Bob's ride

This account has been prepared for the following people, who made my MS-150 experience possible: Kelly McKibben, Laura Herrmann, Margy Herrmann, Nancy Geyer, Patsy Schechter and Steven Lee, and Herrmann International.  Thank you all.

I had decided to participate in this event fairly late in the game, like four weeks beforehand.  My decision came after completing a metric century (63 miles) and feeling pretty good afterwards.  This made me believe I could do the MS ride and not suffer (too much).  The rules for these rides are that you must pay a $35 registration fee and raise at least $200 for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society in order to participate.  I paid the fee on line, and I hoped to use their convenient on-line pledging system to raise the money.  Unfortunately, my on-line account didn't work correctly until only a week beforehand.  But with a week to go I raised the necessary funds plus enough extra to qualify me to receive the 2001 MS-150 Bike Tour jersey, thanks to the generous contributions of Herrmann International and just a few friends and family members.

The ride would start in Lugoff, South Carolina (a two and three-quarter hour drive from home in Asheville).  The first day would take us to Florence, a distance of 70 miles.  The second day's destination was North Myrtle Beach, a distance of 80 miles, to total 150 miles.  A truck would carry our luggage from Lugoff to Florence, then to North Myrtle Beach.  Another truck would carry our bikes from North Myrtle Beach back to Lugoff while a bus would take us back.  (The trucks and busses and their drivers are all donated to the MS Society for the event.)

On these rides, one can slum it by sleeping in the gyms of the various host schools (public high and middle schools) or one can get a hotel room.  As late as I committed to the event, the chances of finding an available hotel room were slim, and I really wasn't up for doing the gym thing.  (I wanted to be able to get some sleep.)  Fortunately, the Blue Ridge Bicycle Club was hosting a team for this ride, and the team had made hotel reservations... and had extra rooms.  When I registered, I specified that I was part of the BRBC team.  The team's 'housing director,' Pete, took care of the rest.  This not only made it possible for me to participate, but actually made it something of a no-brainer.  I didn't have to do much of anything.  I got a room and a roommate, which cut my housing costs in half, and I was put on the team's Listserv, where I found a rider to share gas costs.

Friday

My job is computer system support for a small company, and the Nimda virus had crippled the company's two file servers on Wednesday.  I worked practically around the clock to straighten everything out so I could leave on Friday.  I finally had both servers clean at 10:00 Thursday night.  I'd planned to work half a day on Friday, but at this point I figured I'd already done my half day--and more.

It was as well I didn't try to work Friday morning because I had half a day's worth of preparation still to do, like buying PowerBars, getting a book-on-tape from the library, changing the oil in my car, cleaning out my car so there was room for my passenger.  Lol also suggested vacuuming the car to reduce the "human smell."  I argued that my passenger would be another bicyclist, so he wouldn't be bothered by the gym-like smell.  Probably wouldn't even notice it.  I settled for borrowing the balsam pillow she bought in the Adirondacks.

As planned, I met my passenger, Scott, at 3:00, and we headed for Lugoff, SC, where the ride would start.  Scott is 21 and rides hard.  He looked forward to riding in some fast pacelines.  I'm 49 and overweight, so I didn't expect to see much of Scott once we started riding.  He was concerned about the team captain's decision for the team to ride the first 20 miles of the first day together.  I could see his point.

We got to Lugoff a bit before 6 and checked into the motel.  It was a very basic Day's Inn, but the mattress was firm and the location was very convenient.

Two BRBC team members from the Henderson County Sheriff's Department, Billy and Allan, were already there, so the four of us went off in search of an Olive Garden in neighboring Columbia that they'd been to before this ride last year.  Of course they knew where it was.  I don't know whether these two guys are partners or not, but the way they interacted, it was obvious they know each other well.  The Olive Garden was probably 20 miles from the motel.  It took us 90 minutes to get there.  It seemed we couldn't travel a given segment of road just once.  All the while, Billy maintained a running commentary on the scenery, last year's MS-150 ride and nothing in particular.  After asking a rotund fellow in "The Home of the Big Biscuit" (we concluded that he was the Big Biscuit) where to go, we managed to find the Olive Garden in short order.  (We give thanks to the Big Biscuit.)

It was 7:45 on Friday night.  The parking lot was packed.  I had visions of waiting an hour for a table.  The maitre d'  said it would be three minutes.  None of us believed her, and she was wrong.  We were seated within a minute.  Wow!  This sure wasn't Asheville!  I had the best Olive Garden meal I've ever had (and the third).

We were back to the motel and I was in bed by 10:00.  My roommate showed up around 11.  I figured I'd meet him in the morning.

Saturday

As requested, my wakeup call came at 5:15.  I quietly (so as not to wake my roommate) went to the shower, where I discovered that this cheapskate motel didn't provide complimentary soap and shampoo.  I'd left my soap at home, because it's liquid and always leaks when I travel.  Yuk!  So after a soapless shower, I headed across the parking lot to the Waffle House for breakfast.  Several other team members were already there.  Four filled one booth, and Scott sat alone at another.  But Scott had positioned himself and his food such that joining him looked like it would be an intrusion.  People are unpredictable that early in the morning, and I decided not to test Scott's mood.  I sat at the counter.

While I was sitting there another five of our team members came in.  They sat at another booth, the fifth person pulling a chair up to the end of the booth.  I reflected on the fact that I was sitting by myself.  That seems to be a common phenomenon.  I also often find myself riding by myself on group rides.  I'll be on a ride with hundreds of other people but end up riding alone.  I've always attributed it, in riding, to the fact that my excessive weight gives me different riding characteristics.  I go slower uphill and faster downhill, on average, than other riders of my riding strength.  So we tend not to ride together.  And, in the mountains, these differences are magnified.  But here I was at a diner, and the same thing was happening.  Maybe it's not a "riding characteristic" issue.  Maybe it's a personality characteristic thing.  The rides promised to be among the flattest I've ever done, so the weight difference should have the least impact it ever has.  This also promised to be the largest number of people I've ever ridden with.  I thought it would be interesting to see whether I again ended up riding alone.

Breakfast over, I went back to the motel, tossed my bag into the car, collected Scott, and we headed for the school down the road, where we'd leave the car and start the ride.

Registration on an event like this can be quite an ordeal, but I went through lines one and two fairly quickly and without a hitch.  In line three I picked up a plastic bag with my name and rider number on a sticker.  The bag was supposed to contain my t-shirt and jersey, but it contained nothing but a scrap of purple paper saying that my registration form had not specified a shirt size so one was not included, and that I could pick it up in Florence.  I had registered on-line, and I remembered the radio buttons for shirt sizes.  I remembered clicking "XL".  Then I remembered that my account had had to be deleted and a new one created because of the problems I experienced with it.  Perhaps when they created the new account they skipped that.  I'd noticed that the "fund-raising goal" was different than what I'd entered.  Oh well.  As long as I eventually get the stuff...

The final step was to put my duffle bag onto the truck that would take it to Florence, and I would be ready to ride.  I checked for the n-teen^th time that I had everything I would need then took my bag to the truck.  Someone was calling out, "Gloves, shoes, sunscreen, glasses, helmet... make sure you've got what you need for the ride because once your bag's on the truck, it's gone."  I could see why.  The pile of bags was enormous.  I thought through the list one more time and handed up my bag.

Then I remembered water bottles.  I'd put them in my bag at home.  But wait.  I'd filled them at the motel.  They must be in the car.  A quick ride around to the car, and yes!  Phew!  

I don't know how many riders started in Lugoff, but there sure were a lot.  Our team had met at a particular corner of a particular fence.  Other riders were already queuing up for the start.  A prayer was read and the National Anthem played over a PA system, then they began releasing groups of riders, about 100 at a time.  We were well back, so it took perhaps a half hour before we'd worked ourselves to the front of the line. 

Finally our group was at the top of the queue and the signal was given.  As I stepped on my pedal I heard and felt the solid 'click' indicating that my cleat had locked into place.  (Ok, you cyclists reading this know what's coming next because it's happened to you too, but don't give it away to the other guys.)  The people signaling when to go signaled the riders just in front of me to stop.  They did.  Suddenly.  See, this was in the middle of our team, but we'd expected that the whole team would go out together.  It seems the signalers weren't thinking 'team'.  They were just thinking quantity.  (We were just too much for them.)  In any case, the person right in front of me stopped suddenly, so I stopped suddenly.  But I couldn't get my foot out quite as suddenly.

It starts slowly.  You're almost balanced.  But not quite.  As the bike and body tilt (in this case, to the left), they pick up speed.  Meanwhile the foot is shaking, twisting and pulling, desperately trying to release from the cleat.  But to no avail.  It's still firmly clicked in as the bike and body accelerate and crash into the next bike and finally (after an interminable instant) the road.

We were lucky.  The next person was not so close to the next person as to cause a domino effect, so only two bikes went down, and the other rider managed to keep her feet, so I was the only person to go down.

I picked up my sorry ass and my bike and carried them to the sidelines, hiding my face in shame.  The damage was:  skinned knee (with copious quantities of blood to make things look impressive), handlebars turned (easy to fix), seatpost twisted (easy to fix with allen wrench), brake lever twisted (slightly more difficult to fix with allen wrench), torn handlebar tape (can live with it).  I didn't see any frame damage, or any other problems that couldn't be fixed.  The knee was sore but I didn't think it would be a real problem.  I got the handlebar and seatpost straightened with the help of a team member. 

There are few things quite as embarrassing to a cyclist as falling when you're barely moving.  Doing so in front of hundreds of people is worse.  And doing so just before the start of a ride is even worse.  I could have severed my leg, and it wouldn't have mattered.  I was going to get on that bike as quickly as possible and get out of there!  And that's just what I did.

Truth be told, I didn't even notice the twisted brake lever until I got on the bike.  I rode with it like that till a rest stop, where I had a mechanic straighten it.  (There were mechanics at all the rest stops.  I considered asking one for a tune-up, but I figured it'd probably take too long.  They were so accommodating, they'd probably have done it, though.)

On the road.  Finally.  Blood dripping down my leg.  Brake lever bent.  Laughing stock of the whole event.  I'm having fun now.  Oh yeah!

Ok.  Now you've got to understand our 'team'.  We've got riders who average about 12 miles per hour, and we've got those who average 25 miles per hour.  And we've got everything in between.  Although many team members have participated in the same rides (every Tuesday evening), they have never ridden together on those rides.  Sure they start together, but the fast riders take off and the slow riders cruise out.  They never see each other again until the start of the next week's ride.  So now we've got these 40 disparate people attempting to ride together.  If you've ever seen thoroughbred horses being led to the starting gate, you've got an idea what some of the faster riders were like.  They were just straining to be let loose.  Other riders were struggling to keep up, devoting little of their attention to the many riders who were passing us and others whom we were passing.  Bottom line is there were very few of our team who were comfortable with the pace.

I did not enjoy the first 20 miles of the ride.  I'm sure my crash contributed to my mood, but the chaos around me was what I particularly noticed.  I'd felt the same way on other large group ride starts.  It takes awhile for the crowds to thin out, after which it's fine.  But the beginning is not fun for me.  Many riders are unfamiliar with group-riding etiquette, and others don't care.  Some ignore calls of 'car back,' continuing to dominate the entire road, and others don't even know what the expression means.  Likewise many ignore or are ignorant of calls of 'on your left.'  I just didn't enjoy it.  I vowed I would never do a ride like this again.

However, after the first rest stop I jumped into a paceline going about 19 miles per hour and my mood improved.  For those of you unfamiliar with cycling technique, a paceline is, at its most basic, just a string of riders following each other closely.  Wind resistance is such an important factor in cycling effort that at 30 miles per hour you use 30 percent less effort by drafting like this.  The percentage is less at lower speeds, but it is still significant even down to ten miles per hour and lower.  

Because you work so much harder out front ('pulling'), in a well-organized paceline the lead will change frequently.  The way this works is that the lead rider will move to the side then slow down a little, allowing the next rider in the line to take over while he drifts back beside the line.  As he approaches the back of the line he eases himself into the back of the line.

The highest expression of a paceline is the echelon, where the lead rider maintains the lead only long enough for the previous leader to have drifted back far enough to make room for the new leader to move over too.  This pattern continues, forming two lines, one going slightly slower than the other, the first rider of the faster line moving to the slower, and the last rider of the slower moving to the faster.  This is a beautiful formation to watch and to ride in.  To ride an echelon is to be part of a true team, each rider contributing equally to the power and grace of the whole, and the whole being substantially greater than the sum of the parts.

Riding an echelon requires practice, focus, bike-handling skill, and trust in the riders around you.  One small lapse of attention or judgment can cause a nasty crash.  To a lesser extent this is true of any paceline.  As a rule, the greater the skill of the rider in front of you, the closer you can safely ride to her wheel, and closer is more efficient.  Professionals who have trained together will ride with mere inches separating their wheels.  On club rides, it may not be safe to ride within three feet of another rider.  (Of course your own skill is a factor here too.)

Two failings are common among inexperienced paceline riders.  One is to hold the lead too long.  On one occasion I watched a rider drop off the lead and not even have the strength to jump back into the back of the line.  On many other occasions the line would start to slow down because the leader was getting tired.

The other failing is to speed up when you take the lead.  This is a curious thing.  You've been riding in the second position, not working very hard when you see the leader's elbow flick, signaling that he is moving aside.  You realize that you have to increase your effort now, so you start pedaling harder.  (Here's a trick:  when you're in the second position, watch your cycle computer to monitor your speed.  Assuming the terrain doesn't change, when you take the lead, maintain the same speed.)  I saw one rider increase his speed so dramatically when he took the lead that he rode right away from the rest of the line.  Just took off.  Bye!

Am I preaching?  Sorry, but I just love this stuff!

Lunch was at mile 35.  I got there around 10:30, but I'd had breakfast at 5:45, so I was ready.  The purpose of these rides is to raise money, so wherever possible the organizers get stuff donated.  One of the donors was Subway, who supplied sandwiches for lunch.  A pasta salad augmented my turkey and cheese six-inch sub, capped with a banana for desert.  I wasn't particularly hungry, but remembering the unpleasant consequences of not eating enough on a previous day-long ride, I ate.   

After lunch I took it easy for awhile.  I rode a few slow (16-17 mph) pacelines, and I rode along side a few people, chatting.  On several occasions a 'car back' call came in the middle of a conversation, requiring me to pull into line.  I'd accelerate to pull in ahead the other rider, and my momentum would carry me away from the other rider, who I'd never see again.  

Digestion sufficiently established, I started hopping onto faster pacelines.  At one point I dropped off a paceline shortly before arriving at a railroad crossing.  The paceline snuck through just before a train approached, but I didn't make it.  As I waited for the train to pass, a group of five guys in their early 20s, all around six feet tall and about 140 pounds, showed up, all wearing the same team jersey.  When the train had passed they took off and I jumped onto the back of their line.

We were humming along around 25 mph (ok, I wasn't exactly humming; I was totally anaerobic, and barely able to hang on) when we came to a red light.  We stopped.  (Phew, a break!)  I pulled up alongside the other guys.  They looked over at me.  The contrast was ludicrous.  I'm five-ten, 220 pounds, with a graying beard.  They almost laughed.  "Hey, grandpa, how's it going?"  The light turned green and they took off again.  I jumped back on to the end of the line and lasted maybe another mile.

My heartrate monitor records my heart rate, speed and cadence (how fast I'm pedaling) every 15 seconds.  After a ride I upload that information into my computer and plot a graph of it.  When I look at Saturday's ride, it's clear when I was riding with those young whipper-snappers.  It's where my heart rate goes through the roof.  Ah, youth.

The route was marked with a combination of road-side signs and spray-painted arrows on the road.  Following these signs and arrows, I found myself on the Darlington Raceway.  Half a lap later was the pit area, and a rest stop.  On turn three, I tried to get up enough speed to get to the top of the banked wall, but my 25 mph didn't quite cut it.  Some riders took a few laps.  I did one then continued on my way.  Though I'm not a NASCAR fan, it was a thrill to ride around that track.

I arrived in Florence at 1:15 p.m.  According to my heartrate monitor/cycle computer, my elapsed time was 5:16, of which I was actually riding for 4:10.  My average speed was 16 mph, and I went 66.2 miles.  (Your mileage may vary.)  My average heartrate was 108.

The National Multiple Sclerosis Society has been doing MS-150 rides for many years.  They do many of them each year, so they've pretty much figured out how to do this.  The Florence destination was a middle school.  I followed other riders as we walked our bikes out to the athletic field.  Rows of temporary bike racks had been constructed, each labeled with a range of numbers.  My rider number was 1709, so I found the '1700-1800' row and deposited my bike.  Taking my cycle computer with me, I headed for the parking lot to pick up my duffle bag (in the '1700-1800' row). 

Although the MS Society is quite experienced, I was not.  The BRBC team had done so much of the work for me that I'd been lulled into inattention.  Standing in the parking lot, ready to go to my hotel for a shower, I realized I didn't know what hotel I was staying in.  Private buses would shuttle us to about 10 nearby hotels, and I was clueless.  Oops!

Leaving my bag where it lay, I wandered into the gym to see if I could spot any BRBC jerseys.  (They are thankfully easy to pick out.)  In short order, I'd spotted a team member.  (Well, actually, he spotted me.  He wasn't wearing the BRBC jersey, but I was, so I was the easy one to pick out.)  He said he'd been there for an hour but hadn't seen any other BRBC riders.  (The route had included a 'century option', so you could ride an extra 30 miles if you wanted.  Many of the fast riders  were doing that.)  It turned out this fellow was staying in the gym, but he did know the name of our hotel.  Relieved, I headed outside for my duffle and the bus.

As I rode the bus I began thinking.  My roommate and I were to share housing costs.  I'd paid for the first night.  The theory was that he'd pay for the second night.  But what if he hadn't checked in yet?  I'd brought $60 in cash with me from Lugoff, figuring that would me more than adequate for incidental expenses.  My wallet was in my car.  Sixty dollars would cover the hotel, but it would leave me broke, and what if Bryan, my roommate, didn't have cash?  But I was tired and decided not to worry about it.  Sometimes these things work out if you don't worry about them.  And he may already be there.

If the Day's Inn in Lugoff was barely adequate, the Wingate Inn in Florence was palatial.  (True, I'm not accustomed to fancy hotels.  To one who is, it may have seemed barely adequate.)  Though Bryan had not checked in, the desk clerk said I could do so without paying.  They'd settle later.  (Nice!)  

Walking to the elevator, I passed a Jacuzzi.  I'd brought a bathing suit, so I figured I'd take advantage of that later.  My room had two queen-size beds and there was soap and shampoo in the bathroom.  I hit the shower, where I scrubbed the dried and crusted blood off my knee and the sweat off the rest of me.

Then I lay down in bed and read for awhile then took a nap.  What a life!

Most of the rest of the BRBC team was going into town to eat at Redbone Alley, a reputedly excellent local restaurant.  I took a pass on that, figuring I wouldn't want to cope with the logistics of getting 40 people to a restaurant and fed and paid up and back again.  It just seemed like too much work when a free lasagna dinner was available at the school, with busses coming by every few minutes to take me there.  

Before dinner I stopped off at the t-shirt & jersey table.  They didn't have a t-shirt in my size, so they'd have to mail that to me, but they did have the jersey.  I was glad of that.  It's a nice looking jersey.  (See the photo at the beginning of this account.)  

Dinner was lasagna and spaghetti, salad, and several desert options.  I had it all, and it was great.  One of my dinner companions rents heavy equipment, and another works for duPont.  Dinner conversation focused on bulldozers.  You can rent a Bobcat or a Caterpillar D-9 (though not for the same price).

After dinner I opted not to go to the movies or luau (both available by shuttle bus), and headed back to the hotel.  I watched a funny movie on a cable channel that I don't get at home, then my roommate came back from dinner.  He told me about his adventures on the century loop, then we both crashed around 8:30.

Sunday

My wakeup call was again for 5:15.  If I'd known that the hotel had a waffle machine and batter in the lobby, I would have made an effort to get down there in time, but I only found out on the bus to the school.  Bummer!

All busses came by the hotel at 5:45.  There was no second chance.  All riders piled on, and we headed for the school for day two.

Upon arriving at the school, I followed a few other team members who had heard that the BRBC team was to meet at the tennis courts.  We didn't know where the tennis courts were, but they must be on the school grounds, so we just started walking around the school.  Eventually I'd had enough aimless wandering and I saw someone with a walkie-talkie.  I figured he had to have some sort of official status, so I asked him where the tennis courts were.  He asked in his radio.  Though it took awhile, this conversation eventually led us to realize that we didn't want the tennis courts, but rather the gym.  So we went there.

At the gym, the word was that Jennifer would arrive in 15 minutes, so we synchronized our watches and promised to come back in exactly 15 minutes.  In the mean time I went into the cafeteria to inspect breakfast options.

I was too late for hot food and nothing else looked appealing, so I spent the time waiting in a bathroom line.

We did the team picture 25 minutes later (Jennifer never showed, which was really too bad, as you'll see in a minute), then the plan was for the team to meet with bikes at Pete's truck.

The route I took from the gym to the athletic field where the bikes were required passing through a door-sized opening in the fence.  Many people were trying to get to their bikes through this opening, and many other people were trying to get through it with their bikes in the other direction.  It was quite a bottleneck, but in time I got through.  I grabbed my bike and realized that to get to Pete's truck, I had to go back through that opening.  ...In time I got through.  There was the team, or at least some of it.  The plan now was to queue up for the start of the ride, but as we weren't riding as a team, it wasn't necessary to do so together.  This, of course, meant going back through that same opening.  ...In time, I got through.

Over 2000 riders started in Florence.  They were all lined up--well, more like piled up--ready to start.  Lines of traffic cones and colored tape funneled the mass of riders to the school entrance.  A technique was employed that, had it been used in Lugoff, would have saved me a skinned knee:  A length of brightly colored tape was stretched  across the queue, segregating the group of riders who would be released in the next heat.  This way, there was no ambiguity about who would go and who would not.  Once the riders had gone, the tape was released and the queue advanced.  Then the tape was stretched across at the same point as before, again identifying the riders to be released.

A PA system was used to provide information and commentary.  This is how I learned that we were more than 2000 riders and that we'd raised 1.4 million dollars.  The announcer also commented on interesting jerseys and team names (e.g. Roadkill).  

The queue, defined with traffic cones and colored tape, only occupied part of the parking lot.  (It extended beyond the parking lot, around the building.)  To the left of the queue, the parking lot was empty.  I'd been in the queue for 20 minutes or so when two riders appeared in the unused portion of the lot.  One was dressed as a bride, with white ruffles and lace.  The other was a bridesmaid, with a similar outfit in purple.  This, it turned out, accounted for Jennifer's tardiness.  She was the bridesmaid.  The bride was BRBC member Tracy.  The announcer 'ooh'ed and 'ah'ed over the costumes and the bride and bridesmaid hopped into the front of the queue.  

I don't know how long it took before I  was riding.  It wasn't a bad wait though, what with the announcer entertaining us and chatting with neighbors.  It sure was nice finally to be moving though.  I'd been at least three-quarters of the way to the back of the queue, and therefore passing slower riders for quite awhile, but I didn't experience the sense of chaos I had on Saturday.  

At one point a bunch of riders in front of me doggedly refused to move over for a 'car back.'  The car had to move into the oncoming-car lane to pass them, and the speed difference between car and bikes wasn't great, so it took awhile for the car to pass.  It was not a very safe situation.  Shortly thereafter I wanted to pass the same bunch of riders.  I got to the left side of the lane, called 'on your left,' and waited for them to make room.  They stayed where they were.  I called again and inched my way up, being careful not to cross the center line, essentially forcing the riders to do something.  They did as little as possible, and I squeaked through with inches to spare.  I heard a muttered gripe as I rode clear, but I didn't have the heart to engage in a discussion of road etiquette, so I just kept going.  That was about the only such situation I encountered on Sunday.

About 10 minutes into the ride, a fog settled around us.  As a sailor, I've got some experience with fog, and this one was a real pea souper.  We were on a four-lane divided highway.  The left east-bound lane had been isolated with traffic cones for our use, so we had some protection from motorized traffic.  However, the occasional west-bound 18-wheeler kicked up blinding sand, just to make matters more interesting.  From my sailing experience, I know that you can see better in the fog by continually moving your head.  (Is that an object in front of me, or just a change in the density of the fog?  If it's an object, I'll see subtle changes as I move my head.)  The visibility kept diminishing as I plodded along, shaking my head like a naysayer.   The condensation on my glasses eventually had become so thick that I thought I couldn't make matters any worse by wiping them with my hand.  So I did.  When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a view of the road, and eight tiny bicycles...  No, really!   Each passing truck had added a layer of sand to the water drops, gradually rendering my glasses virtually opaque.  With the sand wiped off, the "fog" practically lifted.  

Around 10:00 I saw my first peek of sunlight.  It reminded me of how fortunate we'd been to have fog all morning.  It'd been really fine riding conditions (except when the fog had been really dense, and except for the sand).  I was in an 18-mph paceline at the time.  There'd been about four riders when I jumped on to it.  When the sun came out we'd expanded to 12 riders.  A rest stop approached, and some discussion bounced around the line about whether to stop or not.  It was decided to stop just long enough to pee.  Amazingly, the porta-potties had no line.  Several of us availed ourselves of these deluxe facilities and the bunch of us was off again.

A little while later we were passing a slower line as a faster one approached on our left.  We were like three trains on adjacent tracks sets of tracks, running at different speeds.  The speed differences between lines were not great, so the passing process took awhile.  Being in the middle line was fascinating, with a line of slower riders on the right and of faster ones on the left.  I recognized several BRBC members in the faster line (Pete, Scott and Greg) and I thought it'd be fun to ride with them for awhile, so I hopped over at the last moment.

This turned out to be one of the few pacelines I rode all weekend that actually rotated.  (At fairly regular intervals the lead rider would move aside and drop to the back of the line.)  I was surprised at how seldom this happened, because a paceline is so much more efficient when it works this way.  It is also more fun.  I enjoy pulling for a little while.  I like it when my position in the line keeps changing.  When it was my turn to pull, I dropped onto my aero bars (never used when in the middle of a paceline, because the brakes are inaccessible), and felt like the engine of a train.  It's really a wonderful feeling, pulling.

This line was going around 20 mph when I joined it, but at one lead change the pace quickened.  (Pete probably started pulling here.)  Before long we passed another rest area and heard that lunch was just up the road.  I was working hard to maintain the pace and I thought a cool-down before lunch would be nice, so I signaled the person behind me and pulled out of the line.  At exactly the same moment, Greg, who was right ahead of me, did the same thing.  I felt sorry for the poor guy behind us who then had to catch up two bike-lengths to be back on the line.  If it'd been me, I probably wouldn't've been able to do it.

On Saturday, we'd had a few very minor hills in the morning.  On Sunday, there wasn't a one.  Not going up and not going down. The best thing about hills, as Blood, Sweat & Tears observed, is "what goes up must come down," and going down you can stop pedaling.  As far as I'm concerned, that's the real beauty of the bicycle.  The ability to coast is the bicycle's greatest asset, and for this marvel we can thank William van Anden of Poughkeepsie, NY who, in 1869, developed a freewheeling device on his Dexter bicycle.  Surprisingly, freewheeling didn't catch on right away, not becoming common on bikes for a score more years.  Without hills, you rarely get the opportunity to appreciate van Anden's invention.

But Greg and I, as we dropped off that paceline, paid tribute to van Anden: we coasted as we eased our way to the right side of the road and let our speed gradually drop into the teens.  Meanwhile a couple of hammerheads approached from behind.  They must've had their heads down because they didn't see us until the last moment.  The first rider hit his brakes, but the second one didn't.  His front wheel must have  touched the back wheel of the other rider, because he went down in one big hurry.  Greg and I stopped to see if he was hurt.  He'd joined the booboo-knee club, but otherwise he seemed fine.  I think he was more embarrassed than hurt.  (Been there.)  As we rode off, Greg and I reviewed the circumstances to see if we should have done anything differently, but we concluded that we weren't at fault.  We still felt bad.

Lunch was at mile 50.  I wasn't particularly hungry, and the line was long, but I knew I had to eat.  I grabbed a water bottle and did my obligatory stretches while in line.  I've injured hamstrings, ankles and an IT band in the last few years, so those are the places I am careful to stretch several times per ride.  The next injury will be some new muscle or tendon, after which I'll add it to the stretch list.  (True, I also stretch quads even though I haven't injured them, but after riding it just feels so good to do that stretch.)

The line moved along at a steady pace, and before long I was chowing down.  Lunch consisted of roast beef or turkey and cheese sandwiches on white bread, Cape Cod potato chips, pasta salad, cookies and fruit.  I had some of everything and topped off my bottle with Gatorade.  Scott later told me that he'd seen me at lunch, but I didn't see him.  Greg wanted to wait for his boys.  I got back on the road after a little over half an hour and hopped on a mellow (17-mph) paceline.

On a ride like this, after the initial clutter settles down, riders are like magnetized particles moving down an incline.  They attract other magnetized particles, forming chains.  If a chain gets too long, it breaks into smaller chains.  As one chain passes a lone particle, if the speed difference is not too great, the lone particle gloms onto the back of the chain.  Different rider particles have different amounts of resistance, making them travel at different rates.  A particle with relatively high resistance may initially attach itself to a lower-resistance particle, but it won't be able to keep attached.  It's greater resistance will overcome the attachment.  You can tell I'm enthralled with pacelines, but enough with the magnetic metaphor, already.

After lunch, I hopped from one paceline to another.  At one point the line I was on got going too fast for me, but we didn't come upon any slower-moving lines for me to hop onto.  We passed a lone rider (a rarity at this stage of the ride), and I jumped off to join him.  He pulled for a few miles then I pulled for a few miles, then a line came along that looked like it was going a nice speed.  I told my companion that I was going to jump on.  We both did.  This proved to be my final paceline of the day.

When the two of us joined this paceline we brought it up to 12 riders.  A few miles later we were up to 15, then 18.  On this final ten-mile stretch we battled a headwind.  This makes a paceline that much more effective.  This line was slowly increasing its speed, so that eventually I was working a bit harder than I wanted to.  On several occasions I tentatively dropped back, but as I did I hit that headwind and realized I'd have to go a whole lot slower on my own, so I hammered back into the line.  Other riders also must have been unhappy with the increased speed, because one-by-one, six riders dropped off.  As we approached the school in North Myrtle Beach, we were back to 12 riders.

The driveway into the school was lined on both sides with people cheering and applauding.  Someone handed me a ride-completion medal (see the picture at the top of this article), and when I stopped, someone was there to put my bike onto the truck to take it back to Lugoff. 

Statistics for the day:  75.4 miles; total time: 4 hours, 47 minutes; riding time: 4 hours, 11 minutes; average speed 18.2; average heart rate 109.  Total distance for the two days: 141.6 miles.  (It seems my cycle computer differs a bit from the MS Society's odometer.)

My bike stowed on the truck, I went into the school to find a room full of massage tables.  That seemed to be just the thing, and since I'd brought some money just for this purpose, I figured I'd take advantage.  It was an excellent massage.  The only part of my body that was sore was my left shoulder.  The massage therapist showed me a few stretches that would help that area.   (The list of stretches grows.)

Then I took a wonderful, luke-warm (intentionally) shower then ate chicken and baked beans.  I didn't see any other BRBC members until after I'd eaten, when I ran across Joe. 

Sitting by the front of the school, watching riders arrive through the applauding crowd (that had been augmented by a brass band), I thought back on my ride.  It had not started well, what with falling off my bike then the claustrophobic feeling of the first 20 miles.  But after that there hadn't been a single unpleasant moment (except when that rider crashed).  I rode by myself for perhaps five of the 142 miles I covered.  In general I didn't ride with people I knew, and I moved from one paceline to another frequently.  (I found very few pacelines in the 18-to-20 mph range that maintained their speed.)  The joy was in the flow of the ride.  And there was much joy.

Scott and I took the second bus back to Lugoff.  I sat next to a woman named Joan who'd broken her elbow in a nasty bike accident last year.  She had a contraption that helped her straighten her arm, a position it didn't want to go into after months in a cast.  She and I spent most of the ride to Lugoff discussing our various injuries.  It was an entertaining ride.

In Lugoff, my bike was waiting, but Scott's was not.  The truck it was on would not arrive for another hour.  In the mean time  I talked with several other riders who were also waiting for bikes.  One was a man in his 20s, who was obviously new to bicycling.  His enthusiasm was palpable.  He rode 30 miles on Saturday and 40 on Sunday.  He didn't mind that he'd had to be "SAGed in" both days.  He'd ridden further than he ever had before, and he was thrilled.  I overheard him telling a young woman (to whom he seemed to be preening) about how next year he's going to get "some of those ropes you use to tie your feet to the pedals."  I was lost until he went over to a bike and pointed to the toe clips and straps.  Bicycling is a sport that inspires this type of enthusiasm, and this young man's enthusiasm rekindled my own.  In fact, I then realized that these two days represented my own two-day highest mileage.  Yeah!  Way to go.  Both of us!

I'll be back next year.