Do I begin the story with the feeling of being on the highway, packed and heading toward adventure? Do I tell you about how, as I sang songs at the top of my lungs and car danced, it felt like it always did? Like I was still in my twenties, driving to a mt bike race at a ski resort hoping I wouldn’t get woken up and kicked out when I tried to sleep in my car in the resort’s parking lot. It’s funny how it all still feels the same.

I did stay in a hotel this time, but I’m not sure if its smell was better or worse than my car. I met the rest of my Hup team members at the hotel. We hung out and got to know each other better. Each of the Hups--Stephen, Mark, Tom, Jeff and Scott--merged into a cohesive, easy-going group. We rolled into town to find dinner, and we were joined by some of my PA friends and met some new PA friends. The Yozells brought their sweet baby boy, Issac, and I have never met a happier and well-adjusted eight-month old. That kid was all smiles and giggles.

After a night of crap sleeping on a hard bed, and a breakfast of divine coffee, apple strudel cake and oatmeal, we rolled over to the official start of the Gentlemen’s Race.

The race start was kind of pensive, actually. I expected it to be a little more low key, but there was a tight kind of silence as the groups unloaded bikes and kitted up. We started in the second wave and rolled downhill out of the neighborhood and out onto the road. As we began to climb the first gradual up, I was already feeling bad, hot and slow. Scott came back to check on me as I fell off their pace immediately. Maybe the base layer was too much, maybe I wasn’t hydrated enough, maybe I hadn’t eaten enough, maybe I hadn’t ridden enough. Shit.

Eight miles in, and I’m staring at my FUNtap. The watts look ok, but I sure don’t. We’re caught by the team that started five minutes behind us before we are even through the Gunks. I’m demoralized. I plod up another grade, crest, then bomb down the other side with Mark. The downhill was invigorating, and Mark and I congratulate our non-descending-selves on killing it. The other four Hups join us--they had stopped to pick up my glasses which had popped out of my jersey pocket on the downhill. Now I felt like an ass. I was constantly costing our team valuable time.

Down the road a bit Scott flatted. It was an ugly flat--a sidewall blowout. As Scott struggled with booting and patching the tire, the rest of the group got to chat up a fascinating fellow who wandered over hoping we could spare a patch for the 3.5 inch slice he had in the mt bike tube he was holding. “I bought the mt bike at a yard sale for $15. Damn thing blew when I rode it home. Can’t you fix it?”

Um no.

He wandered off. We waved to the next three or four teams that passed us, then got back on the road. We did get to wave back at the Rapha Continental squad as they sat on the side of the road with a flat just down the road. We also tried to jump on their train on a slight downhill as they caught and re-passed us later. They didn’t like the little lady hopping on their train, and the Gentlemen pulled away. Bastards.

The four-mile climb up Sugarloaf started, and I quickly lost sight of everyone. My FUNtap read eight, then, six, and finally four miles per hour. I began traversing the uphill. The shade of the surrounding woods offered relief from the sun, but the humidity was killing me. I felt loopy but kept pedaling, now alternating ten pedal strokes seated with ten standing. I looked at the FUNtap to see I had only gone half of the distance. I pedaled some more.

Around the turn was the rest stop. Among the encouraging words and water refills my brain registered that the stop was not really at the top of the hill. There was still more to climb. GET BACK ON YOUR BIKE, my legs said. Don’t stop now.

I got back on my bike and told the guys I had to continue rolling on. Stopping for me is bad. Very bad. Thankfully this grade was a less steep, and I got to pedal at six and eight mph. I still used the traversing technique and rolled on along. As I crested and began jetting down the other side, I realized thiiiiiis downhill was not going to be one I would “kill.” In fact, I was slightly worried that thiiiiiiiis downhill would kill me. Every member of the Hup squad bombed past me looking effortless and in control. My terror had me gripping the brakes with the white, bloodless fingers of DEATHGRIP.

Jeff did manage to get a picture of me on the downhill before I got all panicky. I’m smiling and waving. I felt like I had this ride in the bag. All the super hard climbing had occurred in these first forty miles. The next 80 would be a cakewalk. In the bag. Basically done.

Isn’t always at your most confident that defeat comes through and steals your soul?

At about mile 50 I was back to staring at my mph: 6, 8, 10, 8. The problem? We were on a pleasant flat section next to a pretty creek. I was sitting on the wheels of Jeff, or Mark or Jeff, or Scott or Tom. Each took turns babysitting me at my glacier-esque pace. The sag wagon was just behind us. We were in last place. The sag van seemed to taunt me. Stalk me. I couldn’t turn my legs over, I confessed to Jeff. We’ll be out here until midnight at this pace. We’ll never finish, the voices in my head said. You’re fucking it up for your whole team. They can’t pedal any slower Meg.

I told the guys I didn’t think I could continue. It was mile 53. We kept pedaling in silence. Stephen suggested pulling over and figuring out what we were going to do. The sag van pulled in behind us. I clipped out of my pedals and as soon as both feet hit the ground, I felt the tears start.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Damnit--this is why guys hate including girls on their teams. Stop crying. Stop crying. Fight it back!

But there was no fighting back these tears. They poured out. My shoulders shook with sobs. “I thought I could do this. I can’t figure out why I can’t turn the pedals over. Why can’t I make my legs go? I don’t want to let you down.” Of course, my words weren’t particularly coherent. They were punctuated with sobs and sniffles and some snot blowing. The guys were great. Hugs, kisses, encouraging words, kindness. Each offered their blessing at my wanting to quit. Each said it was okay. Each said I wasn’t letting them down. No problem. Get in the van. It’s okay.

I nodded and decided. “I think I want to get in the van,” I said. Then Carey, the Rapha sag van driver, asked, “Are you cramping?” No. “Are you in pain?” No. “Well, it’s a beautiful day for a bike ride. Why don’t you pedal a little more? I don’t have to take you off the course until sunset--that’s around 8:00 pm--so you have plenty of time.”

It’s a beautiful day for a bike ride.

Her words cut through the fog.

It’s a beautiful day for a bike ride.

I nodded and decided. “I think I’ll pedal a little more,” and climbed back onto my bike. We pedaled slowly chatting. The creek snaked next to us. A tour bus randomly stopped in front of us. We yelled, fist pumped and split the group around it. When the group merged back on the other side of the bus, I was fine. Completely fine. Fifteen miles to the next checkpoint? I could ride fifteen more miles. It’s only fifteen more miles. That’s easy.

The fifteen miles passed surprisingly quickly and easily. Our pace was up. I  could stay on wheels, and the humidity cleared out. At the next checkpoint, we saw a rider abandon and get in the van. Jeff nudged me and winked. The other guys shot each other raised eyebrows--that’s two teams that are now officially DNFed, and we’re still in the game.

When’s the next checkpoint?

Mile 106.

Okay, that’s just over 30 miles. I can do that. If I can do that, I can finish. I rolled out of the checkpoint ahead of my guys. I needed the head start. Stopping is bad for me, and frankly, I wanted them to have the opportunity to ride fast for a while--at their pace, not mine. They caught me soon enough, and we settled in for the next chunk.

Mile 106 became my mantra. My goal. My purpose. I was ALL about mile 106.

We rode through some really beautiful scenery during this chunk. Great roads, dirt roads and rolling farms, but I was was focused on my goal on mile 106. When I ran out of water at mile 104, it didn’t matter because we were only two miles from the checkpoint, and I was safely tucked on Scott’s steady wheel.

I knew this checkpoint was at the top of the last significant climb of the ride, so as I turned the corner and ticked over to 106 on the FUNtap, I knew the mileage was off on the cue sheet, and now I was in trouble. I drank Scott’s 3/4 full bottle, then half of Stephen’s bottle. The climb was just starting and now I had no idea how long it would last and no goal to work toward. I watched my Huppers spin upward--steady, strong and seemingly effortlessly. They were impressive to watch.

Fuck. This is going to suck.

The climb switched back and my mph dropped from 10 to 8 to 6 to 4. Stephen dropped back to ride with me at four miles per hour. How he didn’t fall over, I don’t know. At every switchback I envisioned the end, and every time I was disappointed. And finally, after not seeing the checkpoint appear again, I cracked, and got off my bike. Stephen, in the ultimate  move of teammate solidarity, got off his bike and kept me company in my walk. That had been the final switchback, and at the top sat Slate and Carey with water and encouraging words.

Slate asked us what our favorite part of the ride was--I shared with Carey that it had been her words that had given me a new perspective on the ride and on me. Everyone was celebratory, but we still had to finish. Carey laughed and said we had three hours to ride the last chunk--it was less than sixteen miles.

I yelled, “Don’t tempt me!” and rolled out.

The Huppers blasted past me on the the downhill. I noted that Mark, my once non-descending buddy, was now tucked firmly in the group as they catapulted down the hill. I just can’t bring myself to go over 40. . .

The last section of the journey still had rollers, and the rollers tried us all, I think. The guys rolled tight and waited for me at turns. I was happy to see them sticking together. Their babysitting duties over, they could finally enjoy some camaraderie. Man, did they deserve it.

The turn into the neighborhood to the finish felt good. We must have celebrated five times in that neighborhood as we thought each group of cars part on the road was our house. We were smiling now. Relaxed. Joking. Zipping up to look good when we pulled in. Cars full of people with bikes that had finished long before us passed us going the other way honking, waving, yelling, cheering.

As we approached the house our pace quickened, and then Carey began blowing the sag van horn in victory celebration. We rolled into the driveway to 50 people on the deck drinking beer and cheering for us--DFL, but not DNF.

It was a pretty darn awesome feeling. We did it! Hugs and kisses were shared with my Hup boys. I was near tears again, yes. We did it. Shit.

The Huppers that shared this experience with me have got to be the kindest people to ever swing a leg over a saddle. I don’t think I would have been that patient with me. Really. Thanks guys. Thanks for seeing me through.

I didn’t stay around too long after the ride. I know me well, and I know I have a small window of opportunity to hit the road before I get sleepy and driving becomes stupid. So, I hit the road, but I didn’t sing at the top of my lungs or car dance. I thought for a while. I hummed. I called my husband and shared my story. He was so proud of me, and that meant the world

I know a lot of people have ridden longer rides, harder rides. I know the Rapha guys do this kind of ride every weekend.

But, I don’t. I rarely ride over two hours. Actually, I usually consider two hours a long ride! It really has been just this year I decided I needed to ride more miles--that the 1.5-2 hour ride is just a mental block, and that I needed to break through it.

I know many folks won’t consider this ride an accomplishment, but it is the longest and hardest ride I have ever done.

I’m so glad Hup United had my back.

xoxo

m