As I looked out my second floor window into the darkness, I could see fine drops of rain silhouetted like a golden halo around the street light. For a moment I contemplated the easy way out, crawl back into bed and pull the sheet over my head and forget it. No one was going to ride in this rain, with "no name" storm twirling around in the gulf, dampening every moment of the day. But a lot of preparation had gone into this moment and I was far too excited to go back to sleep, and "what if" it all cleared up suddenly and I missed this once a year chance. It was all too horrible to contemplate. Nope! I pulled on my bike shorts and downed a cup of coffee, called my ride buddy and threw the bike on the car rack. Twenty minutes later we were both on our way through the drizzle to our first century.
When we arrived at Morningside Park a gaggle of cars lined the entrance in front of the locked main gate. We learned that the public employee who was supposed to let us in didn't show. Still under a light sprinkle and a dark overcast the day just didn't seem to be boding well for the ride. I was starting to feel a little of the fatigue caused by a night of restless sleep and wondering how this was all going to work out.
Finally someone arrived and unlocked the gate. Things started to improve, suddenly the sprinkling stopped and only a faint drop would hit my face every couple of minutes. Maybe it would stop altogether. By the time the ride began at 8 am the rain had actually stopped. We rode out with high hopes, if this overcast would stay, but the rain ceased all day, that could be perfect.
My buddy and I rode slowly, the only way we know, staying at the rear of the pack, but we were pacing ourselves for the long ride ahead. It seemed like every hill we climbed that day was accompanied by a fierce head wind, but we managed to go all the way to the 75 mile point with only a couple of sprinkles. I was really tired from all the hills, but as we stood talking at Calawood we both knew that we were going to be able to finish. The only problem, it was now 3 PM. The sag drivers came by to ask us if we wanted a ride, Morningside closes at 6 PM, naturally we said no, we were going to finish. We could do 25 miles in 3 hours, we were sure of it. They insisted , we resisted. They tried again, we said no way. Suddenly someone opened a floodgate of rain on us, then as we stood soaking wet with the rain coming down harder and harder, our resolve dissolved. Images of myself being crushed by a semi on 441, crossing the Prairie in a deluge, dampened the potential glory of finishing. We sheepishly crawled into the sag wagon , soaking wet with the idea that we had lost the good fight. I wanted to be somewhere else at that moment, anywhere else. As we cruised past the final cyclists on 441 proceeding in a stiff rain to the finish, my spirits fell even further. Deep inside I ached to finish this century, but it was a goal that would have to wait for another year,... if ever. My first completed century would not be this Horse Farm 94 .
In early 1995 several members of the Hunters, with whom I normally ride, served notice that they intended to attempt the Santa Fe Century; I opted to do it with them, to get a century under my belt. We trained hard all summer and when it came time to do it, we did it. No problem. I had my first century! I swore I had claimed my one and only century, I had nothing to prove. That was it, no more centuries for me.
Never say never.
Still I could not shake the Horse Farm 94. Deep inside I felt an odd pain whenever I thought of it, a terrible sense of lost opportunity. Several members of the Hunters began to talk about training for the Horse Farm 96. As time went on the talk became deadly serious, they were going to do it. Still not committed to another century, I soon found myself riding on their extended rides, building up stamina and strength. As the summer wore on we trained longer and harder, even doing the lower half of the Horse Farm as a test. At one point I set a record for myself with an average of 15 miles per hour over a course of 75 miles. I was astounded that I could do such a feat. I was dizzy from the experience, literally and figuratively. Surely the century could not be much harder. I finally caved in, abandoned my "no more centuries" statement, and resolved to ride. I would ride the Horse Farm, I would try another century, The Century , I would attempt to exorcise the demon that haunted me.
The morning of the 96 Horse Farm dawned well. The weather man had predicted late afternoon rain, but the overcast that prevailed promised a relatively cool ride, and a little rain can be a blessing on a really hot day. It looked like we were headed for a good ride.
There were eight of us starting out together. The Hunters group merged seamlessly with the large body of the peleton and we were not discernible as a separate group. It would take the rigors of the ride to break up this large peleton group into its proper groups, divided up by physical ability and determination.
As the ride started several members of the Hunters rushed out with the peleton. With the excitement of the moment I found myself caught up in that group proceeding at a pace well beyond my average speed, following the pace car from Morningside to the head of Paynes Prairie. What a rush, ...a strange flush of excitement flowed back and forth in waves across my body. But as I headed up the hill on the south end of 441 as it rises out of the Prairie, the error of my way hit me. I had wisely chosen to get at the back of the peleton in 94 and manage my energy with real discipline. Two years of additional riding and conditioning had made me brash, and in the back of my mind was the thought that I could fail to finish this ride again, ...but I would not be able to blame the weather.
In spite of that the ride seemed to progress well, two more riders fell into our pace briefly, bringing our group to ten as we headed out of the Prairie. Other than witnessing an already dead, but fresh armadillo, get crushed into oblivion by a car that was speeding past us at 65 mph, things seemed to be going well. My energy seemed to return as our speed dropped back into the Hunter pace, it was going to be a long ride but it looked like the finish would be no problem. The two riders who had joined our group peeled off for Morningside, it had only been their intention to ride the Rush 55. We bid them adieu.
As we approached the lunch stop (50 miles) one of our eight started to fade, he had ridden the Santa Fe the day before and it was starting to show. He bid us adieu and took the sag. Five of the remaining members took off from the lunch stop and headed out at a faster pace. When Linda McMahon and I finally resumed, we passed one of these Hunters sitting under a tree at the 65 mile point massaging the cramps in his legs. We asked if he needed help, but he waved us on. I couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness about his plight, but per his instructions, we left him for the sag. All was well for me as we arrived at Calawood, the 75 mile point and the site where the demon had entered me in 94. It would be from this point that my riding would drive him out by the test of will and stamina.
On arriving in Calawood we found the remaining four Hunters, who had headed out early, waiting for us. The six of us headed out together, but after a few miles it became apparent that I was going to pay for my exuberance so many hours before at the start. I was starting to feel very tired, a lot more hills than I had imagined still lay before me and as we climbed each one, each successive hill became more difficult. The clouds began to solidify and darken to the point that I changed from sunglasses to my regular glasses. The sky was beginning to look ominous, still we were spared anything but sprinkles. As we rolled off the last major hill somewhere around Micanopy I was relieved to think that all that remained were some shallow grades and about 20 miles of mostly level terrain.
When we left our final stop at the Pearl station in Micanopy to head up Angle Road, it seemed that my strength was sapped. Every grade, however minor, seemed a testimonial to my depleted energy. At about this time, four of the Hunters who were ahead of me began to break away. Only Linda McMahon remained to prod me to continue, to give me inspiration. Halfway up Angle Road to 2082 it began to rain lightly, and as we entered 2082 it intensified, and then it became a torrent on 20. With cars swimming like sharks all around me, Linda disappeared ahead into the curtain of rain. For a moment I thought I would be crushed by some vehicle unable to conceive that cyclists could be out on 20 in such a rain. But as I rode I realized that the lights behind me, barely visible through the rain, were those of Chandler Otis's sag truck. He and Barry Gibbons alternately used their vehicles to shadow me along that most dangerous stretch of road. As I turned up Newnans Lake Road, with water flooding in through the vents in my helmet; all of the salt crystals that had collected so abundantly in my hair as I rode the previous ninety miles began to dissolve and dislodge and flood down into my eyes. With my eyes on fire in the pouring rain, I managed somehow to safely pull off the road without crashing, this in itself a feat. I took off my helmet and let the heavy rain wash through my hair to clear out the rest of the salt. It was now raining so hard that I could not see at all with my glasses on, so I decided to proceed without them. By now Linda was long gone, Chandler pulled up behind in his truck to see if I was OK. The rain had begun to slow. Less than ten miles to go, I wasn't about to quit as long as I could push a pedal. As I headed out from Mrs. Wigglesworth's fish camp the rain drained to a trickle, I put my glasses back on and headed west on the last piece of 329B. I hereby swear that I have never seen a long shallow grade that so much resembled a perpendicular mountain climbing to the stars. I had to draw from the deepest well of my dwindling strength to climb that faint rise to University Avenue. But then, having surmounted the last real obstacle, as I stood over my bike at the stop sign at 26, I could finally assure myself that I was going to finish. A few final drops of salty rain drained down from my helmet across my cheeks and I wiped them away. Every pedal stroke became a Herculean effort on that final flat mile. I begged my legs not to cramp and I guess they were listening. As I rounded that turn into Morningside I found the Hunters at the entrance waiting for me. I acknowledged them, reached out with the little strength I had left to meet Rocke Hill's high five and rode through their gauntlet into the park. When I reached the finish I felt a welling of sensations that I cannot easily describe. A series of sensations that if I had had the energy to do it, would have forced me to leap off my bike and jump up and down, shouting oaths of affirmation to the sky. Instead I rode around the circle at Morningside several times basking in the tingling sensations. Someone yelled an inquiry, "Just can't stop?". In fact I could, but I needed to be absolutely certain, certain that I had done at least my hundred miles, and especially to savor that moment of triumph as long as it could last. For that one moment in my life I truly think I knew what it felt like to be an Indurain or a Lemond.
So at 5:30 PM on October 6 I had acquired the dubious honor of being the last person to officially finish the 1996 Horse Farm Hundred,......but I had finished. And I had purged those haunting feelings that had caused me two years of distress; I was no longer possessed.
So now you must be wondering. "Will he ever ride a century again?" Well....I...uh....hmmm....probably not. But one thing I won't do, I will never say never again.
P.S.
If I haven't already done so in person, I need to thank the Hunters (some are now Sliders), and particularly Linda McMahon, for their encouragement, and Chandler and Barry for keeping me from joining the armadillo. GCCers always take care of their own!