51 km ridden, but I was struggling, as my Garmin reflected with a Performance Condition of -5. Jason pulled in while I was grabbing a much-needed ten-minute rest. Although I was hurting, I was still firmly in the middle of the pack, and I was looking forward to having the wind at my back for the next section.

That did help keep my speed up, although my legs were starting to cramp and could only put out half the power they had at the start of the day. I took a couple micro-rests while recording some video with my selfie drone, then had to take my first impromptu roadside break just as the route turned back into a 24 km/h headwind (gusting to 43 km/h) for the brutal slog home in the oppressive 32° heat.

Those short roadside breaks – plus spending much more time at the rest stops – are a sure signal that I’m on the ropes, and as they became increasingly frequent, I really started to lose time on other riders (and draw attention from the support crew). I reached the final rest stop just as they started packing things up, and I was the last rider to leave, with the event’s “SAG wagon” patiently trailing behind me. Fortunately, I shook the SAG wagon and saved myself the ignominy of being the last rider on course by passing another lost soul a couple kilometers from the finish.

I finally finished at 4:20pm, having taken a dismal 8⅓ hours to cover 163 kilometers. My little friend told me that my Performance Condition was -7.

I can’t put into words how much I suffered and how utterly drained I was. I had already been operating on fumes by the halfway point, and it took me an additional five hours of abject torture to slowly and painfully crawl my way back to the start. The only thing that kept me going was the desire to check off another century ride, which has long been how I’ve judged my fitness. And even after the ride, I had to sit down and take multiple breaks just to muster the strength needed to pack my bike into the car in the empty parking lot.

Am I glad I did it? Well, it certainly was a valuable sanity check on my fitness level, and a stark warning to take these extra-long rides seriously. If you can somehow set aside the immense suffering, it was a pleasant enough day. But the ride really kicked my ass.

And therein lies the salient mystery. Since moving to Austin, I’ve done six hundred-mile rides; four of those went fine, but two were brutal sufferfests (the other being my 2023 Livestrong ride). It sure would be nice if I could figure out what was the determining factor in how painful a ride would be, but I suspect there’s no obvious smoking gun. So as yet, no real insights. Just gotta keep putting myself out there and hope for the best.

In March, when I was in Kuala Lumpur (heheh!) I scoped out a local bookstore’s manga, Buddhism, and cycling sections. In the latter, I discovered the intriguingly-titled “Into the Suffersphere: Cycling and the Art of Pain”. Which I set aside because it was pricey in Malaysian ringits. However, I later requested it from Amazon.

The book covers three predominant topics. The first is professional bike racing and cycling culture. The second—which derives from cycling—is suffering: its manifestation and methods of coping, and the doping that pervades the sport. That gives way to the third topic: the philosophical relationship between man and his suffering, seen through the lens of (of all things) Theravada Buddhism.

You might think “Orny, this is the perfect book for you!” And to some degree you’re right, although I’ve long since become disgusted and given up following the perpetual circus of lying and cheating that calls itself “competitive cycling”. So the book gets a cool review from me in that respect.

Then there’s the theme, or lack thereof. Taken one way, the book is a series of anecdotes and observations related to those three main topics; however, it never supplies the reader with an overall thesis, argument, or conclusion. OTOH, from a less goal-oriented point of view, it’s a wildly eclectic and engaging jaunt through a storehouse of seemingly random and improbable connections and associations.

The only way I can communicate this breadth is by listing out some of the people the author cites and things he refers to. I’ll start with the most pertinent to the topic, and proceed to the more eclectic.

Addressing cycling, the author references the Strava social network whose name is the Swedish word for “striving”, and its infamous Suffer Score metric (which was recently replaced by the completely useless “Relative Effort”, as I mentioned toward the end of my previous blogpost). He mentions Team Sky’s focus on “marginal gains” and Chris Froome’s perpetual glassy-eyed stare at the power data on his bike computer. He mentions Graeme Obree’s singleminded attempts at the hour record, and Jens Voigt’s famous “Shut up legs!” quote. Cycling’s most infamous drug busts, including Operacion Puerto. Tim Krabbe’s semi-autobiographical novel “The Rider”, and a short piece by Alfred Jarry with the stunning title: “The Crucifixion Considered as an Uphill Bicycle Race”. Consideration is given to concepts as contemporary as MAMILs and “The Rules” according to the ludicrously pretentious Velominati.

In terms of Buddhism, the author’s knowledge is broad and detailed, but that’s not surprising given that he is a longtime resident of Chiang Mai, Thailand. He describes the phenomenon of “monkey mind” and the modern preoccupation with mindfulness, from Thich Nhat Hanh to Jon Kabat-Zinn’s completely secular MBSR. He mentions Theravada, dhamma, the Four Divine Messengers, the Middle Way, the Four Noble Truths, the Noble Eightfold Path, Right Effort and Right Concentration, dukkha and sukha, the Wheel of the Dharma, samsara and nirvana, jhana, impermanence, non-attachment, and the Buddha’s final instruction upon his parinirvana to strive diligently.

Moving gradually further afield, he cites several philosophers, ranging from Nietzsche to John Stuart Mill, the Dalai Lama, Malcolm Gladwell, the Roman stoics, Alan Watts, Karl Marx, Albert Camus, Terry Pratchett, and the Black Knight’s “It’s only a scratch” sketch from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Also of interest to me were his geographical references, which included his homeland of Thailand, Malaysia’s Tour de Langkawi race, Cambodia, Phuket, Singapore, and the classic Thai phrases “farang” and “mai ben rai”.

Being an English expat, he must also enjoy his football, because he also references superstar Lionel Messi and makes fun of the soccer world’s most infamous ear-biting racist asshole, Luis Suarez.

In terms of random tidbits that struck a chord with me, he uses “klicks” as shorthand for “kilometers”. Mentions “postural hypotension”: fainting upon getting up too fast. Finds women in yoga pants a distraction from meditation. As a jew, he goes to great lengths to relate how uncommon cycling is amongst his tribe. And he rails a bit against society’s ridicule of anything undertaken by middle-aged men (I’ll have more to say about that soon in a post on my main blog).

As you can see, he covers an awful lot of ground, and much of it does resonate with me. I guess I’d be more enthusiastic about it if I didn’t take pervasive doping in sport as seriously as I do; instead, focusing on something I find so pathetic evokes a sense of depression in me.

Still, it’s an entertaining read and a good enough book overall. For most people, it’d be better to request from a library than purchase outright… but few libraries will stock something this specialized and esoteric.

While there’s a lot more that the author could have said about it, I’m glad to see anything that covers the interface between cycling, suffering, and philosophy (and specifically Buddhism).

Some interesting stuff that shouldn’t wait for the release of my 2011 PMC ride report.

First and most importantly is that the PMC home page features a photo of me putting the hammer down during last weekend’s Pan-Mass Challenge. I was absolutely floored, because in a field of 5,200 riders it’s rare enough to have one’s picture taken, much less selected for inclusion in the post-ride photo montage!

On top of that, there are so many things about that photo that blow me away. It’s actually a good picture of me, wearing this year’s event jersey. And the jersey’s properly zipped up, a pro move that I teased my buddy Noah about a couple weeks ago. It’s a picture of intensity, with a pained grimace on the guy behind me. I’m down in the drops, leading a paceline, both of which are somewhat rare events. I didn’t even think I’d seen any event photographers on the course! If you look carefully, you’ll notice that it’s the biggest photo in the whole collage, and I’m given more prominent placement and a larger picture than Lance Armstrong and Senator John Kerry! And damn if I don’t have nice legs, too!

So yeah, when my buddy Dave Long pointed that out, I pretty much flipped my shit. Huge moment of pride, excitement, and amusement. Hopefully I’ll be able to obtain the original.

Next items are a couple of new purchases.

The first is a replacement rim for my rear wheel. Two days before the PMC, I found cracks in the rim of the Ksyrium SL that I run. So at the last second, I went to Back Bay Bikes and one of the mechanics let me borrow one of his (personal) wheels to ride the PMC with. I guess that deserves a paragraph in and of itself.

But a few days ago I got my rebuilt Ksyrium back. You might remember that I had a warranty replacement of that wheel two years ago. While they would have done a second replacement, the wheel was two months out of warranty, so I had to foot the bill to repair it. But now she’s back and hopefully will last. I wish I knew why I’m so tough on rear wheels, tho; I’ve destroyed two Ultegra and two Ksyrium SL rear wheels.

I also received the new Shimano cycling sandals I’d ordered. I’ve used two identical pairs of sandals since I started riding back in 2000, and I wore them into the ground because they don’t make that model anymore. However, one of them literally fell apart after this year’s Climb to the Clouds, so I ordered a pair of Shimano’s current model: SH-SD66.

Any time you change anything related to the contact points between you and the bike—hands, shoes, or seat—you risk screwing things up. I’ve only taken a couple rides, but so far they feel good. The most noticeable change is that the soles are stiffer, which is good, since I could feel exactly where the cleat was on my old sandals. Of course, it remains to be seen whether that stiffness is permanent or just a factor of the shoes being new, but I’m hopeful enough to retire the old ones and order a second pair to keep in rotation.

Final item is an interesting article about what it takes to be a pro cyclist, and how integral suffering is to cycling, whether one be a pro or just a neighborhood speedster. You might be interested in the whole article, but here are a couple choice citations that resonated with me:

Everything about cycling is contained in that gesture, including its reigning truism: to race bicycles is to drink greedily from a bottomless chalice of agony. The sport and its heroes are only knowable, and then just barely, once you come to understand that suffering is cycling’s currency. And what that currency buys is the occasional—the very, very occasional—moment of exquisite glory.

The first thing you notice about professional cyclists is that, with few exceptions, they appear to live their internal lives in a heavily padlocked tomb of mental anguish. They are at once astonishingly young and improbably ancient, a result of the fact that they are paid for their agony. They are modern-day ascetics, working in the open-air monastery of the mountains of Europe, with helmets as tonsures, spandex as robes.

There is thus a detachment in their manner that suggests the real world—our world—exists to them only as storybook legend, trapped as they are in another realm, with no corollaries, no points of contact, no common ground. They experience their lives through the tiny aperture of cycling; the aperture is so small because the light is so fierce. They have felt and done things on the farthest shore of the possible.

The reward for being the best isn’t that one takes *less* pain; rather that one is able to absorb *more*. The nature of this process is revealed at the precise instant that we come to know ourselves completely: we learn how far we can push ourselves, and the true mettle of our character. But that knowledge isn’t properly intelligible, nor is it transferable. To mangle Laurie Anderson’s aphorism, writing about cycling’s meta-state is like dancing about architecture. It is a private knowledge, forged in pain’s stables, and belongs to men who are not served by articulating it.

There’s no outward sign that [the cyclist] is one of the best athletes on earth. If you came across him shopping for a Billy bookcase at IKEA, you’d assume he had just returned from an island survival challenge, which he lost. Badly.

Of course, it’s also on the bike that thoughts like this often come along:

Seeing an object in a backyard with a rounded cover: Is that a baby carriage, or is it a barbecue grill? Wait! Why can’t it be both? A combination baby carriage and barbecue grill! Why hasn’t anyone ever thought of that? Brilliant!