Tour de Felasco, 2012: Dressed For Success

I have 2 boxes on the top shelf of the closet.  

One is labeled Winter Bike Clothes.  Like for the Tour de Felasco and Croom.  The other is Winter Clothes.  Like for trips to Syracuse or Maine.

Guess which one has the most stuff?

The predicted temps for Saturday in Alachua were a low of 27, and high of 58. Winds, north at 15.  Dry and sunny, thank goodness.

Later Popeye tells me that the prediction was right on. That it really did get up in the fifties on Saturday.  I shake my head. No, no, no, I say. That's just plain wrong. There's no way. 

The terrain at Felasco is pleasant, but not a particular challenge. A few decent hills, some roots, a bit of token sand.  Plenty of woodsy, twisty singletrack.  Several miles through huge, rolling meadows in bright, winter sunshine.

The distance is no trouble either.  Choose your own.  35 miles, 50 miles, or 100k.  There are  multiple bailout points. 

A hot lunch is provided.  Chicken soup - the perfect restorative.

Top it off with the luxury of a cushy full suspension 29r in perfect working order, and San Felasco should be cake, right?

Unless you have, well, personal issues.

How on earth do some people exercise and not sweat?  How do they breathe cold air all day long and maintain a dry nose?  (For that matter, how do some people eat so much and stay skinny?  Or have shiny, straight hair, even on humid days?)

Obviously life is not fair.

If you are one of those dry-skinned, I-love-feeling-cold, snot-free, skinny, shiny-haired folk, you might as well go read some other blog this week.  My version of San Felasco is not for you.

For those of us at the other extreme of the mucus-meter, it turns out that one way to survive Felasco is to layer up, embrace your grossness, and just keep riding.

Back at home.  Monday morning.  Laundry done.  

Just for review, I lay out the bike clothes I wore on Saturday in the 30 to 58 degree (supposedly) temps.

For those who like lists:

Padded bike shorts.

Tight wicking long sleeve underlayer.

Lightweight long sleeve shirt - with phone pocket.

Heavy long sleeve shirt over that.

Tights over the bike shorts.

Long sleeve windbreaker over the shirts.

Two pairs of socks, two pairs of gloves.

Snot rag, I mean, handy all-purpose bandanna.

Skull cap.

Camelbak Rogue, loaded with:

Wind vest - in case I get cocky and decide I can go without a jacket.

Headband - to change out for the skull cap when it gets “warm”.

Dry bandanna for the second half of the ride.

Clif bars, because sags are notorious for an enticing array of hydrogenated fats, which mess with my energy levels.  

70 oz. bladder of Gatorade - laced with protein powder to avert hunger.

Extra baggie with powdered Gatorade and protein to mix with water later. (Unknown drink mixes on long rides can be trouble.)


Since I have to truck all my stuff back upstairs to the closet this morning anyway, I stop with it in my arms, and step on the scale. 6.6 pounds. And that's clean and dry. I don’t want to think how much more it all weighed soaking wet.

Add in the 70 oz camelbak bladder, a 20 oz bottle, shoes, toe warmers, and extra snacks, and I was probably carrying about 13 extra pounds. 

I know.  What a lot to wear.  And to carry.

(Then again, I did save myself a few ounces of weight by leaving behind my egg/rice bars in the scramble of last minute clothing decisions.)

Gathering at the start.  About 32 degrees.

Mike and Hairy to left, wearing shorts.

Popeye up front, in jacket, gloves, tights.

In spite of knowing at least twenty people riding San Felasco each year, I always end up riding alone.  Last year, it wasn’t even that cold.  But I was so bored (and glum over Tiger), that I bailed at fifty.

So, I am happy that Just Plain Mike doesn't mind a ride partner.  (Although he is one of those people.  He may not be the only rider starting out in shorts at 32 degrees.  Or the only one to take his jacket off at the first SAG.  But he definitely has the best hair around.)

Turns out that, in spite of our diverse approaches to clothing choices, we are a good ride team.  Mike has the patience to wait a few extra minutes for me to layer up at the start.  I decide I can maybe find it in me to wait a minute or two while he fuels up at the SAG stops.

Our first catch of the day is ‘Sauce, who has pulled off the trail to drink from his bottle of pickle juice.  Bringing your own remedies is something I fully understand, and I wonder how much I will miss my sushi rice bars later.

But the Gatorade/protein powder mix does the job and the morning goes like clockwork. Mike pushes the pace on the flats. I set it going uphill.  Right at three hours, the thirty mile lunch stop pops up.

Slam some chicken noodle, shed a shirt, swap out to the headband, and back on the trail again. This time with Semi and Peter for company.

It seems colder after stopping, though that can't really be true.  Can it? 

My nose is chapped from constant wiping.  I wish I hadn’t taken off the extra shirt.  I am very glad I kept on the extra gloves.

I work far enough ahead that I have time to fish my phone out of its ziploc for a picture as the guys approach down the trail.  

Peter, is that you?

I put the phone back in what I think is my pocket – but who can tell with two pairs of gloves on?  Next time I stand up, I feel it sliding down the leg of my tights. 

By the time I fish it out again and get it into an actual pocket, Mike is far away in the open distance of a long, uphill trail under some power lines.

I have catching up to do.


So here’s the deal about cold weather effort/sweating.

There are probably lots of ways to deal with riding in the cold.  The two that I know about are:  

1) staying dry by starting out cold and keeping yourself uncovered enough to evaporate all sweat.  Brr. 

2) containing the moisture and feeling warm.

Dry is just not one of my personal options.  If I were wearing a speedo in a snowstorm, I would still sweat.  So the real trick for me, is to not be debilitated because my clothes are soaked when the temperature drops.

Popeye, bless his heart, made me buy a tight, technical, wicking under-layer last year.  The only thing I liked about it at the time was that it was purple.

But what a revelation.  It sends the moisture out to the middle layer, where I do not feel it.  I do not feel it because I do not take off my outer wind-breaking layer, and evaporation is not a big factor.

I can step up the pace, sweat freely, and not feel it (much), even in the north wind of say, an open power line trail.

The soggy option, unfortunately, looks and feels disgusting by the end of the day.  And gets really heavy.  

Essentially though, only my nose is seriously cold.  My hair is dripping.  I look a mess.  My face is chapped.  But my core is OK.

I am in a rare (for me) state of clothing/temperature equilibrium.  

It only took 7 Tours de Felasco, and Popeye's help, to figure it out.  

Head to the showers?

Or ride two more hours?

It’s past the official 2:30 cut off time when I reach the last sag, at mile 47. 

3 more miles one way.  16 more the other.

But there is no one with a clip board, no cut-off police.  

I am not especially cold.  I am not tired.  I am not bored. 

It is entirely up to me whether to take the shorter route back to the parking lot and finish with a very respectable fifty miles, or push the daylight window and continue for the full 100k.

A few more guys we know come filtering in and dismount at the sag.  Only Jeff, who flew back from California especially for this ride, can be talked into continuing.

And even as he consents, Jeff is protesting.  Noooo.  I don’t want to ride any more.  I want beer.  I want beer now.  I hate you.  I despise you...

But deep down, Jeff must really want to ride that extra credit loop.  Because, in spite of the protests, he shrugs and mounts up anyway. 

Always the gentleman, he motions for me to lead into the woods on our last and final loop of the day.  He anticipates some pain, I guess.  He jacks up his music so loud I can hear it coming out his nose.  Then we get pedalling.

Jeff and Trail Gnome on the extra-credit loop.

We've maximized our daylight for sure.  The sun is low and the shadows are long.  A pair of yellow flags, snapping in the wind, mark the finish.  Popeye and the gang from the Cabot cheer us in.   The day ends much as it started.  It's getting colder.  

Time to get moving once again and take the celebration indoors.    

At last.  Clean, showered, and finally dry.  Popeye and I head gratefully to the roaring fireplace - and the Cabot's famous, free cocktail hour.

Bloody Mary please.  With lots and lots of wonderful, salty olives.

What a crazy way to earn a tee shirt.