A Big Bad Day of Biking
by J. P. Partland [Editor of Cycling Times, ????]
We all love a good epic. The Iliad, the Odyssey, the Pentateuch, the Gospels, Civil War books, World War II Battles, Dianetics, Love Connection, you know them and love them. True, too many are directly about war, but that is part of what makes the event epic; the struggle to survive, to persevere and ultimately triumph over the conditions.
We have all had epic rides and epic events in our lives. Rarely are the experiences pleasurable as they unfold, but they are always warmly remembered. We love recounting them to others. We amaze ourselves when we think back to the things we did. It doesn’t matter that the epic experience often was caused by stupidity on our part-we didn’t bring enough clothing or any food, we forgot our rain gear, we didn’t know how to patch a tube, etc. What matters is that we survived.
Ask any cyclist what the dumbest thing he or she ever did on a bike and chances are their eyes will light up as they remember the epic that went along with their dumb maneuver.
These epics happen by accident. If you could plan them, they would not take on such grand dimensions. At least once a year, I forgot to bring enough food on a ride, or I severely underdressed for the weather. Other times I simply got lost, or forgot some essential tool which I desperately needed on a ride. Sometimes fate conspires, and the combination is almost deadly.
My most recent epic took place on a ride which I warmly remember as Death Ride 7,000. It was a cool sunny day in early March when three buddies and I drove to Swartswood State Park in Freedon, NJ to ride our bikes up to High Point and back. A pleasant tour around New Jersey’s northwest corner. One member of this chain gang, Chris, was native to these parts: he knew the route, and led Greg, Paul, and me on what was supposed to be a threehour tour, approximately 60 miles. We’d encountered three mountains on our approach to High Point, with Chris and myself making the pace on the climbs as Greg and Paul pedaled behind. The air was crisp and the skies were clear, giving us great visibility of the beautiful abandoned hills of Sussex County. The climb to High Point (elevation 1803 feet) was supposed to be our halfway mark We had ridden 33 miles and climbed over 3,000 feet, so l wolfed down some food as we checked out the view before our descent into Port Jervis. From Jervis we rode along empty roads which rolled over the Delaware Water Gap. I could telt that my strength was starting to wane because Greg was starting to surge up the short rollers. I started asking, ‘How much longer?’ Chris’ response was always, ‘Oh, maybe 10 miles.’ He repeated this refrain many times.
We appeared to be getting closer to my car because we finally turned away from the Delaware and towards some ominous looking mountains, made more threatening by the dark clouds and graying skies surrounding them. I was dropped by the gang up a one mile climb, but I took heart because Paul was starting to struggle in front of me. We descended and took on some more rolling hills, my hamstrings were starting to feel like highly tensioned rubber bands. Each pedal became a supreme effort in concentration. The sky was graying further and the air was cooling from the comfortable 43degrees in which we had started.
Finally, Chris announces, ‘When we make this left, all we have to do is climb this hill and we’re done.’ What he didn’t say was that this hill ascended over 1700 feet in under four miles, or was it three miles, or maybe even two-my memory fails me. I got dropped immediately on what felt painfully similar to a wall. I continued to ride, only because I was zigzagging across the road, and thinking about not dying alone. Uphill slaloms are no joyride, and even switching tack was difficult. It went up forever. I eventually caught up to Paul, who looked about as bad as I felt. We rode together a little bit, but he had trouble shifting, and got off his bike to take a rest. I was afraid to stop, afraid I would never be able to get on my bike again, afraid that the vultures had spotted me and started licking their beaks. Every time the pitch of the hill lessened, I got excited, believing I had finally reached the summit of the hilt. Every time, I was disappointed. Now, even the flatlooking sections felt incredibly steep. When I had just about given up all hope of seeing the top of the hilt, I came across Chris and Greg who were calmly chatting on what I now assume was the top of the hits, or mountain, or whatever. Paul took a bit longer.
Now, Chris tells us that all we have to do is descend to the car. Sounds easy, but it wasn’t. Never before was a descent so treacherous. I couldn’t concentrate on the road, I was almost unable to control my bike. I was coasting and it was painful. When we came up to a short hill, Paul and I dropped off again. I pleaded with Chris, ‘Look, leave us here by the side of the road. We’ll rest, you and Greg take my keys and drive my car back here to pick us up.’
Chris took pity on us. He turned into someone’s driveway and knocked on their door. They weren’t home. He told me that he was friendly with the homeowner’s daughter, and it would be OK to sit on the porch. Chris and Greg took forever to return. I didn’t know how much longer I could wait before I became unconscious.
They finally resumed and loaded our bikes on the car. It took a supreme effort to sit down. Snickers never tasted so good. We were reduced to animals, grunting and wolfing down any foodtype substance in my car. Chris drove back. He stopped when we passed the first Country store. We loaded up on caffeine, Gatorade, and food.
It wasn’t over for me, however. I still had to go to work. I made it somehow. My coworkers stared at me in disbelief. I guess they saw a face that appeared as if it just came back from the grave. No wonder. When I looked at the Avocet 501 had borrowed (just for the ride) the next day, it revealed that we had climbed over 7,500 feet in 78 miles. Ouch! I remember where we went and what it looked like, but I remember the pain in the third person. It’s as if it wasn’t me suffering on the bike, but some other slob who ran out of gas. Nietzsche wrote ‘That which does not kill you, only makes you stronger.. I will always cherish that day, as will the rest of that chain gang. We went out to play, and almost didn’t return.
