Croom 50. Where Never is Heard a Discouraging Word.

Sunday, February 9, 2014.  Withlacoochee Rail Trail

Ding! Ding!  Someone on the rail trail wants to pass Scout and I as we ride side by side.

I glance back.  Unexpectedly, on this wide and roomy pavement, a helmet free man, riding a road bike in tan khaki pants, is tight on my wheel. 

The option to drop back and to the right is out, at least not without taking him with me.  He is obviously not interested in going by in the 3 feet of space to our left.  So I pull to the left, leaving a 6 foot gap on the pavement between Scout's bike and mine. 

The man follows my move to the far left, staying right on my wheel. 

Ding!  Ding!

I motion to the 6 foot gap and say, "Come on through.  Plenty of room!"

A lightweight voice with a heavyweight accent (European, German, maybe?) finally replaces the bell. 

"No, no.  Passing must be on the left.  Single file.  It is the rules."  

Really?

Silly me.  It never even occurred to me that a 46 mile long, ten foot wide, straight shot of absolutely flat pavement, through nearly deserted woods, needed rules.  

It is the day after the Croom 50.  Our day to relax with an easy ride on the Withlacoochee Rail Trail.  The weather has done a one eighty overnight.  From miserable, cold, Saturday rain, to beautiful, Sunday sunshine.  

Our group of six riders expands and contracts as we double up to chat, or casually string out single file (well, mostly single file) to pass or be passed.  

Popeye and I, Sailor and Cap'n Bligh, Pie Man and Scout.  I am giddy with the sunshine and having so many good friends to ride with for a second day in a row. 

We pedal leisurely northward from the campground to a trailside bakery.  The rest of us find seats out front while the ever-hungry Pie Man goes in to buy a half dozen oatmeal cookies. 

Later, we stop by the Withlacoochee to admire the giant cypress trees. 

Sailor, relaxing.

On the way back south, we roll in to River Ratz, a favorite beer and burger stop on the river. 

Five kayaks are hauled up next to the bike rack, which is 20 feet from a row of at least twenty Harleys.  Beyond the Harleys is a parking lot full of cars, and beyond the cars are four horses tied in the shade.  Definitely something for everyone along the Withlacoochee on a sunny Sunday in February.

 

As we decide on our orders, I try not to think of the arrogant European man and his dinging.  It doesn't work.  I stew about it until suddenly I realize that I am the one who is probably a little arrogant.  Not everyone is lucky enough to spend half the weekend riding mountain bikes on singletrack, after all.   

In the words of Gary Fisher, anyone on two wheels is a friend of mine.  (It's just that some make it tougher than others.) 

The six of us raise our bottles, clinking all around.  I decide that it is my obligation as a mountain biker to forgive the poor, annoying helmet-free man, and get on with appreciating this day for the gem that it is. 

Saturday, February 8, 2014.  The Croom 50.

Singletrack.  Twisty, winding, swoops, drops...

And no rules!  OK, guidelines maybe.  Care, consideration, a little loyalty, a lot of helpfulness.  But no rules.

What have you heard so far about this year's Croom 50?  That it was cold?  Raining?  Muddy?  Sloppy, even? 

Yep, all true.  What you won't hear, though, is a single complaint.

Because a ride like that will just plain spoil you for anything else.

We arrive a little early, about dawn.  The temperature comes up to  50 and stays there.  Rain starts as mist and quickly builds until it's coming down hard.  

In the parking lot, riders are scrambling through their gear.  Jacket?  Vest?  Toe warmers?  Tights? 

Deciding exactly what to wear until it warms up or quits raining is a cyclist's art form.  The only thing that can help you is a lot of experience.  Or a crystal ball.    

A guy on a white Lefty rides by with a shower cap over his helmet.

(Darn.  Wish I'd thought of that.)

Popeye heads for the parking lot across the road to find Blownfuse and his other fast friends.  I wait with a hot coffee and a cold bagel in the relative luxury of the breakfast tent. 

It's a while before my ride buddies show up.  

A cheerful girl at the next table, waiting out the rain, tells me that being here today isn't her idea.  But this ride is her friend's birthday request, so she's game.  The rain lets up a bit and she takes off with her group.  I go get more coffee.

Ah, here they are at last.  I must remember to thank them for being  late.  The rain has let up a bit and we've missed the misery of being completely drenched right from the start.

The trail mud is etched with the passage of all the riders who have started before us.  We pass our first rider. 

"One down," I say.  "Only 249 to go!"  

Riders chat and speak to each other as they pass and are passed.  They ask, "Do you need to get by?"  Or say, "Coming around on your left!" 

Slower riders try to move over a few inches, or as much as they can, to allow passage.  They move to whichever side is convenient, as long as everyone is on the same page.  No need for bells. Speaking up is the key.

We pass the chatty girl from the breakfast tent and her three friends.

"Happy birthday,"  I say back over my shoulder as I recognize them.

"245," says Gobbler.  
 
The counting game keeps us amused for a while, but eventually we get tangled up in the subtracting of the numbers we pass, while adding back the number of times we say, "Come on through, plenty of room!"

When we get to the really muddy sections, the trail turns into one long, black Slip'N Slide.  Especially down into the sinkholes and back up.  

Some try riding.  Some are walking.  I ride.  Or try to. 

OK, so the low profile tires may have been a bit of a mistake.  I don't know why, but I am taken completely by surprise when both wheels slide out from under me, shooting straight sideways.  There is just enough time to put a foot down.  Instantly my foot goes out from under me too, and I do a full body plant into 8 inch deep, cold, brown slop.   Getting back up is truly comical. 

Things get just plain silly from there.  Trying to walk in the stuff goes no better than trying to ride in it.  A few full body plops later, Mike comes back to see if I'm OK.  He is just in time to pull the bike off me again. 

I give up.  Acquiring a nice collection of stickers for my hair, I walk to the side through the bushes until we get to higher ground and the muck becomes more rideable. 

And boy, does it ever become more rideable!  Wet sand.  Pine flats.  Swooping curves.  The low profile tires are suddenly the perfect choice.  So what if it's raining and cold?  Rain is a Good Thing, and Big Wheels Keep on Turning.  Like Bobby McGee, we sing up all the rainy day songs we know.

The sags at the Croom 50 are a sight to behold.  Even in pouring rain.  Especially in pouring rain.  Which is really too bad, because my phone really didn't want to come out of it's mud covered Ziploc for photos.    

Later when Mike breaks a chain though, we do get a little break.  It doesn't last long, but makes it a bit nicer for making repairs.   Gobbler has a chain tool and link.  So do I.   So do at least a dozen other people who offer to help as they go by.

It is Gobbler, though, who also has the expertise to help Mike in what turns out to be a four handed operation, getting the gloppy, muddy chain to cooperate with the link. 

I am not much good, except to hold the bikes and the packs.  I get to take off my gloves and wring them out though, and wipe enough mud off that I can get my phone out for a picture.  

  

Those tires look pretty clean, don't they?  That's what a few miles of pine needles will do, I guess.  Too bad the chain wasn't as mud free.

 

   

There was an extra moment to get this shot, while Gary was standing still.  I really like the contrast with his yellow frame, don't you?

At the first sag we eat bananas with all the Silly Animals.  At the second we get applause and high-fives from the Peace-niks. 

It is cold, and we are drenched.  But somehow we are all riding the high of a truly good time.  

By the time it comes to choose whether to take the 35 mile bail out or do another 15, the vote is unanimous. 

Onward for the fifty!

 

By the last sag though, the damp and cold are sinking in.  The trail is so easy and perfect that I am not tired at all.  But my feet and hands have been numb for awhile. 

Just as my fingers reach the stage where they refuse to work any more, we hit the last sag.  It is The Land of Oz.  There is applause and cheering.  The Cowardly Lion hangs a Badge of Courage around each rider's neck. 

Dorothy and crew are extraordinarily cheerful for folks who have been standing out in the cold rain for hours.  Then I spot the two punch bowls and know why. 

Rum and vodka may call to the guys, but next to the big green punch bowl is a tray of the ultimate girl-contraband. 

Oreos!

It has been nearly a year and a half since I have had an Oreo.  Like the addict I am, I remember it clearly.  2012.  Halloween Oreos.  Halloween Oreos with orange double-stuff. 

I turn my gaze to the pretty blue vodka concoction.  But it does no good.  I have an Oreo.  Then I pop another.   Suddenly, my hands work fine and my feet are no longer numb.

Unfortunately, I know in my heart that even an Oreo euphoria won't last for long. 

Instead of warming up, the day has gotten colder.  I wring rainwater out of my headband and gloves.  I pluck at the stickers in my hair.  It is probably past noon.  I have not removed one single layer, and have no intention of doing so.  As a matter of fact, I can't help wishing I had a couple more to put on. 

There is only 12 miles to go but for the first time all day I tell the guys that I am considering the next bail out. 

With 2 Oreos and a cup of blue vodka punch under my waistband, there is really nothing left but to get on with it. 

Gary and I get under way.  A glance back over my shoulder leaves me with a vision of The Cowardly Lion pouring shots straight from the rum bottle for Gobbler and Mike.   

By the time Gary and I reach the last bail out point, we realize the shorter choice isn't necessarily better.  Taking the road will require at least a couple more miles - miles on washboard gravel.  Versus only 8 miles more on swoopy, fast trail. 

Seems a no brainer to me.  On-on for the fifty!

I have no idea what time it is when I sign out at the finish.  The long sleeve shirt for swag seems appropriate, though.  

The last time we were at Croom, I won a wool hat in a duathlon.  It was 80 degrees that December day.  Hard to imagine ever getting a chance to wear it. 

But I wear it today.  And I am very glad to have it.  

OK, so the hat's too big, and for sure not pretty. 

But it's warm. 

Oh yeah.  Dry clothes, at last.  Sweat pants, wool hat.  True luxury.  

Through the thin nylon walls of the changing tent I can hear Gobbler and Mike arrive, saying hi to Popeye, who is waiting outside. 

Everyone accounted for, and 50 miles for everyone. 

No rules.  No lessons.  And absolutely no complaints.