I did the Fat Cyclist 100 Miles of Nowhere ride on Monday. It's a charity ride that's not really a ride. It's confusing. The link has details. What follows is my ride report. All distances given below are “ish.”
Mile 0: I start my ride at sunrise. Well, close enough to sunrise for me to take credit for a sunrise start.
Mile 0.2: I head back to my house to pick up my water bottles.
Mile 2: I meet Red Beard (not his real name) and Black Beard (not his real name) at Red Beard’s house, and we set out into the cold. It should be noted that “cold” should probably read “slightly cooler than room temperature.”
Mile 0: I start my ride at sunrise. Well, close enough to sunrise for me to take credit for a sunrise start.
Pictured: Not quite sunrise in B-Town
Mile 0.2: I head back to my house to pick up my water bottles.
Mile 2: I meet Red Beard (not his real name) and Black Beard (not his real name) at Red Beard’s house, and we set out into the cold. It should be noted that “cold” should probably read “slightly cooler than room temperature.”
Left to Right: Me, Red Beard (color not guaranteed), Black Beard
Mile 4:
We cruise up Chico Way in a pace line. The goal is to do twenty or so miles at twenty miles per hour and then reevaluate our speed based on how our legs feel. The stiff tailwind we experience makes this idea seem fantastic (read: easy).
Pictured: Not an actual pace line
Mile 6:
Having rounded the roundabout that marks the furthest from our houses we would go all day, we find the tailwind has become a head wind. Our speed drops precipitously. The twenty miles an hour average speed idea falls immediately out of favor with the group. We are hard men, but a head wind and mildly chilly temperatures are too much to ask any man to suffer through. We continue in our much slowed pace line.
Mile 10:
Red Beard is green in the face. He claims a stomach ache. I blame the Seahawks’ loss and cheap whiskey. Mostly the cheap whiskey. The pace line is abandoned. We plod on.
Pictured: Plodding
Mile 30:
We return to Red Beard’s house. I attempt to fix my rear derailleur, and Red Beard disappears into his house. He does not mention what happens inside the house. We imagine horrors. The Canadian (not actually a Canadian) and Yacht Man (not actually made of a yacht) join us.
Mile 45:
The hill to my house is more wall than hill.
Mile 45.1:
We pull into my house. My wife (more of a positional title than a name) has strapped Superhero (the boy) and No (the girl) into the trailer. My task is to bring them the two miles to daycare. The Canadian and Yacht Man depart for their homes.
Left to Right: Red Beard (beard not shown), Yacht Man, the Canadian, Black Beard, Minivan
Mile 47:
My children are heavy. Adorable, but heavy. Black Beard departs to care for Little Beard (his baby son, beard in progress).
Left to right: No and Superhero
Note: Ride numbers visible over Superhero’s shoulders are not for this ride (they haven’t arrived yet) but are from a ride. I left them on to feel official.
Mile 60:
The roads in B-Town are defined by hills: short, steep hill after short, steep hill.
Pictured: A hill
Mile 65:
Trenton Avenue is a 1-1/2 mile long climb. It is not a particularly steep hill, but in an area defined by quarter mile or shorter hills, it is a titan amongst dwarfs. Half way up, Red Beard and I see a group of middle school age girls jumping around on a roof. They cheer us. This feels well earned. Then they moon us. This seems unnecessary. B-Town is a strange place.
Mile 70:
We stop at my house for food. Peanut butter and Nutella on flour tortillas is one of the greatest foods known to man. We decide to do laps around my block.
Mile 71:
After approximately 100 laps around my block, we decided that lapping my block will make us go insane.
Mile 73:
We do laps around Red Beard’s block. There is a hairpin turn at the bottom of a hill on his block. To properly execute the turn, it is necessary to swing into the oncoming traffic lane then throw the bike down to the right, forcing the bike into the corner. I imagine I am Peter Sagan each time I drop into this corner. This helps me feel cool. As a minivan owner, I find it necessary to take coolness, imagined or real, where I can get it.
Pictured: Me
Not pictured: Peter Sagan
Pictured: Red Beard (bike is redder than beard)
Mile 80:
I begin to fantasize about what it will feel like to not have my backside hurt. I am vaguely aware that such a time existed, but am unable to remember what it felt like. Red Beard and I talk at length about various aches and pains. I am suddenly able to empathize with my older coworkers.
Mile 104:
We pull into Red Beard’s house and declare the ride done. My body tells me that 104 miles is as many miles as it is willing to ride that day.
I call my wife secretly hoping for a ride, and she asks me if I will pick up Superhero and No from daycare. She says they will enjoy it. My tiredness is overwhelmed by fatherly guilt. I revoke my “done” declaration for the ride. My body grudgingly complies. I ride on alone.
Mile 106:
I pull into my garage, my children in tow. I decide that trailers are torture devices for unwary parents. I vow never to pull one again. This vow is revoked seconds later when I see my kids’ smiling faces. I immediately vow to never make a hasty vow again.
Mile dinner:
My wife has Crazy Erik’s burgers for us, hot and waiting on the table. These are the best burgers currently available anywhere in the world. This fact is beyond dispute. My wife’s esteem rises in my eyes to near religious levels. The English language is insufficient to describe the outpouring of love I feel for her (and the burger she provided).
The stats:
Distance: 106ish miles
Elevation: 4,600ish
Average speed: 14.5 mph (blamed on whiskey)
Finishers: 2 (Red Beard and me)
Participants who didn’t finish due to scheduling conflicts: Black Beard, the Canadian, Yacht Man
Heavy people who sat in my trailer: Superhero and No
Greatest woman ever to live: Wife
Race results:
Me: 1st place in the fake-suit jersey B-town edition
Red beard: 1st place in the bearded and hung-over B-town edition
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