My first century is in the books. It actually turned out to be pretty fun, and any apprehension I had was unfounded. I rode really well, and even though I faded a bit at the end, it was still a strong performance.
When I say "first century" I am referring to an organized event. Back in my racing days, we eclipsed 100 miles many times and rode up to 150 miles on several occasions.
I arrived in Plymouth early in the morning and checked in. My stomach was a little upset. Looking at a jagged course profile with 8600 feet of climbing will do that to a guy. Here is the route map from last year:
The highlighted route is the metric that omits the Slug Gulch climb, which is an ascent that strikes fear into many flatlanders.
We rolled out and of course there are a lot of people, but it thins out quickly as the racer guys separate from the riding guys. I am somewhere in the middle between the dudes with shaved legs and the dudes with beards and review mirrors.
The first 20 miles flew by quickly because it was almost all downhill. I rolled into the rest stop in Ione feeling great but I knew it was only fools gold. I topped off my water and grabbed some food because I know shit's about to get real.
We immediately start the climb up toward Volcano and I settled in for what will be roughly two hours of climbing. I spun a low gear to keep my heart rate down. I knew that the Rams Horn Grade after Volcano is no joke.
A few miles into the climb, a group of about 25 guys came roaring up from behind. I recognize one of them as my old neighbor Renzo, who exclaimed "Dude!" when he saw me. I rode with Renzo quite a bit a few years back when I lived in Sacramento, and I also recognized a few other guys from those rides. "Ride with us, man!"
These guys were all Cat 2 and 3 racers, and given the length and difficulty of this ride, I knew I should probably ride alone. But I am also a little competitive, so I said yes.
The first time I rode with Renzo and his friends they dropped me after only six miles. I improved some over time, but the flat roads around the airport and the Sacramento River made it tough. I am at my best when the roads go up and down.
The pace was high and a little uncomfortable, but not too bad. We clicked off five miles, then 10. I was sitting in about 10th wheel, and I took a peek behind me to see only a couple guys; our pack had been cut in half.
As we approached Volcano I was looking forward to the break. However, nobody slowed down. It was on. We blew through the rest stop and hit Rams Horn Grade full blast. I was sitting on Renzo's wheel when a gap started forming in front of him. I pulled around and said, "Let's go!" He tried to stay with me but couldn't. I closed the gap and grabbed a wheel. I looked back to see Renzo cracking.
We hit a false flat and regrouped a bit. Everyone sat up for a few seconds and took a drink. As racers we recognize these unspoken truces but know they are very temporary. There was one more piece of the steep climb remaining. Eight of us remained from the original group, and there would definitely be a race to the top.
We hit the last stretch, and the tempo was insane. The angel on my shoulder said, "You probably shouldn't be going this fast." The devil inside said, "Kill them all!"
One guy started to pull away and I decided if I don't finish this ride, then I'll just go out fighting. I jumped around a couple guys and went after numero uno. I eventually reeled him in and two guys were able to stay on my wheel. We stayed in this order until we rolled over the top.
As we crested the climb the four of us exchanged high fives. I felt pretty good about making the selection with a group of elite racers. There were over 20 guys behind us who couldn't.
We took it easy on the descent into Fiddletown. We had proven our point and it was time to let the group reassemble. Renzo eventually caught up to me. "You killed it, man!"
I just shrugged my shoulders. "Why are you not racing?" he asked.
"Because sometimes the roads are flat."
We got a good laugh out of that.
As we approached Fiddletown, I told Renzo I was going to take advantage of the rest stop. We said our goodbyes and they rolled on.
I fueled up and quickly got back on the bike before I cooled down. I decided to slow down a bit and focus on the last big climb.
After Fiddletown there was a small climb and some rolling flats as I neared Slug Gulch. The riders had thinned out and for the first time I was completely alone on the road. I may have been better off riding at a higher pace in the pack, but I will never know. Either way, those flat miles took forever.
Slug Gulch was tough. I had never seen people walk up a paved road, but there were many riders pushing their bikes. The maximum grade was 14%. I have encountered steeper, but not after 80 miles of riding.
I was determined to ride the whole thing, and I did, but I didn't set any speed records. A couple times I had to resort to zig-zagging across the road just to get my heart rate under control.
After I crested the top I thought it would be smooth sailing to the finish, but topo maps can be deceiving. That last 20 miles of "downhill" had lots of little leg-breaking climbs.
Thankfully a guy came by and asked if I wanted to ride with him. We rode the rest of the way together and that helped a lot from a drafting perspective and psychologically. It's just easier to suffer with another rider.
We rolled into Plymouth and I was glad to be done. Even for a guy in decent shape, 103 miles is a lot. Right now I can say that I don't have any desire to do this again, but I probably said that last time I rode 100 miles.
Later.
