We just got back from the ride.
32 miles.
Yes, I did
.
I completed the 32 mile Tour de Cure bike ride in about 4 hours I think. Time was kind of a blur at the end. Most of the ride the temperature was at 98 deg F.
Every hill in America must have been on the route we took. All uphill. In the snow. OK, not snow. You know, what they say is true. It’s really not the heat. It’s the humidity.
I was counseled by a co-worker that runs marathons, Dave Vause, to not take a purist approach. He suggested that I actually stop or coast or even walk. Dave did not realize that my plan was to attack EVERY climb up a hill, pedal hard down EVERY hill, and put pedal to the metal when the road before me was flat. That plan lasted for about 5 miles into the ride and ended after the first hill. By the 10th mile I decided it was best to not look the hills directly in the face and to make no sudden threatening moves lest I make the hill angry and it get steeper and longer. Head down in first gear was the new plan. I mean 1st gear on both gears. Rides downhill were enjoyed with wild abandon and no pedaling. That’s called coasting. Rides on level ground were filled with prayers of thanks.
As I wrote in text messages to some of you, dragging a 225 lb butt up a hill ain’t easy. It’s hard out there and all. There were 2 rest stops at 10 miles and 25 miles. Shock and awe is the only way I can describe how I felt as I rode toward the water stations. Shock, that I was still alive. Awe, by how good bananas and pretzels taste. That’s fine cuisine. BOY! THESE PRETZELS ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY! (for Karen – Seinfeld Addict).
Before the second rest stop there was a hill. I’m sorry. That was disrespectful. Before the second rest stop there was a Mountain. A Mountain that I lovingly named Death. Somewhere near the 20 mile mark, I must have mistakenly looked directly into Death’s eyes. It grew into a Rider slayer. There were people strewn all along the sides of the road. Most of them letting their bikes fall hard to the ground as they dismounted, just wanting to sit down out of respect for the behemoth that few conquered. I have a better understanding of the thousand mile stare I heard talk of that war vets get after a gruesome battle. My only victory on Death was that I did not throw my bike down, but let it down as gently as I could before I stumbled to a spot in the shade and sheepishly sipped my Gatorade.
A friend of mine, Barry Wynn, sent out an email about a year ago that described a new type of therapy for athletes. It was called the Glove. You stick your hand in this Glove (a coffee pot looking thing) and it cools your body down by cooling your blood. Afterwards you feel completely rejuvenated. I am heading to the closest thing I have to the Glove, my freezer. I am going to climb in and take a nap.
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