[Note: sinewy sunburnt gopher type who puts your fitness to shame at age 70. Note also, complete lack of fanfare for rolling start.]At 5:30 a.m. on Sunday, a force of lycra-clad cyclists young and old, mostly old, sped out of Mile High stadium, clustering together for the ride out to Golden like a pant-leg cuff clip clings to the hem of a pair of polyester pants. A very premature aid station at 13 miles thinned the cartel out at the base of Lookout Mountain - I suppose Gatorade and rainbow cookies were in some people's ride plans prior to the climb. My ride plan consisted of: "get over Lookout Mountain to 33-mile aid station ... [insert plan for rest of ride]." Thankfully, I found Lookout Mountain a pleasant ride, and the dogs behaved well during gratuitous sprint stands along the way, performed without knowledge of RPM or heart rate targets - I stood up and pumped because I felt like it. And I sat down and dawdled when I felt like it. The below photo managed to miss the big, snow-covered mountains to the west at the time, and the topography immediately east, which drops into the canyons by Golden, and then flattens into prairie. I have, however, captured a nice photo of the guard rail while on the go.
Having reached the famed 33-mile aid station after a mammoth descent of Lookout Mountain, I resolved to generate a ride plan for the remaining 67 miles on the spot: "Enjoy Deer Creek canyon ... [something Highlands Ranch] ... enjoy buzzing down Cherry Creek bike path to finish." Pictured is the view riding south through the foothills - several monoliths and red shards of diagonal rock didn't seem to make the photo, but I have again captured the curiosities of black-top and the shoulder very competently. Deer Creek canyon was, as expected, rather pleasant, but I was somewhat unnerved to hear, upon reaching the 44-mile aid station, that I was the second female to pass through (note: rolling start - this does not mean that I was the second-fastest female by any means, riding as I was at 7-hour pace). My concern, throughout this ill-prepared-for ride, was that I would foolishly incinerate my bodily reserves of energy and motivation, and be left, shriveled, on the side of the road in a latter stage, a victim of poor pacing. Was I trying to be second female? Certainly not. All I was trying to do was get through Highlands Ranch and onto Cherry Creek reservoir.
Speaking of which, Highlands Ranch is the end of the earth. I know. I have been. What I had previously dismissed as horrendous subdivision-and-cookie-cutter exurb cemented in with water-sucking lawn-land turns out to be exactly that, but also a wasteland expanse of nothing else as far as the eye can see. Mile after mile of slow uphill along wide, meandering through-roads named "Buffalo Way" and "Oak Tree Lane" betrayed no sign of a horizon, tree or buffalo: we were, I decided, pedaling to the top and off the edge of the earth. On one of the godless inclines a "Livestrong" jersey, black ride jersey and I were churning over our chains in second gear in relative nearness. Being in first gear on a hill longer than a mile is, as you know, a sign of the apocalypse, as is more than one Applebees sighting.
But lo! Rounding one of what turned out to be the last hills in this section, we were taken from behind by a young beatnik in a bucket helmet, cargos, ironic t-shirt, beard, and buildy-vintage bicycle. Thin as a chapbook, he zoomed by us in a relaxed upright position, pedaling crookedly as if headed to the library. I have tried to recreate the beatnik menace above via a photo of my friend, Mic the Pirate, and a selected helmet and bicycle. For the rest of the race, I did not see him again.Strangely, having "summited" the Highlands Ranch herd of subdivisions after 20 miles of relentless uphill, the precipitous downhill never materialized. Instead, we wound out and under I-25, truly now in bumfucknowhere, being east even of Highlands Ranch, and headed toward the Centennial Airport. The signage and ample vested-folk directing us around the course vanished at this point, and after a short congressional hearing on a corner with the fellow behind me (another "Livestrong") at a confusing junction, he affirmed that we should continue ahead in a straight line on the road we were on. The chap vanished into the distance, while I waited for the next caucus, who all agreed that we needed to turn right and enter a footpath. Side note: while cycling through the "downs" of Centennial, I was riding close to another "Livestrong," but reluctant to overtake him, lest I be pacing incorrectly, and exhaust my brittle, stout frame. I noticed the jersey making sounds: grunts at first, then full swear words, uttered with Tourettes abandonment. Then I heard a cry: "Just pass! I didn't enter this fucking ride for this." It sounded like Gollum, so I sped by eager to stop offending this tortured individual, my weight dragging on his gaunt psychology. But I wonder: did he think I was drafting him? Drafting him as we pedaled at 5 mph uphill, into the wind? Doesn't the drafting co-efficient vanish when you are metres back and going over the lyrics to Dannii Minogue's "This is it" in your head as you pedal?
Above are some of the ladies at the last aid station - that I stopped there only speaks for my enthusiasm toward free snack-size energy bars. After that, it was a very quick 12 miles of slight downhill along the very-familiar Cherry Creek bike path, which I pedal probably five times a week. I threaded the rag-tag scraps of dog-walking, fishing, burley-towing and rollerblading on the path, so designed to make the final 12 miles a gauntlet of urban cycling antipathy for participants. On reaching Mile High stadium, the older fellow who "drafted" behind my rabid cries of "left!!" tried to high five me as we cruised in toward the finish line. We missed twice, he being too far away from me, and so we gave up pathetically.
Otherwise, the only ceremony to finishing 100 miles was seeing the Pringles mascot hand out free samples, and watching the sinewy cycling types clop about the carpark in cleats. I didn't feel the transition from regular citizen to cycling gopher immediately, but I did wake up with a boosted craving for muesli, and I did feel just a tiny bit browner today. Next: cycling stickers and a more obnoxious jersey.
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