SwimBikeRunStLouis

Brevet (pronounced bruh-váy) is the French word for a cycling event in which a given distance is to be covered within a proscribed time limit. At pre-determined checkpoints along the way, as well as some surprise ones, the Brevet card is signed by event officials, validating passage through a given section of the route. Self-sufficiency is mandated and support, particularly for the longest events, is only allowed at checkpoints. While not a race, the cutoff is designed to provide challenge and significance to one’s efforts. The distance can vary but the most commonly found rides are 200, 300, 400, 600, 1000, and 1200 kilometers in length. 2003 has special meaning for ultracyclists, or randonneurs as they are also called, because by completing a 200-300-400-600 series in sequence and within limits qualifies that individual to ride in the 1200k Paris-Brest-Paris held in August every four years. That ride with its often grueling conditions and strict ninety hour cutoff is the most sought-after finisher’s medal in the sport. Welcome to the world of ultra-distance cycling where riding a century is considered little more than a preamble.

Looking at the calendar with a measured approach back in January, I diligently plotted a buildup for the Brevet series. All my previous years of endurance training instilled the wisdom of incremental increases to volume; still, I had never tackled anything longer than a century and some change. Three hundred kilometers, or nearly a double-century seemed a long ways and yet it was on the short end of the Brevet series. Unpleasant memories of hot July centuries were still branded in my mind. But this would be March weather, I reminded myself.

There were just a few variables in this undertaking that I could control. I determined that fitness would not be the inhibiting factor. My training would see to that. It would boil down to a carefully calculated and executed calorie exchange. As long as I didn’t bonk, I would keep the pedals turning, end of story. If only life were so simple.

The planning stages necessitated thinking through details I hadn’t previously considered for a bike ride. Should I buy lights? Should I attach panniers? What about rain gear? How much water to carry? These and a host of other randonneuring intricacies rebounded like billiard balls in my head. Ultimately, I relied on the time-tested KISS method and decided to keep it simple; maintain two cages with bottles of carbo drink supplemented by a hundred ounce CamelBak of water and its pockets crammed with 4000 calories, tools, tubes, and money. As far as the rest was concerned, I’d make it back by sunset and if it rained, c’est la vie. This was to be an adventure, after all.

The Main Event

The forecast was for temperatures to top out in the mid-forties. The northwest wind expected that day hadn’t yet shown its blustery face as I loaded the car in the cold, pre-dawn darkness. The chilled air was serene and the cloudless sky was dotted with stars. Thankfully the windshield was just covered with frost and not a veneer of ice.

The caffeinated drive to Edwardsville for the 6:00 a.m. start was auspiciously highlighted by a close combination of the brightly lit crescent moon and Venus hanging low on the horizon in perfect alignment with the highway heading east. Driving inexorably towards this sign, I felt oddly like some modern-day cycling magi.

My pre-ride parking lot preparation consisted primarily of emulating what the "vets" were doing. The only difference was that they had the gear and I didn’t. Raingear stowed, check…extra batteries for lights, check...booties on, check…mittens, check. I looked through my visible breath with a sinking sense of foreboding at the bare finger tips protruding from my cycling gloves, but self-talked my doubt into a shallow confidence.

As we thirty or so cyclists finally started rolling, only minutes after the scheduled start time, that old friend, adrenaline, kicked in. My mind received its brunt end and reeled with a dozen possibilities of where this day would ultimately lead me. Reaching inside for the old triathlete bravado, I knew I would finish, no matter what.

Nearly immediately my fingertips felt the sting of the wind-chill created by the combination of thirty-two degree air and my rolling speed. One mile in and a steep down hill had my fingers screaming. How could I have been so dumb? No amount of flexing, warm exhalations, and shielding seemed to sufficiently return their feeling. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I discovered shortly thereafter the importance of wearing cycling booties as my toes underwent the same discomfort. I only hoped that once my core temperature was raised, the blood would find its way to my extremities.

Despite having taken a psychological blow so early on from such a foolish lack of preparation, I doggedly pedaled onward vowing not to fold at this ridiculously early stage. The main group bunched together and sped through the desolate, sleeping streets of Edwardsville. A few of the "old timers" immediately fell off the back as the pace was brisk. A glance down to the speedo revealed a surprising 20mph tempo. I smiled inwardly. No way they hold this, I concluded, it’s just an early rush, yet thankful for the opportunity to hopefully warm up, I motored on.

The fight to keep the digits warm came and went for thirty or forty miles. Eventually the sun breached the horizon and rose to a clear sky and provided first psychological then actual physical warmth. I stayed with the peloton off and on, but never lost sight of them. Keeping the pack within arm’s reach also meant not having to look for road markings. Being as how I didn’t have a course map and even though they said the route was well marked, I certainly didn’t want to ride past a turn on my own some hundred miles out.

The prospects of spending twelve or more hours in the saddle lent itself to much introspection. My thoughts seemed to wander off aimlessly at times and I would look up to see the pace line slipping away. This cat and mouse went on for another twenty miles until, with a concerted effort; I rode them down and jumped on. Breathless, but thankful to catch a draft, I looked down to a digital 23 looming back at me. Jeez, no wonder they kept getting away.

Our general heading had been East and South which took advantage of a slight tail wind. In gasps I asked the rider to my right if these guys were trying to get back in ten hours to which he replied that the hammer was down because the return leg was going to be a bitch in the headwind. The dim bulb in my head lit up.

The scenery didn’t offer much to relish and frankly it melted into one large blur anyway. Mostly it was the unlucky nocturnal animals and winter’s left-over potholes we dodged, that caught our attention. At one point, it was possum, possum, scattered bag of greasy McFries. I perversely pictured these as two distinctly different types of road kill.

There was noticeably little conversation among the cyclists for an epic ride. This wasn’t your regular weekend hour-hammerfest and then bam you’re home. A rather steep time commitment was given to this smallish band of cohorts and I had half expected the chatter to be a bit livelier. Perhaps the sentiment was that we had all day to say whatever.

On and on we went. I steadfastly kept my computer on average speed, refusing to glance at the miles covered. I didn’t want to know. I wanted to look at it later in the day and see a hundred plus. I knew if I covered the 300k at a lowly sixteen average that I would make it back by dark. That was my official goal now that the goal of merely finishing was not a question. Each and every peek at my average was rewarded with readings in the nineteens. This was too easy.

In every paceline there always seems to be one rider who for lack of a better term is simply impatient. Off the front he goes daring all to come with him. The lemming mentality of we non-TDF riders caves and eventually the paceline disintegrates. Our jamoke did this twice to the group and just when we needed to work together, it was solo as we turned into the wind. Disgruntled but unwavering I put my head down and chugged out the next few miles.

Eighty miles out and sixty ounces of fluid past the start, I rolled into Okaville, Illinois and beelined for the mart. I took a bathroom break, reloaded both bottles with carbs, and coolly answered a curious inquiry about how far I was going with a nonchalant "hundred and ninety miles." Yeah, I was all that.

Back in the saddle and rolling again, refreshed from the short break, I wheeled through main street USA. Any smugness I may have copt at the mart quickly evaporated when my saddle bolt suddenly snapped and I found myself heading for the pavement.

The impact was taken by my right knee and ribs. Having been on the disabled list for two years running, I knew the drill. It may not hurt like hell just yet, but it may be broken. I inventoried and prayed. Bruised rib, banged knee, and black and blue ego were all I found besides the broken bolt.

They say out of every negative comes a positive. It’s the universal karma balance. My positive was the pickup truck behind. These two fellows reacted immediately to assist me, then my machine. Once convinced that I could brush off the fall, they headed to NAPA, quickly matched the saddle bolt, and were back within minutes. Admittedly my head was still spinning from all of the "what ifs?" as I tried to discern and comprehend my good fortune from the bad. In a short time the seat was re-secured with an extra turn of the wrench for good measure. I thanked these fellows sincerely, admired both 30 lb catfish still wriggling in the back of their pickup, and said a small prayer of thanks just to be turning the cranks anew.

The pavement was passing under and behind me again. That last little episode had put a decidedly different spin on things.  It was time to reassess. Most of the riders had gone past when I awaited the return of my "support crew." Without exception they asked if I needed anything, of course. So it was now that I had to play catch-up with both the other riders and the clock. My margin of error for getting back by dark had taken a hit, but my average still had some wiggle room. On I rode then,  with this journey having already indelibly marked me.

Ten miles down the road I managed to hook up with a trio of riders from Columbia, Mo. who were rapt with attention as I related what had transpired back in Okaville. I joined their line and together we rode to the hundred mile checkpoint. There, a pleasant country café afforded us the opportunity to get out of the cold for a brief spell, socialize in a more normalized fashion, and in general brace ourselves for what was to be eighty miles of head and cross winds. We managed to cover the first hundred miles in five and a half hours. This last leg was going to take a tad longer.

No more than ten minutes out of the café, we were buffeted by violent cross winds and threatened by ominous black clouds blowing swiftly overhead. The heavens released tiny globules of sleet that stung our tender faces like needles. As long as I didn’t get poured on, for which I was totally unprepared, I thought the storm was cool.

The northwest wind was steady and there was no more southern route to cover. Maintaining thirteen mph seemed a monumental task. The prospects of going another six or seven hours just to cover eighty-some-odd miles, was deflating. We worked it for forty miles single-file or in echelon, endured another sleeting, and helped each other along in a display of true randonneuring camaraderie. This symbiosis was eventually spoiled by a missed checkpoint that they needed to backtrack towards to validate their Brevet cards. I bid them adieu and pressed on. I had no plans for Paris, so no need for a signed card.

It felt good to be on my own again, only forty miles out now. A glance at the clouded western horizon hinted that available light would be rapidly diminishing. I pushed my pace to fifteen in surges that were all too brief. It would fall back ten or eleven just as quickly. After an hour of this, I regretted having left my friends behind. The odometer seemed to move like molasses. Several times I screamed cathartic expletives at the wind to stop its relentless pushing. This was getting crazy.

Another hour of this tedium found me vacillating between states self-pity and a general stupor. It was probably a mild case of the latter when I rode through a gauntlet of free range dogs. These guys performed the angled pursuit and crisscrossed the road just beyond my front wheel in what seemed a well rehearsed act. Once beyond their sprinter’s range, I'd almost wished they’d chased me the remaining twenty miles to my car. I would most assuredly had gotten there in under an hour with them at my heels.

Well, it was dark now. Cold again. Fingers numbed to the point of being unable to put my el cheapo sunglasses in my jacket pocket so I cast them to the side of the road. Knee balking. Rib aching. I could have finished in the relative safety of the "rocking chair" between lighted bikes but opted to finish alone, as I had started. I figured these sorts of journeys are ultimately a trip on the inside as much as the miles covered on the outside. Ten miles now to go.

The well chosen roads had provided little in the way of vehicular danger which came as a great surprise given the distance of the ride. That proved a boon now as I pedaled somewhat vulnerably after dusk with little reflective gear. Someone way smarter than me once said that all things shall pass. And this ride too passed when I eventually coasted into the parking lot, the sight of my waiting Honda looking better to me than it did in the showroom.

There was no one waiting for me. No hand clasps, hugs, or high fives, not that I was expecting any. My immediate needs were more elementary: warmth, food, and sleep. I would later discover that my day had cost me eight pounds of body weight. I resisted the siren calls of fast food joints long enough to make the drive home to a languid hot shower and a short meal, then plunge my head deep into a pillow.

Copyright SwimBikeRunsStLouis 2002-03