Personal detail disclaimer: As with all my travelogues and
write-ups, this material is fraught with copious, often tedious detail.
Those squeamish about minor profanity or discussion of bodily functions
should cease reading now as the information contained herein, along
with a plodding writing style will surely furrow your brow.
Helpful nomenclature:
| standing: | standing on the pedals to increase speed, particularly up hills (manly) |
| pulling: | leading a pack of riders (also manly) |
| drafting: | closely following a rider in front of you to decrease wind resistance(cheating) |
| Blue Velvet: | a.k.a. "the Big Blue V", the name of Tim's bike (David Lynch-inspired) |
The Seagull Century is a 100-mile bike tour sponsored by Salisbury State University. The flat course rolls through corn and alfalfa fields as well as poultry farms of the Delmarva peninsula. Sometimes wind can be a problem, but it wasn't this year. The course heads roughly east towards the Atlantic at Assateague National Seashore, then back to Salisbury, in a large, counter-clockwise loop. A "metric" century loop is available at 62 miles, and a double metric century is available for the truly masochistic at 124 miles. This was the tenth anniversary of the tour with 6200 riders. The first year started with about 60. I was both new to "the Seagull" and to centuries in general, and decided to hook up with Seattle friend Jill Bodnar's father. Jill's dad, Dave, and his group of middle-aged cronies had ridden this event repeatedly and were "old hands"; I was the newbie.
For me, it started Friday night as I drove across the Bay Bridge towards Salisbury on Friday night to meet "Mr. B" in Princes Anne, Maryland. Blue Velvet emitted a ghostly groan all three hours to Salisbury, strapped to the top of my aging Toyota truck. Tired, I was ready for whatever lumpy motel bed could be had.
Arriving at the Budget Traveler's Inn at ten, I was greeted by an energetic Mr. B in the parking lot. After exchanging pleasantries, we retired to Room 201. As I entered, I walked passed Dave's way high dollar Seretta bike, GPS/weather unit, lap top, and miscellaneous biking paraphernalia. Jill had warned me that her dad was a gadget geek. We amicably discussed a few details concerning the next-day's events, including getting up at 5 AM, which was "sleeping in" for Dave (Yikes). Apparently, Dave gets up every morning at 4 or so to bike to work. He probably considers this the best part of is day. Christ, I just don't understand morning people.
I shaved, showered, prepped Velvet and hit the sack. It became apparent that the motel management cut corners by shorting our room those little bottles of shampoo. Dave went down to the office to ask for some; no dice. It was, after all, the "budget" traveler's inn. Dave turned off a bad Martin Short movie and we slept to the lull of US 13 traffic.
5AM Saturday - I woke up refreshed, not. Dave was up, showered, upbeat
and "take charge". I put on a front of being awake enough to not screw
up anyone's departure plans, then I met the guys:
| Billy: | graying pony tail, worked for the Office of Surface Mining |
| Simon: | British |
| Mike: | 27, doctor |
| Dan: | didn't get his vitals |
| Eric: | plus his wife Linda (did the metric century), and their daughter, Allison |
I cataloged them by quad and calf size; all large. Damn. Nice enough guys, and certainly not geezers (age range 27 to 50 something). I mostly don't want to call them geezers due to (1) politeness, but more realistically, (2) they ended up kicking my ass during the ride. Who wants to be beaten by geezers. We exchanged more parking lot pleasantries in the dark; it was about 45 degrees. Billy observed that I was skinny, and looked fast. He was right about the skinny part. Dave remarked that between all eight of our bikes, we had all four bike food groups: steel, titanium, plastic and aluminum. I wasn't surprised to see that my Blue Velvet trailed all others in monetary worth. These guys had space age "the kids are grown" bikes, some of which were obviously meant to be used on Mars.
I trailed the Pennsylvania mini van which zipped north on US 13 at a modest 80 mph. I hardly had time to get a good song on the radio before we were assembling bikes in a crowded parking lot. We proceeded to the Salisbury dining hall (the Bistro) for a starch special breakfast. Small talk, coffee. Much personal concern that these guys were one to two leagues above me in ability and were going to kick my ass. I had recently come off a two week bout with the flu but I had still managed to run the Resnick 5k (a.k.a. "the Race Against Tim"), and climb Mt. Elbert in Colorado with Dom, Jill, et al. I squeezed in a total of only 50 miles just before the tour as a preemptive strike on the pending sore butt. Still, I had planned on doing two centuries before this one, one to Gettysburg (went to triathlon with Anne instead) and another to Theresa's beach house in Jersey (canceled due to the flu). I was up to 60 miles at a stretch before getting sick, but three weeks off seemed too long to not be in the saddle. I wasn't worried about completing the tour, I was worried about Y-chromosome behavior such as pushing yourself to the point of yaking to impress guys you don't know.
Out the doors of "The Bistro" and back to the bikes. While getting ready, I looked at the teen something/twenty-something college students with their scrubbed faces, ennui, and parent-provided Jettas and thought to myself, "slackers". Dawn broke about seven. We were on our bikes and ready to start about 7:45 AM. The biggest decision revolved around what to wear as the morning was still in the high forties. I elected to forgo tights, but kept an extra poly-pro top on.
What's with bike fashions? Here's a sport were you invest 10, 20, 30 or more tuxedos-worth of money into gear, yet your choices of apparel are two, garish and even more garish. Some outfits are just bright, some are a clash of colors, some are walking advertisements for cycling tours and bike products. Makes you look more like a NASCAR driver. Now I'm as vain as any cyclist, choosing only blue items for Velvet. I am probably the only American waiting for the Gatorade people to come out with a blue flavor.
Off we went, under the US 13 pedestrian tunnel to points east. The century was designed with stops roughly every twenty miles, the third stop being at about mile 61 at Assateague National Seashore. Straight out of the shoot, I realized it was a bit chilly in the shaved leg department. Why do grown men shave their legs? [I'm talking about men who cycle; other reasons why men shave their legs are too complex and tawdry to analyze here]. Three reasons:
1) It makes you faster [less wind resistance]. This is probably bullshit and does not apply to slower riders like me.
2) It lessens "road rash" should you spill. This is probably true and a good reason to shave your legs. I haven't had a wreck (knock on wood) more serious than falling over because I couldn't get out of my clippless pedals (loser). Always wear your helmet.
3) It makes you look cool, like the Tour de France racers. This is the real reason why guys shave their legs for cycling. Trust me. It's a European thing.
Off and running at last! Okay, it's important to know that this Century ride is a "ride" and not a race. There was no official starting time. Never mind that Bodnar and his cronies (including me) treated the tour like a race. They unleashed testosterone from the very beginning. Now I admire any person, male or female who pushes himself to complete an event in the best time possible because that's what I do. And if you happen to beat everyone else into the ground while you're doing it, well that's okay as long as you're not a jerk about it. I was zipping along averaging a little under 20 mph and passing most everyone on the course myself for the first 40 miles. But Dave's crew really booked. I didn't see one cyclist pass his pack of Pennsylvanians. [I'm not the best witness to this feat as they left me in the dust at mile five, and again at mile 30, and at 50, and well, you get the idea.]
Miles 0 to 22 (first rest stop): It was cold and I was still waking up. Once I lost sight of Dave's pack, I enjoyed the morning sun peeking through the trees and over barns. I surreptitiously gawking at other riders, their bikes, and outfits. I especially liked the guys and gals who didn't take the ride as seriously and had stuck stuffed animals to their helmets. Later after the race, I witnessed a heated discussion between a participant and an official. The guy had been riding with a dinosaur on his head for seven hours and have evidently forgotten about it. Trust me, you can't win an argument with Barney on your head.
The first rest stop was a cacophony of bikes, spandex, bagels, water bottles and porta-johns, the last of which I needed in a big way. There were fairly long lines and I felt guilty knowing I needed "a little more time" than the average user, but at least I had the courtesy not to go in with the Sunday newspaper under my arm.
Met up with Dave et al, and found out they had been averaging between 23 and 25 mph (I was averaging 20.3). Dave's column was competing with another column of riders, a recumbent bike was involved, some "passing on the left" etiquette was apparently violated by the other column and Simon the Briton had apparently used the word "wanker" quite well. I didn't catch all of it; treat this as hearsay. I was feeling okay (and awake). We left.
Miles 22 to 42 (second rest stop): I stayed with Dave's pack, drafting behind Dave for about 10 miles. What a difference drafting makes! Our average was around 23. I was really working and knew I'd pay later if I didn't slow down but I didn't care because we passed everyone! Yes, there was great scenery but it was blurry at our pace. When it came my turn to pull, Simon joked that he was like following a pencil. I couldn't keep the pace faster than 19 into the wind, and the other pack of riders ( with evil red-jerseys) passed us. I dropped off the pack so the guys could regain the lead over the red-jerseys. If this sounds too competitive, it was.
The second rest stop was just a water/toilet stop. The newness of the day had worn off, some of the more competitive types were whispering derogatory remarks about other competitive types ["should have gotten outta the way", "jerk passed on the right", etc.] Otherwise, the vast majority of the riders seemed to be having a good time; it had warmed up to the high 60's. Just before we left the stop, a group of recumbent bikes with full cloth wind breaks pulled in. Recumbent bikes are designed so that you sit low to the ground (less than a foot) and either pedal with your feet or your hands, or both. Their light-weight, low profile design is usually combined with a windshield, and sometimes a full cloth carapace, making them look like mini Goodyear blimps or sausages with wheels. Recumbent riders always seem to have that absent-minded professor look. Recumbent bikes are for those cyclists who truly like to tinker for the hell of it. "I don't have to pedal hard at all, hell, this baby is so light-weight and aerodynamic that I put in a VCR for kicks!" Anyway, we were back on the road.
Mile 42 to 62:
I foolishly left with Dave's group from the last rest stop after only about five-minute's rest. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stayed with the pack for about ten miles, where my stomach announced that it had formed an alliance with all my other internal organs, and as the official spokes-organ for my body, I would be barfing up bagels if I didn't slow down. The conversation went something like this:
Stomach: In case you haven't noticed, you're nauseous.
Me: No wait, just let me make it to the next rest stop,
please! Brain, what should I do?
Brain: Normally, I would say slow down, but hell, I've
got so many endorphins floating around, I really don't care what you do.
Stomach: This is your two minute barf warning.
Me: I can't barf now, I've got to keep our speed up!
Stomach: You most certainly can barf, that's why this body is
designed with certain autonomic responses, you idiot. Thirty seconds
to hurling...
Brain: Sir, I don't think he's kidding.
Me: What does Stomach need to shut up?
Brain: More blood, sir. I could transfer it from your
legs, but you'd have to slow down.
Me: Can't one of you guys filter out more of the lactic
acid poisons or something? Liver, pancreas, gall bladder? Anyone?
Stomach: Ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, ...
Me: Brain, do something! You've got millions of years
of evolution. Be creative.
Brain: I have nothing.
Stomach: Three, two...
Me: Okay, okay! Slowing. Geez.
Limped into Assateague at 16 mph along with the "common biking rabble."
One of the great things about these tours is the food. Once my stomach determined it wasn't going to empty itself, it again became preoccupied with filling itself. I met up with Dave's crew and gorged on orange sections, delicious pumpkin bread, and cookies. It was now a little hot and quite sunny. The wind was from the northeast and the parking lot/rest stop was alive with hundreds of bikers similarly stuffing themselves. I overheard snippets of conversations such as "blah, blah, blah, Tylenol, blah, blah" or "that's a real nice Bianchi/Seretti/Raliegh/Trek/Cannondale bike you have there" and my favorite, "I'd rather draft at 21 than pull at 19".
Apparently, Dave's group had been "racing for signs" the last six miles to this rest stop, the upshot being one guy picks a sign off in the distance and challenges the other guys to beat him there. This occurred about the time I was arguing with my stomach. Hearing this, I decided to wait a full thirty minutes at Assateague and take in the ocean. Dave's group pulled out to blaze on. Well fed and feeling good, I pulled out 15 minutes later.
Mile 62 to 84: I was finally in a rhythm. Averaging 19 and change, I started passing as many bikers as I could, which is to say almost all of them. I'd pass 30 or 40, but then ten riders in a pack would blow passed me on the left, just to keep me humble. Started to "stand" on the bike to relieve my aching butt. I pulled into the last rest stop just as Dave's crew was pulling out. Fast bastards.
The sun was out, and an acoustic duo called the Wicomicos were playing guitar, singing something about it being okay to be from South Carolina. This stop is known as the "pie stop" as you can get as much apple pie as you can eat. Though famished, I ate only a half a piece of pie as the aroma of chicken poop from a nearby poultry barn was sending me reeling. By this time, I was among several hundred people were off their bikes, lying in the grass, sunning themselves and massaging sore calves and quads. Believe me, if I could have gotten away with massaging my hinder publicly, I would have. The finish was about an hour away and in the bag. After a twenty minute stop, I was back on Velvet and thinking finish line.
Mile 84 to 100: Okay, it's important to know that I have a natural homing instinct and am faster on the way back from any endeavor. So I tapped my last reserves to keep my average at 19 and pass as many people as I could. I sprinted to get past windy, open sections of the road and drafted anyone moving ahead. I think I got a few "asshole" glares from some of the bikers I passed while standing on my bike. In my defense, the standing was not so much for speed as for getting blood back into my butt.
A few guys started keeping pace with me. Even as I was ignoring it, the scenery started getting even better. We blew through a beautiful town called Berlin which looked like a perfect spot to stop and have lunch, but my priorities were elsewhere. There's something special about still caring how you finish after you've been beaten by the really good guys. As you might imagine, I live for that.
The Finish: Well, I averaged a hair under 19 mph, or 5 hours, seventeen
minutes of actual saddle time. Dave's crew averaged 21.5, a new best for
the group. Way to go, guys!