weather thou goest

I'm not going to lie to you. It hurt. There are a lot of things that I was not told about Mount Weather: that we would climb approximately 1,200 feet over three miles; that the climb actually began a mile earlier than we were led to believe; that the bulk of that elevation change occurred within three-fourths of a mile, with a ten percent grade. The best indicator is that our descent off the mountain ended just about at mile twenty-five. That first 25 miles took nearly four hours - just under six miles per hour. I can walk that fast.

Most of the rest of the course was roads we've been on four or five times already. They call them 'Virginia Byways' and the piedmont is laced with them. Not so long ago, I was convinced that these thoroughfares, while beautiful, were geographical anomalies that went only uphill no matter which way my bike was pointed. Now, however, my familiarity with - say... Frogtown Road, for example - has caused me to think of it as an old friend. Albeit one of those you became friends with more because they always seem to be around than out of shared interests. One you are not always exactly glad to hear from. One that fills your inbox with long boring stories about his damn bicycle.

The advantage of this unwanted familiarity is that I can tell how far I've come in such a short time. The last 35 miles or so were identical to that ill-fated first ride out of Middleburg. That's the one were I diverted my attention for fifty miles from my agony by cursing the coaches with increasing volume and ferocity. By last Saturday, I was still cursing the coaches, but it was more in a joking manner because one of them was riding with us than from any real ill will. In fact, I felt stronger and had more energy at the end of the ride than at mile sixty. And either my gloves are helping or I am becoming more adept at clutching utensils with simian dexterity. Yesterday, I even managed to tie my shoes on only the second try.

My official training is now complete, and I head west in less than two weeks. Many thanks to all of you who encouraged, donated, or simply tolerated my ramblings in silence.

day of the locust

I should know better by now. Three or four times each winter, the local news stations broadcast graphs of isobars and stratocasters looming over Edmonton. For days on end, the talking heads hype the storm, encouraging frenzied Virginians to descend like vultures upon the Safeway and cram their Explorers with toilet paper and bleach until the shelves are bare enough to make Breznhev proud. Invariably, the predicted storm dusts the roads with a half-inch of powder that melts faster than my dreams of a snow day. Government workers, of course, are granted liberal leave.

Every now and then, they like to mix things up with a hurricane. Just a few months ago, we were warned of Isabel. It rained a little, the power went out for about twenty minutes well before the brunt of the storm, and I watched the rest of hurricane coverage on TV. I went to work early the next day. Sure, the bottom of King Street flooded and photos of canoes made it into the papers in Cincinnati, but that's happened at least once almost every year I've lived here.

Naturally, I blame the local news for this small portion of my broken dreams. If I had my way - and we're all probably lucky I don't - the local channels would be permitted to broadcast only sports scores and perhaps a short feature on why carbs are either going to kill me or save my life promptly at six-thirty every evening. It would take five minutes and we'd have time for an extra Simpsons.

Their latest scheme is these cicadas; they got started early on this one. Since February, I've heard about Brood X - the 17-year cicadas that will emerge from the ground to swarm in such numbers that they blot out the sun. With a full three months to challenge their graphics department, I expected a plague of locust-type insects of near biblical proportions. Famine would surely follow as the cicadas consumed all our food. Why on earth else would they provide us with recipes for cicada foie gras and cicada taffy? By now, you may have guessed that the cicadas have not been the unwelcome pest that was advertised. I've seen a few squished on the road, and some holes around some trees. Mehaffey says his yard is silly with them, so maybe they prefer Arlington to Old Town. Arlington does have the better night life.

That said, they sound pretty creepy when you are alone on a bicycle in the middle of Nowhere, Maryland. Between the humming of the cicadas, remote location, and the multitude of cows, I nearly began to believe in flying saucers. At least enough that I was frightened into riding a tiny bit faster.

You've probably never heard of Laytonsville, Maryland, but it's near Olney, Maryland, which you have also probably never heard of. We were to do a 42 mile loop, break for a quick lunch, and do the loop again. For once, I had got a decent night's sleep (I went to bed at about 8:30 friday night, and though I woke early, I was able to fall back to sleep before I had to rise at 5AM) and was feeling fine. I was apparently the only one. Several people wiped out - one serious enough to merit a trip to the hospital (she's fine) - and the heat got to more than a few others, including my ride home. I wanted to ride another 42 miles after lunch, but in the interest of not being stranded, I did an abbreviated circuit. It is, however, unsurprising to me that the one time I am having a good day, the rest of the team - to put it bluntly - isn't. That seems to be the story of my life. On the upside, I had the privilege of riding for a while with Kathi. It's a somewhat poorly kept secret, but Kathi is the Leukemia survivor on our team. She's still on the tail end of her chemotherapy, so she isn't able to quite keep up with the rest of us, but she still rides an amazing sixty or so miles each week and her encouragement more than makes up for a mere 20 to 30 miles. I am honored that she is my teammate.

In two days, we have our most strenuous ride yet - and it's our last one before Tahoe. We are riding out of Middleburg (which is where I made the big decision to ditch my mountain bike) and doing two loops of 50 and 40 miles - including a trip up the appropriately named Mt. Weather. According to our most demented coach, the Naked Mountain ride included a cumulative climb of 3000 feet, and last week we climbed 4000 feet. This week's climb is 6000 feet, which is comparable to the ride around Lake Tahoe. I feel ready.

naked mountain

I know what you're thinking, but it's not all it's cracked up to be. I, too, pictured sprites and nymphs in various states of undress waiting to feed me peeled grapes and fan my aching limbs with palm fronds. Sort of. I mean, I guess on some level I knew all along this was not to be, but the prelude to the ascent occurred early in the ride, before my every thought became focused with laser precision on my agony; when my mind was free to wander. At any rate, I was entirely unprepared for this climb. As I mentioned, the Bacchanalian celebration I hoped for at the summit did not occur. (Sure, there was an entrance to a winery about halfway up, and a few of us discussed our options, but as it was 11 o'clock in the morning and the slope of the driveway we would have to navigate upon our departure was even worse than our climb, we passed.) And the road seemed to go straight up. They tell me this was worse than anything we will face at Tahoe, and I think for my waning sanity's sake I have to believe them.

Katie took the prior Friday off work because she couldn't make the Saturday ride. I spoke with her when she called into the office at the end of the day. Her report was that there was one big hill about halfway through but other than that it wasn't too bad. There's no way to sugar-coat this: Katie lied. That said, it was a beautiful 72 mile ride in the Shenandoah foothills. and it was tough, yes, but I really feel a sense of accomplishment having completed it. By mile 65, the climb up the much more modest Bull Run (yes, that one) "Mountain" was an even greater challenge, though the elevation change was far less. I slept soundly for about twelve hours Saturday night; I nearly passed out on the ride home.

I told myself somewhat naively when I began this undertaking that I would not succumb to the pressure to buy lots of stuff. I am a low-tech cyclist and I like it that way. It was a big step for me to realize and accept that attempting this event on my trusty mountain bike was folly and I needed to suck it up and purchase the appropriate equipment. As might be expected, that not-so-sudden epiphany occured after a particularly difficult ride. Since Saturday, my hands have felt like they are made of clay. Thousands of years of evolution have been rendered irrelevant as the appendages adjacent to my erstwhile prehensile thumb have morphed into a misshapen claw. So I recently got gloves with gel packs in the palms. Decorum prohibits me from explaining why I purchased the shorts.

We began and ended in Haymarket, Virginia. Though the 480 citizens of Haymarket, among others, are to be commended for their successful fight in the early 1990's against team rodent and it's sanitized version of history - if you'll recall, Disney America was proposed within the town limits - one citizen is not getting a free pass in my book. On the way back into town, after many hard miles, two members of the team were accosted by a motorist on John Marshall Highway (VA rt. 55, and a fairly busy road). It seems that this particular brain trust chose to stop his Ford Behemoth in traffic and step out onto his running boards to more adequately accost these two cyclists. Stacey responded in the most appropriate manner - she flipped him the bird. Eventually he climbed back into the cab and proceeded to the next light, where he was still stopped when Stacey and her friend arrived. They got a plate number, and as luck would have it, promptly saw a police officer. They rode back a bit, flagged him down, and the cop pulled the jerk over. He proceeded to tell tall tales, blaming the cyclists. He got a warning from the police, and I consider him lucky. I hate to get all preachy here at the end, but please remember: unless you're on an interstate, a bicyclist has every right to share the road.