Mental and physical exercises over 180 miles and 11 hours on the bike.
Eleven hours and nine minutes sitting on a bike saddle, pedaling through central Ohio cornfields and up and down rolling hills, gives you a lot of time to think. Sometimes, you find yourself thinking about nothing at all…if that counts as still thinking…thinking about the conditions of the road, about how quickly corn grows, at how much the mind is currently affecting your ability to ride as quickly as you’d hoped, about how your right knee hurts more than you’d expected but as much as you feared, about the growing sense of irritation where your body meets the saddle and friction compounds over the course of 180 miles of pedaling to the point that that precise pain becomes the only thing you can think about.
This post is an effort to deal with my annual, personal, post-Pelotonia depression, akin to the funk that I experienced every year as a child, after Santa Claus had come and the New Year had passed, with the resumption of schooldays on the horizon and the realization that the grandiosity of the holidays was an entire year away again. This is also an effort to share a bit of insight into what the experience of Pelotonia means, and is, to me…the emotions, thoughts, impressions, that pop up over eleven hours and nine minutes of active cycling time. Finally, this is an effort to offer the smallest of thank yous to a few of the many, many, many people who make this experience possible, which in turn, makes the work of scientists exploring solutions to cancer possible.
Exhilaration. Anticipation. Building for more than two weeks prior to Pelotonia weekend, culminating in an amazing crescendo at 7:00 AM on Saturday morning as thousands (!!!) of cyclists enter the chutes and pass under the starting line archway. Pride. You’re part of a team again…a smaller team of eight riders, four virtual riders, one volunteer…and of a larger team of riders, virtual riders, volunteers, and donors, numbering in the tens of thousands.
Excitement. And pure, unadulterated joy. The first 15–20 miles of Pelotonia’s 180 mile route are relatively flat, and the route takes you throughout downtown Columbus and slowly into the suburbs. The streets are basically yours to ride on, every intersection manned by sheriffs, deputies, officers, volunteers…a major metropolitan city brought to a temporary standstill so that thousands of people can join together to fight cancer. Powerful. Your legs feel great, terrific, limitless. It’s cold — refreshing and invigorating compared to the weather we train in in Georgia. “I could ride in this forever,” you think to yourself. And I will, too, or at least until we #EndCancer.
(And now, this year…a flat tire around mile fifteen.) Henry blows a tire after hitting a nasty pothole, almost goes down, sorta miraculous he didn’t lose it altogether and I’m mightily impressed he held on. Frustration. We’re so amped up we apparently have forgotten how to efficiently change a tire. Or Henry’s bike has some tires on it that are much too small for the wheels. Whatever the truth, we ruin two tubes trying to change them and are luckily saved by the brute force of a helpful SAG motorcycle. [SAG = Support and Assist Group, or so I’ve been told. Also, maybe, Support And Gear. More likely, the bastardization of some French word.]
Fear. As I feebly and unsuccessfully assist Henry and Dustin, my back begins to tighten and I’m losing the momentum I had built in my muscles. I begin to panic. I’m falling behind (even though this isn’t a race) and I realize that A) it will take me a strong effort to catch up to our team and, B) there will be no way I can hang on to Dustin and Henry when they’re laying it down to catch up to the team. I need to get moving so I don’t pull the entire team down. I take off after a half hour and put the metal down, catching up to Erin, Adrienne, and Amy at the next stop. I eat a bit of peanut butter to refuel, don’t even get off my bike, and head out with them.
A sense of enormity. Of being bigger than you. Of being more than yourself. Around mile 45 you enter the Bob Evans headquarters for lunch. Admittedly I don’t usually take my lunches at 10:15 AM. But I don’t usually cycle 45 miles before 10:15 AM either, and I’m running a caloric deficit that will only build over the next eight hours. But the point here is that lunch gives you another sense of what a terrifically huge operation and effort Pelotonia is and involves. Without volunteers, we wouldn’t be able to ride like this. Without corporate support, we wouldn’t be able to fundraise so successfully — such that every penny donated to a rider, virtual rider, or volunteer goes directly to cancer research. This place is turning out buckets of food, courtesy of the corporations supporting us, and all of this cost and overhead is covered. It doesn’t drain from donations.
Mile sixty. Granville. Tears of joy and wonderment. There are so many people lining the streets of Granville that it’s overwhelming to take it all in. It’s as if they’re all there for a parade. Cheerleaders, high school bands, decorations and signs and screaming fans. And then you realize that they’re there for you. For us. It’s easily one of the emotional highs of the weekend, if not, arguably, the emotional high. Another illustration of the enormity of this endeavor. I realize that I’ve been pedaling sixty miles for this high. To be a part of something larger than me, to make this experience for me and for them something more. And at the end of Granville you arrive at the high school rest stop — and wow! again. It seems as though the entire community has made baked goods for us. If you can imagine it, it’s there for you. It is abundantly clear that this is personal. It is not a corporate affair, staffed by reluctant employees compelled to sacrifice their time on a weekend day. These volunteers are putting their all into this event…and it means the world.
Pain. It’s in Granville, at the rest stop, that you (I) feel pain for the first time. Or cognitively take note of it, at least. To be blunt and overly personal…chaffing. The likes of which I have only known during Pelotonia weekend. So you make adjustments and explore the medical tent, and say to yourself, “Damn this hurts. But it isn’t cancer. Don’t fool yourself. You’ll be fine.” You pedal out of town only to discover/remember that the next twenty miles are much hillier than you recall…you’ve been worried about miles 80–95 while miles 62–80 require much more work than you had budgeted.
Thus, fear. Questions set in. “Can I really do this again?” “What was I thinking?” It’s windy, to boot. Wind adds up fast, and slows you down in a hurry. It takes enough energy as is to get this body moving, and wind saps the energy from my legs.
More fear. Because I miscalculated. In my mind, the final rest stop on day one is at mile 80. It isn’t. 80 comes and goes, followed quickly by 81 and several rolling hills into and through 82. Damnit. I need a break. A break that doesn’t come until mile 85. So, the mindset changes after struggling through three miles of desperation. I’ve taken off 5 more miles than I expected, so I’m 5 miles closer to the finish. “Maybe I can do this.”
Our group has largely regathered and we head out as one. Charlie has been finished for hours, and Amy is riding well. She’s behind us, but we know she’s strong and will not be far behind. There are a few surprising hills in this stretch for which we’re well prepared, hills that force folks who trained in the flats of Ohio or elsewhere Midwest off their bikes. It’s work. After 85 miles, it’s a lot of work. We cruise through them and cut through the ceaseless wind as a team.
All with a growing sense of unease. There is a bastardly climb ahead. Mile 92, 0r 93, or 95…none of us can remember. It’s become a legend unto itself, short but steep, fear-inducingly steep, not a joke. It comes almost out of nowhere, and there isn’t a good way to pedal into it. It’s as if you’re starting from a dead standstill and heading straight up — if you don’t keep your cadence, you’ll tip over, I promise. Most people on our route are walking their bikes up the hill. Two years ago there was a local family cheering on the riders. They had written words of encouragement on the road in chalk. F*#$ Cancer. F*#@ this hill! You can do it! You will do it! Last year, nobody was there. It was an emotional bust. This year, a former member of Kenyon’s peloton who had taken a spill during a training ride a few weeks earlier was there to encourage us. [Disclaimer: he and I weren’t the best of friends. But seeing him there, yelling and screaming and cheering for us to beat that hill…to beat cancer…meant the world.] I crushed that hill, and set a personal record. We all crushed that hill, didn’t stop during or at the top, and rode on. It was a rush.
Day one finish line. Relief. I had made it. Pride. Gratefulness. Family and friends were there…it’s coming home, inasmuch as these people are there for you. Safe passage realized, a time to celebrate. Fellowship, a celebration of victory. And then…to bed, at 8:41 PM (I haven’t been in bed that early in 30+ years!) because the alarm is set for 4:35 AM. Breakfast is at 5:30 AM, chutes open at 6:30, and Day Two start is at 7:00. Yikes.
The first year we rode in Pelotonia I didn’t sleep but four hours between Friday and Saturday night. I was an emotional wreck, an emotional ball of stress, and I couldn’t sleep. Last year was a bit better, though cycling 80 miles on day two on five hours sleep isn’t all that great. This year? Slept. Like. A. Log. Almost felt human when the alarm went off. Spent breakfast trying to enjoy the moment instead of being afraid my body would reject everything I introduced into it.
Day two is about solo work for the first thirty miles. The mass of people — still amazing, and in its own right the second largest ride by threefold we participate in each year — has been paired down to about 800 cyclists. The first thirty miles are in your head the moment you awake. Rollers, Charlie Carabello cautions. Rollers will eat you alive if you let them. You need to pay attention, take advantage of the downhills so you’ve maximized momentum into the inclines. Pay attention to your gearing. Efficiently shift and keep momentum. Pick out milestones on each little climb and power through them. Suffer a bit. It’s temporary, and self-inflicted. You’ll recover swiftly. And do it all over again.
There’s a mass of people at the first rest stop, and it feels good. You’ve made it through the most intense bumps. You can fight across flats and tackle smaller bumps as they come. But take a second look at the elevation profile above. There’s a nice steady buildup through mile fifty (or 150, given the previous day’s work) and you’re going to have to pedal.
I think my mind wanders most between mile thirty and mile 75 on day two of Pelotonia. A ton of corn to take in. And soybeans. Flatness in some sections that seems bewildering…this isn’t the Ohio I grew up in. You can see for miles. And the wind that’s been building for miles smacks the crap out of you.
So I think of other things. I begin to count tractors, and realize that it’s a ridiculous effort. 1.) There are too many tractors to count. 2.) I haven’t been counting tractors for the first 130 miles, so my count is pointless. But it appeals to me because I get to think of how much my adorable nephew, Brocktyn, would ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS ROUTE BECAUSE THERE IS AN ABUNDANCE OF TRACTORS AND FARM EQUIPMENT THE LIKES OF WHICH I CANNOT DESCRIBE.
My mind then goes to imagining a future in which Brock does not know the realities of cancer. That cancer is a thing of history. That it ate some members of our family, but is no more, and never will be again. That’s why I’m riding.
Huge, palpable, real self-doubt. Around mile 55. I hate myself, and feel like a drag on my wife and other teammates. I’ve prepared for this, but between the wind and the chafing, I am in a world of hurt mentally. Why did I think I could do this again? Isn’t this too much? And my mind pivots to Aunt Judy and Susan. I do this because they aren’t here anymore.
I have to do this. I can do this. And I will do this.
This body isn’t meant to sit on a thin cycling saddle. It shouldn’t be in spandex or lycra. Ever. It’s been more than twenty years since I’ve thought of myself as an athlete. But I’m here. And in this moment, no matter the burden of self-doubt, I know that I must, can, will finish.
Because I’m here. And I can.
Five of us reunite at the final rest stop of the ride, and we form a formidable peloton. Together, we divide the stress of the wind, pick up a few stragglers on the way that add to our momentum, and conquer the long, wide open flats. We finish as one, and it feels like the world.
Thank you. I wish I could express how much the generosity and support means to us. Across training rides, in the heat, over the 180 miles of Pelotonia weekend…we could not do this alone.
Keith, Jolene, Ray, Danielle, and their amazing families. They have raised more money for cancer research on behalf of our team than any other event. — almost 10% of the more than $60,000 we’ll have raised as a team over three years. They sold 155 chicken dinners, home-cooked, at their fundraiser this year. I had the honor and privilege to be a part of it. I will never not be a part of it. This is community. They work their tails off for no acclaim, no recognition, no fanfare. They don’t get to pedal through Granville, don’t get jerseys, don’t get to hear the applause at the finish lines. They amaze me. I am blessed to call them family.
Janet and her family — Erin’s aunt. Her house has become Pelotonia HQ for the Midnight Train. Their generosity in time, space, food…makes this weekend easy. And fun. I am a lucky and blessed man to have married into such a supportive family.
Jessica and James, our newest team members and virtual riders. They organized and hosted an Athens-area BBQ this year that was wildly successful. And, of course, Velma, their cancer-fighting wonder pup…
Amanda, and Phan. For their tireless support of our team’s efforts, and Amanda’s work in kind to build our team’s web site (georgiamidnight.com).
Katie and Jon at HiLo. They’re hosted multiple percentage nights for us over the years, and Katie baked her amazing cookies and donated them to our team’s Community BBQ in Athens.
Paul McCarthy and his firm, Kisco Capital, for your generous and continued donations to my ride, and his matching grant this year which helped me meet my High Roller commitment of $5,000.
Micah at Georgia CycleSport…a multiyear sponsor and perpetually on-call bike technician. He makes us ride fast.
Micki and Megan at UGA IHE. They always come through in a pinch when we realized we’ve forgotten something essential.
The UGA Meat Store, for donations that make our Community BBQ more profitable.
Emilia Louy, our cousin and Official Ohio Delegate of the Midnight Train, for her mastery of the Panera receipts-for-riders fundraising offer.
My brother-in-law, Brian Ciarimboli, and his tasty Midnight Train home brew!
Nick and the ultra awesome folks at Satisfactory Printing in Athens, Georgia, for your sweet t-shirt designs and a rad new logo for the team! Your design inspired our kits this year…speaking of which, a huge shout-out to Hincapie Custom Sportswear for yet again supplying us excellently designed and manufactured team kits.
To all of our supportive sponsors…thank you. Please read about each of them, and find links to their own web sites, on our web page.
I know there are people I’m forgetting, and I’m afraid to publish this…so I’ll edit as needed, and beg your forgiveness along the way.
I’ll keep quiet now…until it’s time for #Pelotonia18!
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
