Roller Coasterin' to the Coast

Head down, sweat dripping down off my nose, body weight back, focus on cadence. It was the first hill in quite some time. The heat was worse than the last time I rode toward the sky in Colorado. I pushed forward, grinding my thighs to get over the top of that rise. I wasn't quite sure what was over that rise. It wasn't like it was a marked pass, it was just a hill. I'd fire up over that last bit of incline and crest, only to see what I had not anticipated this early, the road was a never ending undulation. I slowed over that first incline, caught my breath and rocketed down only to crawl back up.

This is what the elevation plot looked like on Ride With GPS. That line is the MO/KS border, you can tell why I thought it was flat.

Crossing the Mississippi, to me, is crossing from West to East. Back to the Old New World.

This would become the rhythm that would carry me to the coast. I knew this was coming. Every time you talk to anyone who has ridden their bike from the West Coast to the East Coast, it's never the Rockies they complain about, it's the East Coast hills. The last time I rode these hills that stretch all the way into Canada, I was in NY and I remember attacking them in exactly the wrong way, taking all my might on the downhill trying to carry momentum up over the next rise, but physics says this only works if the next hill is smaller (insert some sort of fantastic Newtonian equation here). I had to stay calm and just treat this ride like it was any other, focus on cadence, always focus on cadence.

What sucks about heading East is that you have to crook your neck to see the magnificent sunsets. This is somewhere in KY.

The end of the road in IL, before crossing into KY on the ferry.

The rig was holding on strong. This was a free rec center crash in Lookout, KY. The best part was having hot coffee right away in the AM, oh and not descending those twisty KY roads in the dark.

I stayed calm. I stayed cool. Those hills would keep me in the running for top ten (apparently, climbing is where I excel, thank you Oakland). My zen like state from Kansas carried me into several late night rides that would turn into early morning rides. The weather was always cooler these times of day which helped, but that didn't stop me from blitzing through the afternoon heat. I would eventually catch Tom on the road in Illinois, the first rider I'd seen since Oregon. We wouldn't ride together long that first night, as I felt as if he was trying to lose me and I felt like getting lost. Shortly into Kentucky, I would then meet David, who I would also cross paths with time and time again.

Tom was a fast rider. At first he seemed a little into himself and his riding, but the road would humble him for sure making the last few days on the road with him very pleasant.

David on the other hand, was completely torn apart by an extra 300 miles, making him completely come loose. I dreaded meeting him on the road because it would be a never ending laundry list of complaints.

Across Missouri, Illinois, and Kentucky, the terrain never changed. Every day would be a series of pummeling rolling hills that would tear apart my thighs. It would slow Tom greatly and I think was the beginning of David's unraveling (by the last time I saw him he looked like he was smoking crystal meth for the past three weeks, not riding a bike, he was so haggard). Not only was the terrain grueling, Mike Hall had finished and the site for following the race recorded an extra 300 miles. I figured the site was wrong, but David was not. "190 miles a day now. That's what I need to do to finish by Sunday to catch my flight home," was David's plan.

Shit. That sounded awful. I didn't want to do that, but if I let David go, that would mean eleventh place. Top ten sounded like a goal I wanted. The last three days would be a real challenge of sleeping less, making one city further than my body wanted and just firing on all cylinders. Tom would spend a few nights riding straight through the dark, yet we stayed on his heels that is until the final night.

I spent so much money at the Co-Op in Carbondale, IL and went far out of my way, but I figure, everyone else gets sit down lunches/dinners, it's time for me to splurge. This lasted til about noon the next day. Calorie loading!

Lexington, VA had another sweet co-op. I was focusing on making Whole Foods in Charlottesville, but this was a worthy stop.

Coming into Charlottesville, I decided that I was done seeing David. His complaining and incessant bragging on all his Colorado ultra marathon bodies was getting old. I dropped him on the Blue Ridge Parkway (stunning views, btw, if I didn't want to drop David so bad, I would have definitely stopped for photos) and never looked back. I caught Tom at night coming into Charlottesville, but that would be the last time I'd see him as he'd ride straight into the night. I would nearly second his effort, sleeping from 11 PM to 3 AM, I was up before the sun (more importantly up before David) and out on the road. That day would be one of the ugliest as we'd now entered the East Coast suburban sprawl through Richmond. My head was dizzy from the heat caused by the pavement and cars. I was trying to stay on the bike to not give David a chance to catch me, but I was paying for it mentally. The food was thankfully good, but it was a challenge to keep from getting knocked by a passing mini-van. I was so glad to push on to the Virginia Peninsula and get out of the suburbs.

The Virginia Peninsula; the homestretch. I stopped at my final dumpy gas station stop along the way to get a Pepsi, that 3 AM start was starting to get to me. My mind was once again struggling to slog those final fifty miles. I just wanted to get off the bike. I was trying to focus on that beer at the end of the road.

Then Jamestown, enter the Colonial Parkway, this was it. You could call this the final sprint (4,100 mile race, 26 mile sprint? Sounds fair right?). The cobbled roadway felt great under my 35mm tires, and I love the rough stuff anyway. I was almost there. Emotions were welling as I pushed an 18 MPH pace across the Parway. A hurried tourist look through Colonial Williamsburg and the counter was at 17 miles to go (again, skipped out on pics). That last hour would pass in a blink of an eye. I was on the outskirts. My legs were now burning as I raced along the waterfront. The finish line was the monument up the hill. I salmoned up the one way toward the monument. At the intersection at the top I see a woman facing the opposite direction hey, that looks like my mom, I thought. I look across the street and see my dad. "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!" That was the finish line, it wasn't a lonely gallop to a tired nap, it was a celebration. I had no expectation of my parents to be there, but they were waiting with cameras and of course beer. It was over. To say I was elated would be an understatement. This was the greatest accomplishment in my life and my amazing parents were there to share it with me. What a way to end a 4,100 mile blitz across the United States, huh?

Me and my mom at the finish

22 days with no beer make Patrick something something.