Stalked by the Savage SAG Wagon

"You know, you have a bad time of
it, and you always have a friend who says 'Hey man, you
ain't got it that bad. Look at that guy.' And you at that
guy, and he's got it worse than you. And it makes you feel
better that there's somebody that's got it worse than you.

But think of the last guy. For one minute, think of the last
guy. Nobody's got it worse than that guy. Nobody in the
whole world." Arlo Guthrie

Centurion morning opened with a gray sky, soon laced with lightning and distant rolls of thunder. Drops spattered the windshield as we drove to the starting site, at Middleton Airport. By the time we'd unloaded the bikes a steady rain had begun. Once we had passed through the gates of the chain link fence we were asked to join our several hundred lycra-clad compadres inside a large hangar; no sooner had we, and most others, crowded inside, when a drenching rain burst out, with dark clouds and swirling winds, which we could barely see through one opened door, but which we could clearly hear as it drummed on and beat against the hangar roof.

The start was to be delayed for about half an hour, then longer, then longer. The 100-mile race was cancelled due to the late start time (and the impossibility of providing support late into the day, when the nonprofessional 100 milers would begin trickling in after the delayed start), a decision booed by some of the professionals and, no doubt, secretly welcomed by a few other 100-milers.

I was not especially chagrined by the change. Not necessarily happy, but glad to have my moral dilemma resolved: I knew that at the turnaround point for the 50 I would have had to guess if I had enough left in my tank to go a distance I'v never gone, on some of the hardest hills I've ever ridden. Suddenly that weight was lifted; there's no better way to demonstrate one's cojones than to volunteer to undertake a daunting task, and be excused from that rash commitment by an act of God. Almost made me want to convert to something.

After the announcement, Paul, Mark, and I stashed our bikes and drove out for coffee, where we watched the skies shift from gray to dark and back again, laced by lightning on occasion, with a steady background beat of rain. So easy to sit inside and watch while cradling a hot cup, so hard to decide to drag one's ass back into the rain, onto a bike, as all the pent-up energy and excitement dissipates. With collective sighs we pushed back our chairs and went back into the rain, half-convinced, and maybe half-hoping, that the event would be cancelled.

Twas not. Around 9:30 the rain had all but stopped and we were told a new storm cell would arrive in Middleton shortly, but if we left on the 50, we would probably "miss it." So the most hearty or foolish of the original 700 or so lined up and were off, a slow roll through the starting gates, a packed beginning, as the we began sorting outselves out into a long line, like toothpaste from a tube. Things were a bit tense at times, riders squeezing by on both sides, a crowded snorting bunch accompanied by the clicks of derailleurs and shoes, punctuated by comments between team members, and the occasional spatter of a raindrop on one's helmet. Then up those first two big hills on Airport Road, past a few enduring spectators, who sat on lawn chairs or stood beneath umbrellas, clapping and yelling, some ringing bells. Atop the first hill Paul and I stopped and put away our rainjackets -- the rain seemed finished, and the humidity was climbing. After all the jackets could be put on again.

Mark, who had spurned a rainjacket, met us atop the next hill, and the three of us went down the luxurious descent to Enchanted Valley Road, exuberance tempered by the realization that the road was slick and the tires narrow, and, at 30 or so MPH, the consequences could be severe. But no one went down, so far as I know. Then the winding road, a few more spectators, a deceptively hard climb (which I knew from previous rides), and out onto the highway, where our emergence was protected by Sheriff's officers blocking traffic. On into Cross Plains, and a quick bathroom stop, then back to side roads. Past a sign announcing we were 10 miles in, which seemed wrong -- my legs told me it was closer to 20.

As we approached Garfoot Road, which winds back toward and ultimately into the hills, the rain returned, tentatively at first, and then with a vengeance. Too late to don the jackets again, we were resigned to getting wet. And we did, big time, eyeglasses impossible to see through, water stinging eyes and pelting faces, the surprising roar of the water beating on the leaves and in the cornfields, keeping eyes on the road as much as possible, watching for depressions and cracks in a roadway slick with water. The gutty, gritty, glory of cycling, the point at which nothing exists beyond the ride itself, the outside world not gone, not resolved, just not accessible by mind or body for the foreseeable future; the universe bounded by impeded vision and hearing, all prayers just to stay upright and moving.

The rain let up and my glasses cleared enough for me to see gray skies, bent-over green roadside weeds, and brown rivulets winding beside the road. And beside me, cycling buddy Mark, as he has been, off and on, for more than 30 years now (though this was the first time in 10 years). I appreciated his stalwart and sincere presence, almost enough to tell him so. But not quite.

As my vision improved I saw thatGarfoot Road had begun its long winding climb. I thought I was prepared for it because I knew it, but all I could remember was that I knew it had beaten me before. I had to stop and walk the final steps to the top, just as before. "Ought to" and "want to" were not enough to get me there -- "have to" prevailed. As soon as the road began to level I remounted and rejoined Paul and Mark a few road turns and intersections down, and took the lead as we moved onto a winding hilltop terrain. The gray curtain began to tear, soon patched with bright blue sky. And then the sun broke through.

The path turned down into the verdant valley of Vermont township, deep woods and small farmsteads carved into the hillsides, down and down some more, and then we were in and riding along a broad valley, miles clicking by, the sun acting more and more as though it meant to stay, despite the gray around the edges and occasional menacing shadows of rain. A rest stop 26 miles in, and the ride seemed doable and sane again. Until we turned again into the hills.

The road became a narrow winding ribbon bordered by tall trees and shrouded in humidity. Apparent small rises became naggingly long inclines, gears got lower on a regular basis. Then came KOM hill -- the "King of the Mountain" climb for the gearheads and hardcores to measure their merit; as for me, I just wanted to survive it, and soon dropped into lowest gear, and saw the hill unwind and climb before me, in snakelike menace and malignancy. Again I simply ran out of steam, got to the point where reality as I saw it overcame ideality as I wanted it. I stopped, and again walked the hill. Remounted when it began to level and rejoined Paul, who had patiently waited for me, in sherapesque style. And we rode on.

At that point my chain began to chitter, as the silicon spray I used to lubricate it vanished, either washed or worn out of links. My legs told me they were fine with the remaining road, but my head reminded me of the final hills on Airport Road. An impasse threatened, with the promise of failure looming, so close to the end, after so much training; and my mind reminded me -- "This is only the 50-miler; you were going to do 100? Ha." My response was simply, "I will not fail here, the details can wait." A rest stop appeared; watermelon and water and a few moments rest. The sun shone bright and hot now; 14 miles to go. Spectators again, but their cheering had different tone to it, as though offered in encouragement rather than as expressions of appreciation or even admirations. Pity claps, and they burned.

The sag wagon driver had told us at the last rest stop that we were the last three out there, and that she had to follow us in. So, shortly after we left, she did, too, keeping a discreet distance behind, but nonetheless lurking, at or just beyond my mirror vision, for the rest of the ride.

The rest stop was followed by nice ride along a new mildly rolling two-lane blacktop, drafting sometimes with Mark and Paul, feeling again like myself, but with images those two damned hills nagging at me. I trundled along, the chain chirping more regularly, the wind a bit too much in my face. Paul rode beside for a bit, doing his best Sherpa work, telling jokes and sharing stories, until he realized, as good Sherpas do, that the last of the ride was on me and Rocinante, my trusty steed, and he slowly pulled ahead, around a curve, and out of sight. Just me and the road and my thoughts.

Then same the final turn toward home, the slight rise in the road seeming to taunt me, as did the signs, five miles to go, then three. And that damned sag wagon relentless following, as though waiting to fulfill its final mission. The first Airport hill appeared and, try as I wanted, I had to walk part of it, half-expecting the wagon to pull up beside me, looking forward to rejecting it -- "Hell, I can walk in from here and I will if I have to." The wagon stayed back, and I moved on, remounting and finishing the hill. One more hill loomed ahead, across a narrow valley, a hill slightly lower than this one, with Paul and Mark waiting there, that damned Sag wagon lurching and lurking behind.

I flew down the second hill and charged up the last. As I neared the top, I saw a rider walking a bike up the last hundred or so feet. I toyed with the idea of stopping beside him and walking with him. It would have been a noble gesture -- "Let's walk in together, so neither of us is the last guy." But as I drew closer, and my legs caught up with a final burst of energy, my inner, mostly latent, hardcore rider burst through. "The Hell with it; at least someone will be behind me." And I passed him without looking back. As I approached, Paul told me to keep going and lead the three of us in. I accepted, and flew that final mile, down a long flat, and past the finish line. A Centurion rep appeared and asked if he could remove the chip from my front wheel. I said to take it, I never wanted to see it again.

Hung up the bike on rack, doffed the helmet and gloves, and visited the food tent, and got a Capital Amber beer. Sat in the afternoon warmth, basked in the aura of accomplishment, and listened half-heartedly to the awards. I knew I wouldn't hear my name and I was fine with that. I was glad to have done it, and glad to be done.

And I wasn't the last guy.