5.5 hours, 50 Miles, and a Meltdown
Monday, May 14, 2007
This past Friday I did my first significantly long outside ride (mostly) on the IM-Moo bike course.
I started in Fitchburg, off of Whalen Road, headed to Verona, then to Mt. Horeb, out toward Cross Plains, and eventually turned around and headed back. But I get ahead of myself.
A handful of miles into the ride, I stopped to check my directions. They were two pages long (check it out for yourself) with a ridiculous number of turns. (As you might imagine, this, combined with being out on the back roads of southern Wisconsin that were poorly signed at best, made for some really slow going). After a fellow biker saw my directions and stopped to consult (he was turned around and couldn't find Verona), I attempted to get back on my bike and find County Route G.
Yes, attempted.
I clipped in with my right foot, as usual, pushed off with my left, didn't get enough traction, and instead of leaning to the left (where I had a free foot waiting), I leaned to the right.
Bam!
I hit the concrete so hard that my right shifter folded in, pointing disturbingly toward the frame at an unnatural angle. And when it did that, my right hand was between it and the road. I also skinned my knee, although what worried me was my hand. It was already painfully sore from master's the night before, where I smacked it so hard against someone in the lane next to me that it hurt to bend my fingers, even at the knuckles. Now, I couldn't close it to grip anything. The problem was the wrist bone that goes into your palm under the thumb. It hurt like a sonofagun, and I wondered if I might be the only person to break the top and bottom of their hand on consecutive days. I also wondered how I'd make it back to my car with one hand.
Thankfully, after a little rest where I coaxed my hand open and closed, over and over again, until I could grip just a little, I was able to climb back on and continue the ride.
At first, I enjoyed myself. I was playing hooky from work and it was a perfect day -- not too hot, not too cold; not too sunny, not too dark. And the rolling hills spread out before me reminded me like nothing ever has of the Irish countryside.
But soon, the wind started. And my hand began hurting again like a sunofagun. And I couldn't find bloody Garfoot Road. I rode up and down County Route J looking for it. And I got more and more annoyed. Because, unlike when you can't find the right road in a car, trying to follow bad directions on a bike requires not only looking, but pedaling -- a lot of pedaling -- especially on back country roads where signs are spaced miles and miles apart, and where every single bloody farm looks exactly alike.
So, 2.5 hours into the ride, I decided to turn around and head back. I was supposed to be at my closest cousin's rehearsal dinner in the UP that afternoon at 5:00, and if I didn't give up on Garfoot then, I'd never make it.
Turning around, I had a half-hour of reprieve, and then (I swear) the wind picked up again. Is it possible for wind to blow in BOTH directions? Honestly? Because it was. Hard. And suddenly, somewhere on County Route S, the course didn't look so Irish-countryside-ish as just long, and lonely, and unending, and unyielding. Hill after hill after hill. Not a car or person in sight. Just cows...and the occasional llama.
It's been said that, although the IM-Moo bike course looks pretty tame on elevation charts, its short, steep inclines will slowly wear on you, and "break you apart, hill by hill."
After only 30 or so short miles, I was starting to break.
It was getting hot, I had only a few sips of both water and Gatorade left, and I hadn't yet hit Mt. Horeb. At one point, I came down a hill into a blind turn, which I assumed (given the lay of the land) flattened out after the turn. So I braked just a little, and readied myself to get back into my aerobars, only to find out that after the turn was another hill, and that after the top of that hill, there was just a tiny little dip before it climbed into an even bigger hill. And then the wind gusted again. And again.
"Come ON!" I screamed at the wind. "Give me a freaking break here!"
Now, I am not in the habit of yelling at the elements, or even talking to myself. Ever. So, this should've represented a bit of an unraveling to me. But I pressed on, chastising myself for being weak-minded, for not having biked enough this winter, for signing up for the IM in the first place.
Before the 50th hill I had come upon, I climbed off my bike to stretch my back and take a quick drink. I promised myself I wouldn't drink all of it, but once I put the water to my lips, I couldn't stop. This happened again, some time later, with the Gatorade.
Mercifully, I eventually biked into Verona, feeling tough and proud. Although I hadn't biked far, or made even marginally-good time, I had been out there for over five hours. And in the marathon training I've done, training yourself -- your mind -- just to be out there, working out, for hours on end, was worthwhile...regardless of the pace I achieved.
I knew it wasn't far now, but the directions I had led me away from where I belived my car to be. In any case, I decided to trust them. I had been out for a handful of hours, I was tired, and I had gotten turned around earlier. Perhaps I was now, too.
I biked farther and farther from the water towers of Verona. Probably five miles in all. And then I came to a T in the road. Only the road had no signs (notice a theme here?) and there was nothing in either direction. The BP gas station where I had parked was conveniently missing. I knew I was in the wrong spot.
And that's when the tears started.
We're not talking just little trails running down my cheeks. We're talking all-out, my-boyfriend-broke-up-with-me, my-dog-just-died, crying. Sobbing. On the side of the road, in full biking get-up.
It all just felt so overwhelming. Like the universe was conspiring against me. I knew I looked ridiculous. I knew I was being ridiculous. But I Just. Couldn't. Stop.
I tried telling myself that there were people far worse off than me. That this was not a big deal. That I had gotten myself into this. And that all I had to do was climb back on the bike and head the other direction.
The last two made me cry even harder.
I finally pulled myself together enough to call my Chief of Stuff. I told him I didn't know what road I had T-ed into, and when he told me "Paoli," I think there was something about the way I said, "Oh, god," that made him offer to come and pick me up -- an offer I accepted.
This too -- his coming to pick me up when I wasn't hurt or lost, but merely having a meltdown -- I knew was ridiculous. I also knew it wasn't very Ironman-ish of me. But frankly, right then, I didn't give a damn. I just wanted to be D-O-N-E, done.
So I took off my helmet, and my shoes and socks. I ran my toes through the grass, and I sat and waited. And I cried some more. I called a friend of mine who's good at listening and perspective, and who happens to be pregnant.
"I'm having a meltdown," I told her. "I've been out here for five and a half hours. I just couldn't do anymore. And now I'm sitting here waiting to get picked up and wondering if I can do this. I don't know what I've gotten myself into."
"I was just saying that same thing yesterday," she said, "Only my sitch is permanent." She got me to laugh.
In retrospect, I think that I badly misjudged my nutritional needs. I had a cliff bar for breakfast, and another half on-course. That, a bottle of water, and a bottle of Gatorade isn't enough to sustain one for that long of a ride. I'm going to do better with my nutrition next time. Lesson learned.
I'm still petrified that I'm that poor of a cyclist. That I'm in that poor of shape that I covered only 50 miles in 5.5 hours. Hell, I can run faster than that. But I'm trying to look at the positives: it was more than 5 hours on course -- on the very hills and with the very wind that will be there on race day, the nutritional bonk that I experienced was a really good lesson to learn this early on, and I've got three solid months to train on that same course. Plus, it's 5+ hours in the bank -- no matter how slow they might've been, I was out there for 5.5 hours. I figure that's gotta count for something.
Posted by Erin 1:14 PM
You are going to be great!
Those backroads can be hell! I've just started to get to know my way around there & I live on the backroads. Here's something I learned just the other day. There's a really big cell phone tower on Cty road M, behind the barn. If you ever get turned around again, head for the cell phone tower & call me!
Wind and hills are the bain of my existance on the bike too - they make me say lots of bad words and have contributed to a few of my own meltdowns.
I think you are right on about nutrition - properly fueling your rides makes a big difference.