BikeEatSleepRepeat: BikeLaCoochee, 2012. Croom 50. Withlacoochee Rail Trail.

According to Wiki...   Coacoochee was a Native American chief and the term coochee is used in various Florida place names including the Withlacoochee River. The river named "Withlacoochee" may be from a Muskhogean dialect compounded of we (water), thlako (big), and chee (little), or little big water.

I like the big picture, so I love maps. Not the little blue polka dot view on my iphone, or those plastic, easy-fold variety.  I love big paper maps that unfold to cover my co-pilot's side of the dash all the way to my knees, all noisy and rustling, and annoying the heck out of the driver.

Without the big picture, how would you know that not only is there a Withlacoochee, but also a Lacoochee, a Trilacoochee and a Croom-A-Coochee?

I decide our weekend at Croom is a BikeLaCoochee. A little-big ride. I realize as I scan the map what a huge tract of land this is, and how little preparation I have made to ride it.

Almost no effort, thought, or planning on our part, goes into the actual ride at Croom. Once you've endured initiation-by-Felasco in January, riding Croom in February should be no big deal, right?

Oh, there's plenty of effort, thought, and planning. Just nothing to do with training for the ride.

Layers and tights and gloves, sorted and packed. Food ready. Camping equipment organized. Cooler full. Lights charged. Sailor and Cap'n Bligh saving a spot at the campground. PieMan and Scout right across the road.

Easy-peasey, right? A full schedule. Good friends. The perfect weekend.

Friday night ride. Croom 50 on Saturday.  Rail trail on Sunday.

All we had to do was show up and pedal.

Ah, the best laid plans...

Sparing everyone the details of detox, let's just say one should probably refrain, especially in the two weeks before a weekend with a fairly demanding ride schedule.

Popeye gave himself a week to get his energy back. I wasn't that smart.  10 day detox = sick + tired = blowing off the night ride = my own darned fault.

The rest of it was just bad luck. The midnight surprise of a bottomed out air mattress. Busting my pedal on a rock with 47 miles to go. Unexpected warm temps instead of the cold I had prepared for.

OK, so it wasn't my best Croom ever, but it's still in the running. Because well, there's just no ride like the ride you're on.

There's nothing better than paper when you're off road.

Except big colored arrows stapled to trees, of course.

Mudcutter Jim and Cap'n Bligh at the start.

At first it seemed a minor annoyance, whacking my pedal on that rock.

The guys were out of sight in a heart beat or two. Oh well, I am accustomed to riding solo. This time it was sooner than later, that's all.

Besides, I was busy. Persuading my shoe to clip in was taking all my attention. I stop to look. The cleat is secure on the shoe. OK, good. But a chunk of the pedal is flopping loose. Uh oh, not good. I'll be hard pressed to finagle the shoe back in and get it to stick.

By the time it finally snicked in, 20 minutes later, I realized this same old ride had a new found challenge.

I really believe that anyone with a decent bike can ride the Croom 50. Some folks up the anty by riding it hard tail. Some, like Mudcutter Jim, ride it single speed. But, has anyone ever ridden the Croom 50 without unclipping? Probably not, right?

Ok, so it's not a realistic goal, not for me anyway. But as Master Chung used to say, "When there is something to strive for, make effort."

Sinkhole

Uh oh. Neither of the two guys ahead of me made it up the other side without unclipping.

I was motivated, though.

Sag#2

Alien's ahead!

Area 51 at Mile 23.

Jello shots mid ride?

These Aliens must be hashers.

At mile 23, I unclip. Alien hospitality is just too hard to come by on this planet.

Besides, I'm overheating.

I am always drenched, but I am surprised to look down and see wavy white salt lines crisscrossing the fabric of my black shorts. My arm warmers have been down around my wrists for miles, and the long fingered gloves should have been stashed in the Camelbak long ago.

I collect my alien lollypop for later, and grab some radioactive-green Gatorade. Then it's back to the slow job of pedaling with the right foot, and scuffing away at the pedal on the left, until the shoe finally clips in and I can get on with it.

I am lucky. The burned sections of the forest are unexpectedly un-sandy. It's pretty smooth sailing through most of it. Which is good, because my calves are firing their first warning shots. Cramping will follow, and soon.

The goal of never unclipping is forgotten. Mile#... I don't know. I'm standing over the bike, at the top of a little rise, stretching out my right hamstring.

Riders pass, a lot of riders.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, I've been cramping too."

More than one person wonders where the heck sag #3 is. "It's gotta be soon," someone moans.

Then a guy in a red jersey says, "Vicky?"

The pedal clicks in fairly quickly this time and I keep up with Gobbler - for awhile.

Eventually, like a good hasher, he takes the hard route, even though he's lost his rear brake. I opt for easy. It's not long at all til he catches up again. We finally arrive at Sag#3, the Red Neck Rest Stop.

Mile 38 - The Red Neck Rest Stop

Canned beer and Conquistadors.

(Oreo cookies with peanut butter and banana on top.)

Gobbler, with hasher fuel.

(Back at home, I decline Popeye's offer to crop my finger out of this photo. I dunno. I like it this way. It's way more focused than I was at that point.)

Gobbler's had his beer and bananas.

I've re-upped my Gatorade.

Time to git to it.

Somewhere in the next ten miles my bonk sets in for real. I stop for breath at the top of almost every rise. I can't focus. Gobbler gives me two of his Endurolytes and they help. I've lost track of him though, which is good, there's nothing more he can do anyway. I don't want to throw up. But I kind of do.

With mile 48 showing on my computer, I decide it would feel better to walk. Just to the next bend. Seemed rational at the time. Moving forward. No arguments from a stupid pedal.

I enjoy the novelty of being off the bike for a minute. I walk around the bend.

And there's the parking lot. Riders, tents, lots and lots of lovely, salty food. Popeye has my dry clothes. Gobbler hands me a cold one.

About everyone had 48 miles on their computer for the Croom 50 this year.

So, our Croom ride came up a little short. Which probably saved me riding in on a stretcher.

Croom, I apologize. You got my attention. I won't treat you lightly again.

It's amazing what some salty pasta and a friend with a well stocked cooler can do. By the time we say good bye to Gobbler, I am feeling much better. We even remember to pick up our tee shirts, which, yippee, aren't tee shirts at all.