The Home Stretch

Rode 53 miles today, in company of neighbor Robb. The weather radio said fog, to burn off around 9 -- but when we left around 7:15 the sky was blue, and temps in the low 70s. We did the first part of the Centurion route, Airport Road out to Enchanted Valley; Robb pointed out an orange and black sign said to expect delays. "Great," I thought, "road work now." Then I realized the delays were because of the upcoming Centurion. The Airport hills were manageable, and my inner competitor was glad to be in and stay in the lead. The final Airport downhill, to the mouth of Enchanted Valley, was glorious -- I reached 40 mph. I found myself pleasantly surprised at the ride through the EV, the climbs were easier since I knew what to expect, still purty country, an occasional car, and some cyclists, no doubt also checking out the route.

The ride into Cross Plains was uneventful, but almost not: at one point a white car whizzed past me -- I had seen it in the mirror, so was prepared. What I didn't know, and couldn't really expect, was that another white car was tailgating it, neither visible nor audible -- so when the first car went by, I began to move back into the roadway from the shoulder; no encounter, but I felt the breeze and my heart jumped.

After Cross Plains we found Garfoot Road, another one of those beautiful, hidden away, two-lanes. The road began innocuously, moderate climbs, long flats, past farms and homes, fields and forests. I threw my chain on one hill, nearly dumped as I struggled to get my foot unclipped while momentum dropped to zero. But it fixed easily and we went on. Toward the road's end it began to climb, then dipped then turned ominous. I got concerned when a cyclist flew past us going the other way, with obvious downhill momentum and a dumb look of ecstasy on his face. Around and around curves we went, ever upward, and me in lowest gear. I reached a point, within site of the top, when I simply could not keep up any speed, and stopped. Robb joined me, and we walked the final hundred yards or so to the top. Not my proudest moment. I sucked down a tube of Gu, and we remounted, and finished the road, taking Mineral Point Road down -- and I mean down -- to its intersection with Hiway 78, then up a long haul into Mt. Horeb (I had ridden this Hiway 78 stretch before); the hill was long, and offered one of those gut-check moments: I told myself I knew I could climb it, because I had done it before, and I resented myself for sound condescending. Man it was long, and the Garfoot debacle had sapped a bit of my confidence. I resolved, though, to do it, and did it, shifting up and down from granny, to keep the lower gear option alive. I got a bit of a boost as a chunky terrier-type dog charged out at me. I kept riding, and gestured downhill, toward Robb; I couldn't help but think of the old saying, "if you're being chased by a lion, you needn't be faster than the lion, simply faster then the next person." I crested the hill and waited for Robb, who asked me if I'd had to deal with the three dogs. I was startled by the sudden increase in number, but figured he had perhaps multiplied them for effect or in wild imaginings. In any event, I said no, I had left them for him.

We stopped at a bakery in Mt. Horeb, emptied bladders and got water, and split a scone. Robb said he wanted no more hills, and I gladly complied, so we took the bike trail back into Madison. To my surprise, since this was fairly unchallenging, Robb began to fade; my legs were still strong, though the idea of more hills had no appeal to me. When I got too far ahead I stopped and waited for him to catch up; that sort of rendevous is always awkward, since in cycling the strong get stronger --the one who's not worn down gets rested (and stronger) as he waits. But there's not much else to do, not much of value to say. Which I say as a veteran of being the worn-down recipient of well-intentioned words.

At one point a ranger stopped us to check for trail passes; I smugly showed mine, knowing, from earlier conversation, that Robb had opted to "chance it." I tried to commisserate as he paid his $5 fine.

By the time we reached Verona he wanted to stop and stretch, and I got him to take my last tube of Gu, which seemed to revive him some. And so we went -- I was glad he knew the twists and turns and options of the bike trails, because he showed me how to get almost home without going out onto those hot city streets -- temps were probably around 80. And so home, Robb wishing me luck "on a hundred miles of those hills."

And so here I sit, still uncertain. One good thing, I had lowered my seat a tad a week earlier and suddenly the throbbing kneecap that had, for the past 10 years, appeared around 20 miles in, vanished. No pain the entire ride nor afterward.

But as for the ride itself, the realistic bottom line appears to be this: fifty miles of them will be a manageable challenge, 100 will be soul-sapping. I confess to getting a confidence boost by finishing strong while Robb, who is 20 years younger but hasn't ridden much, faded badly -- but the struggle on Garfoot reminded me of just demanding and unyielding this route could be.