The Tour de Felasco

Two guys ride by on hardtails, chatting.

"Dude, did you read the website?  Every Florida ecosystem is represented on this ride."

"Is sand an ecosystem?  Dude!  Sand has been duly represented!"

Sand?  What sand?

This isn't sand. 

Dude.

This is San Felasco.

A choice of 30, 50, or 65 miles.  A mix of singletrack and double.  A little climbing, a bit of descending, a lot of flat and twisty.  Deer.  Armadillos.  Quiet forest riding....  

SKREEEEEEch!

Killer on descent sounds like a goose getting run over by a tugboat.  It is a multilayered sound, several pitches of discord at once, echoing out over the quiet forest ride every time the brakes are so much as feathered.  

Ouch.  And ouch again.

I cringe.

And cringe again. 

Not being one to rush headlong into whatever treachery a turn may conceal, I brake on every curve and descent.  The brand new brakes announce to all (for miles around) that I AM BRAKING NOW.  I do my best to remember that, although the new XT's screech like hell’s own banshee, they do work.

I am counting on riding 50 miles this day, at least.


Not the type to sweat the details, it is at the Cabot Lodge happy hour the night before, that we learn the cut off time for choosing 65 miles.

The 44 mile point must be reached by 2:30.

After 2:30 you will be pulled from the 65 mile course and sent to finish on the 50 mile route.

Popeye does some quick calculating. The ride begins at 8am. An average speed of 6.7 mph will get me to the decision point by 2:30. 

I want to make that cut off, just to leave my options open.  I can start, oh 8:30’ish, and easily make an average of 8 or 9.  Piece of cake!


Rule #4 for Felasco
No matter how much you appreciate the camaraderie of your ride group, do not let them talk you into Mexican food the night before.  It's not worth the hours of lost sleep.  As a matter of fact, while thus preoccupied, I had plenty of time to think up a new race strategy for future competitive events. Mexican food can indeed help you win.  Provided you can entice your opponent into eating it.

By the time the line at the ladies room has released me, it's beyond 8:30.  I cruise the parking lot one more time looking for a familiar face.

At 8:43, I give up and start in solo.

Rule #3 for Felasco:  No matter what the weather report is for The Tour de Felasco, do not believe it. Bring every bit of bike clothing you own. Get out of the car and make your decisions standing in the parking lot. Because no matter what the prediction, Alachua weather will always go rogue.

On this particular January Saturday we have lucked out.  There is sunshine as predicted.  Miraculously, the starting temperature is 10 degrees warmer than the predicted 39.  A north wind swoops through the slot on my side of the Elephant though, as I make my layering decisions.

The first few miles, the meadow trail, is a riotous warm up.

Riders chat and call out to each other.  A group behind me serenades the hillside with a rendition of the theme song from The Brady Bunch. Another group retaliates with The Flintstones. Everyone is cheery, happy to be rolling in sunshine.

Riders pull off to the side and remove layers.  I am not tempted.  The woods are coming up and deep shade will be with us the rest of the day.

SKREEECH!

It’s a good thing the hash name Mother Goose is taken. I am relieved to be riding alone after all. If the guys heard this, they might be inspired to change my Mile High handle to something else.


The phone rings from the Ziploc bag inside my pocket. Better stop.  Too many things can go haywire when mountain biking.  People get hurt, have equipment failures.  I take off a glove and answer.

Carnival Cruise Lines tells me I have won… something!

I hang up and get under way again.

Next time, I am on the flat and hear the ring just fine.

It’s Just Plain Mike. “Where are you?”

"I just passed the 2nd SAG a few minutes ago." 

“Wow”, he says.  “You’re way ahead of us.  Mother Goose and I just got to the first SAG.”

With my late start I can’t believe I am ahead of anyone.

And I’m not.

Not too far, anyway.


Rule #2 for Felasco:  Check the course map in advance.  Because I normally ride straight through without stopping, I do not realize that just because there is a clearing where 20 people are stopped and resting, it is not necessarily a SAG.  I am really just barely past the first official SAG myself.


On a climb at Mile 17, I pass a guy as bundled up as I am.  It's ‘Sauce. He tells me that he is taking the day at his own pace in order to go the distance.  After chatting a while at his pace, I go on ahead.  I am happier than I realize to see someone I know out here.

Ring!  The phone.  Again.  This stopping is getting ridiculous. 

Out with the Ziploc.  Off with the gloves.

It is the Critter Sitter.

Oh no.

Mr. Critter Sitter, bless his heart, holds himself together long enough to give me the bad news.

Tiger is gone.

“Gone?  Like missing?” I ask, hoping just for an instant, that he might be asleep in the catnip patch again.  

But I already know the answer.

‘Sauce catches up and stops opposite me as I stand with the phone to my ear.  I don’t even think to wave him on as I listen to the story of Tiger’s passing.

I hang up and call Popeye in case he has a better suggestion than the cool back room work bench for storing Tiger’s body overnight. He doesn’t.

Hang up again. It is Mile 22. ‘Sauce has given up waiting and gone on.

I am sad.  But I do not cry.  I ride.

The rest of the day is less vivid.

‘Sauce is up ahead and out of water.  Just Plain Mike and Mother Goose catch up with both of us.  Goose is having derailleur trouble.  

We stop at the 2nd SAG.  I get cold waiting and go on alone.

I see Cross at the lunch stop.  His legs are cramping and he hasn't yet decided whether to go on.  

I spoon in a cup of chicken soup and saltines and ride out alone after ten minutes.

Just before Mile 44, there is a gnome hiding in a tree. 

For real!

I laugh.  It shakes me out of my funk.  

The 2:30 cut off is minutes away.  If I stop to take a picture, I won’t make the cut off time.  I find I don’t really care.  

HI!

At 2:37, Killer rolls up to the cut off point.  There are no cut off police.  Not a single volunteer with a clipboard. 

There is no one around at all.


Rule#1 for Felasco:  If you are riding the Tour de Felasco, and it's not blowing a gale, raining, snowing or debilitatingly cold, keep riding.  If your bike is not broken and neither are you, keep riding.  Do not count on next year being so easy. 

I am not tired.  I'm not even that cold. 

But I am bored.  Trees and trail.  Trail and trees. 

I steer Killer onto the right hand fork, blowing off the 65 mile option.

Up ahead, not so very far, there is a spot where I can lean on Popeye near the Lodge fireplace.  Raise a glass to Tiger with our friends.  

Sounds like the right choice to me.