Bike Log, vol 7 - NYC Century Edition
Missy | September 14, 2009
Sunday was New York City’s annual century bike tour. It winds through Manhattan, Brooklyn, the seemingly endless and confusing Queens, and the Bronx and riders can choose among distances. I signed up for the 100 months ago, failed to fully train for it, yet decided I was going to do it anyway. Given commuting mileage to & from the north Central Park start & finish, Adam and I opted for the “75″ miler, which was actually 86 miles. (Alternatively, we considered sleeping in, picking up the route when it passed by my apartment in Brooklyn, and riding the remainder of the 100 before commuting home the miles we missed by being lazy. But he has a dog, and she needs to pee.)
Here’s how our day went.
We woke up around 5 something. Shoulda been 5 exactly but we are sluggish, cranky people before dawn’s crack. We had our stuff packed up, our clothes laid out, hard-boiled eggs & bread & jam ready to eat, but as I watched Adam peel and peel and peel, frustratingly but silently (for if words were spoken, all hell would break loose), at an impossible to peel egg, I knew we were going be late. The dog was taken out and her bowl filled with food and put where she couldn’t reach it until local friend came to tend to her later. We hopped on our bikes and booked toward Manhattan. Somewhere around the Manhattan Bridge I felt like I was going to expel the hard-boiled contents of my stomach. I took deep breaths and pressed on, though I worried my day would end before it even started.
Somewhere past Canal Street, a few terse words were exchanged; see, logistics often stress me out and here we were facing the decision to continue riding like hell to get to 110th Street or finding the riders along the way but missing out on obtaining rider cue sheets. I simply could not decide and wanted Adam to make the decision. Turns out he, too, was ready to upchuck. We were not happy, but the shared barfy-ness seemed to unite us. Around 30th Street, we cut over to Broadway figuring somewhere between there and the Brooklyn Bridge, we’d find everybody. We did, and then our moods improved.
By the time we got to the first rest stop, at Prospect Park, Adam said, “I’m almost feeling like I’m not gonna barf!” I concurred. You wouldn’t know it here:
But I did eat a Krispy Kreme.
Around mile 20, we witnessed a crash between oncoming cyclists. No one was hurt, we think, but one rider hit his head on the ground. He was helmeted.
We passed under the Verrazano Bridge, which looks lovely in the early morning.
Then we began a stretch from Coney Island to the Rockaways and back up to Howard Beach that traced a portion of Adam’s and my 50 mile first date, incidentally the last time I rode 50 miles. Here we are along the Rockaway Beach boardwalk.
I was cruising along pretty well up to around mile 50 but then began a serious of downhills. Not literal downhills, because those are to be celebrated, but the physical deterioration kind. That, and Queens is the most confusing place on earth, so I never had a clue where I was (except for when we were around Forest Hills and Flushing Meadows, only because we had just biked up there a few days prior for the US Open) or when the next rest stop was coming.
One exciting break to all of my overblown misery (I had still many more miles to go before full-on despair was permissible to kick in) was the lap around the Kissena Velodrome. For those who don’t know, a velodrome is a banked track for track-bike racing; though track bikes are favored by your friendly neighborhood hipster (and, it turns out, me), their primary purpose is for going really fast without brakes on a special track. Now, the key word in that last sentence for purposes of this exposition is “banked”: let me be the person who admits to freaking out on that track. I didn’t know how fast I needed to go. I didn’t know if I needed to lean. All I know is that mild vertigo washed over me and that I wasn’t sure if my bike was going to slide down the track surface, taking my dermis along with it, or if I’d topple feet over head in the other direction–one of the two outcomes seemed certain. I was also foolish enough to snap photos during that lap. Here’s one exactly as it came out of my camera:
It looks like I’m smiling and enjoying myself, right? Like I wasn’t scared shitless and SCREAMING, right? Let’s turn it around and get a better read:
I’m afraid that look of terror is not faked, folks. Nor is my strange onset of elephantitis of the right shoulder. The sad thing is, that pic looks like it was taken on one of the flatter sides of the track.
Post-velodrome, I started bonking on & off, despite periodic infusions of food and drink. My quads were beginning to shut down, thanks in part to an unaccustomed 12 mile ride the day prior on my new fixed gear, and my hands and feet started to unexpectedly hurt like hell. Pressing one’s feet against the inside of cleated shoes thousands of times over and resting a good percentage of one’s weight onto one’s hands for many hours? Yep, color me surprised. Adam kept me amused by speaking in convincing foreign accents and recounting his own experience during one century of yore riding the stretch near LaGuardia where he zoned out and crashed into a railing.
By the way, you would be wise to avoid the numerous wheel-eating (”Not So”) grates. They’re everywhere.
Also, I kind of wanted to punch the out-of-towner riders a little bit who have a habit of calling things out. The worst was “Green!” when a light turns green. We’re all stopped, waiting for the light to change, so, you know, we don’t need reminding.
Where was I. Suddenly (except, at the time, it really wasn’t so sudden, if my near-constant grousing was evidence), we were at our last rest stop in lovely Astoria Park before hoofing it over the strangely put-together Triboro Bridge to Wards Island and then into Manhattan. Finally, the finish! Where I could pick up my hard-earned t-shirt!
Of course, then we had to ride down through Central Park park and back to Brooklyn. I was nearly in tears riding through what was suddenly the most ginormous and annoying park ever created. But when it spit us out onto Manhattan’s streets, I forgot about how much my body wanted to shrivel up and die, and my brain snapped to attention. Though the route passed through non-blocked-off roads and streets, we had been spoiled with early riding hours, low traffic, and patient drivers. Midtown traffic’ll get you if you’re passive or half-asleep.
We made it home. We had stayed upright (with the exception of my 10-minute corpse pose in Astoria Park) and we had zero flats or other mechanical problems. The subsequent shower, cheeseburger, beer, and sleep are now counted among The Greatest Things Ever.
Many appreciative thank yous to the folks from Transportation Alternatives, the ride’s primary sponsor. Numerous volunteers, copious amount of food and drink, and terrific weather made for a wonderful ride.
New bike
Missy | September 12, 2009
Made with love by fast boy cycles. First time on a fixie, I had the option of subwaying home or riding from Harlem to Cobble Hill, and I chose to ride. With the exception of a few panicky starts & stops, I adapted. Holy cats, I did it! I also had a coach, he being my boyfriend, but don’t tell Bike Snob.
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Listening
Unmap
Volcano Choir
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Reading
A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again
David Foster Wallace
