The Case for Multisport

Weird tan lines. 

That's what you get when you do one sport for a month.

Zebra stripes - pretty Keene, huh?

Strange stripes.  A white trunk. Tan wrists.  White hands.

Biking, and biking only, is stressing out my skin.  Not to mention what it's doing to my enthusiasm.

I am pared down to one sport, and I don't like it.

But we're talking survival here. 

When we first signed up for Bike Florida's week long tour of the Apalachicola area (60-something miles a day for 6 days), it sounded like fun.

Then it didn't.

I realized that, although I can go out and ride sixty fat tire miles any day of the week, I have never, ever done sixty miles every day of the week.  

And so the weird tan lines.

Do you like training plans?  Do you like lists?

Me neither.  But I use them.  Sometimes.


I make a general survival plan for the next six weeks: 

Start moderately. 
Simulate the Tour - ride early in the morning. 
Build for four weeks. 
Taper.  
By week #6, the Tour will be easy-peasey-lemon-squeezy. 

Week #1 of 6   
Feb 13 - 19

Goals:

Start easy.
Ride early at least three days in a row.
OTD (out the door) by 7:30. 
Ride the other three days whatever time I choose. 
One rest day.

Following these rules, I see in my notes that I made it out the door by 8:30 on Monday, 9 on Tuesday, 8:30 on Wednesday. 

I rode six days, and took a rest day Friday.

The mileage total for week #1 was 220 miles.

I also see in my notes, that my iPhone slid out of my back pocket and into the toilet at The Mansion on Saturday. There is a frowny face drawn in.



Week #2 of 6    Feb 20 - 26

Goals: 

Ride 4 days in a row. 
OTD (out the door) by 9am.  (7:30 being futile, I guess.)
One 50 mile ride, 3 whatever length.
Ride the other two days at whatever time I want.
One rest day.


There are no notations for times departed.

I rode seven days that week. 

Tuesday was the fifty: 57.5 miles.

Total mileage for the week 200.5.

The rest day turned out to be Saturday's ride.  

Sauce and I rode 16 miles.  He had just given blood and wasn't up for 40.  I had not given blood, but I wasn't up for forty either.  

Physically, I was starting to feel strong.  Mentally, all this biking was wearing me down.  I was surprised to realize I missed running.

All bike and no run.  And no writing.  And not much email either.  Or Facebook. All morning activities.  The last notation of the week says: BORING.


Week #3 of 6    Feb 27 - Mar 4

Goals:
Ride 4 days in a row - early.  (No specific time mentioned.)
At least two 50's.  A 40, a 50, and a 60 would be ideal.
No particular time of day or distance listed for the other 2 days.
One rest day.

Monday and Tuesday started out well with 51 and 45 miles.

It wasn't until Wednesday, the sixty mile day, that the plan went south.

The light turned green.  I stood up on the pedals to cross Babcock St. at Melbourne Avenue at the front of a line of cars.  The chain hung up - ooof - at a dead stop for an instant.  Then it gave completely - what the?  It's like a judo class with Uncle Grand Master.  With nothing suddenly under my feet, the world flips in swift reversal.  Me on the bottom, the bike on top.  

Here's the miracle.  Every one of the cars - all four directions - even the right turners - came to a dead stop.  

I lay on black pavement, in the middle of an intersection, surrounded by the heavy breathing of metal engines so close I could smell their heat. 
 
I jumped up faster than Spooky the time Tiger chased her over the seawall. (Well, no human could actually jump faster than the Spook, but you get the idea).  Picked up the bike.  Ran for the curb. 

I was on the sidewalk before even the guy in the yellow Mustang could honk. 

One lady rolled down her window and asked if I was OK.  (Like I said, miraculous.) 

I admit to being a little shaky.  At least the chain went back on with no trouble.  

I rode quietly, embarrassed and subdued, down to the river side park, and futilely chased the blood running down my arm with the dinky little square of paper towel I carry to wipe my glasses.  I wiped chain grease off my hands onto the grass.  I ate my snack.  I did not want to ride another 40 miles.  My knee and elbow drip blood all the way home. 

Total miles for Wednesday: 28   

My notes say:  Road Rash.  (Frowny face.)

Thursday the notes say: Madone - 51 miles.  

River Road times two.  (Not quite trusting the Superfly.  Or the traffic.)

Saturday was the real endurance test, though.

Actual ride time: 3 hours, 29 minutes.  41 miles.  An average speed of 11.7 mph.  11.7?  The notes say: Windy.  They also say:  Real time - 8:45am to 2 pm. 

What happened?

Pie Man, Frank, and Michael happened.  There were friends along the way to stop and chat with.  We had a nice lunch.  With beer.  And ice cream ten miles after that.  Delicious.

Happy?  Happy what?

Happy Pie Man. 

This, I realize, is the true touring simulation.  It's fun having companions, but I am not in any kind of shape for this sort of riding.  (Not to mention the kind of shape I'll be in after a week of this kind of riding.) 

Total mileage for the week:  238

My notes are summarized on Saturday with three letters:  OMG. 


Week #4 of 6   March 5-11

Goals:

Ride 5 days in a row - early - 7:30?  (As if.  But it gives me a chuckle to see that I wrote it down.  Again.  Only questioned.) 
Three 50's required. 
Ideally 50, 60, 50 plus 2 more.  
One rest day.

For the first time, I do not make the week's mileage goal.  Total miles for week #4:  194.7

At the top of each and every day is written WINDY.  Two days say RAIN.   I ride the Paragon (aka, Bruiser).  I am very tired of riding.  And wind.  And Bruiser.

By mid week the new chain and cassette has arrived for the Superfly.  Popeye puts them on for me.  Saturday is easier, less wind.  I do 64 miles, throwing in some off-road trails to keep my spirits up.

Sunday's notation says: STORMY - ZERO MILES (There is another frowny face, even though it is the rest day.  Maybe because it is the rest day.)


Today is Friday, getting toward the end of Week #5.

We have had a time change.  Morning hurts.

On Wednesday, determined, I somehow got out the door at 8am.  My earliest departure so far.

This morning, Friday, on A1A in Cocoa Beach, the rear tire on the Superfly acquired a slit big enough that the Stans wouldn't hold.  I never saw what got it, and there is nothing in the tire but the hole spewing a white Stansy mist.

An older gentleman riding up off the beach on a Trek 4300 offered me a spare tube and his Schrader pump.  Thank you for the offer, I say, but my wheel is 29 inches.

With my spare tube in place, I don't say anything about the presta valve, just load up the CO2 inflator.  POOF.

"Wow, that's it?" he says.  "How much do those cost?"

So far this week, the easier mileage goals are being met.  Tomorrow I can go long if I want.  Some of it off road.

Next week, more rest.  Figure out what to pack.

Leave for Tallahassee on Friday, one week from today.

Tour the Forgotten Coast for a week.

Come home Saturday.

Sunday is April Fools Day:  The Cross Florida.  Cocoa Beach to Weeki Watchee.  Popeye is riding.  I am driving.

And then...  Monday.

Monday I am going for a run. 

And a swim.

I hope I don't get a weird sunburn.

Withlacoochee Weekend 2012 - Scouting the Rail Trail

OK, so where was I?

Oh yeah.  Bonk recovery.  Ahhh.

After our Croom ride, the bike shop team of Popeye and Cap'n Bligh went right to work fixing my pedal. 

Miraculously, all the pieces had hung on for the entire fifty miles.  They just had to be coaxed back together. 

An hour later, when the hammer comes out, I make for the showers and follow with a drink.  I can't believe how lucky I am to have such excellent (and tenacious) mechanics in house.  They finally got it - in slightly less time than it took to do the ride.

Popeye and Cap'n Bligh

 in the captain's La Casita Bike Shop.

  

After the pedal repair, the guys got right on the air mattress problem.  Hole located.  Hole fixed.  Tire patches sure come in handy.

Then, hooray, time to light the campfire and bring out the snacks.

One of the many excellent reasons for riding is eating.

Zucchini Bread fit for a vegan.  But omnivores like it too.

Scout and Pie Man have the fire going, so we mosey up to their site.  On the table is a jar of pretzels the size of a pony keg.  PieMan and Breeze are dipping them into peanut butter.  

One of the most frequently asked questions of the evening is "So, what's this about a detox?" 

My reply, around a mouthful of Sailor's delicious hummus, is, "The most important thing to remember about detox is, don't do one."

The snacks just kept coming.  I don't think anyone but Popeye and me took a break to eat an actual dinner.

It's amazing what eating as much as you want, and the luxury of a well inflated air mattress, can do for ones ability to ride.

After a nice alarm-free sleep, we get up with the sun - not before it, for once.  Birds sing.  Coffee steeps.  Sailor comes out of the camper with a big pot of steel cut oats, laced with nuts and cinnamon and cranberries, and we all dig in.

Popeye and I will be packing up soon enough, but for now it sure is nice to sit around in shirt sleeves, sipping our coffee, watching someone else do it.

Cap'n Bligh and Sailor

Ready to go with the sweet new bike rack on the sweet new Tacoma.

    

Scout and Popeye are ready to go too.

Go ride the Rail Trail, that is.

Geographically, the off road trails and the rail trail are adjacent to each other.  But this Sunday ride on the Withlacoochee State Trail could not be farther in character from Saturday's Croom crush.

Did I ever mention how Pie Man got his name?   How about Scout?

Wherever Pie Man goes, there is spectacle.  He can't help it, his outgoing personality just seems to draw a crowd.  I'm sure Scout could tell this better since she was there and I wasn't, but the bare bones of the story is this: 

Once, on a multi-day ride in Wisconsin, Pie Man (who weighs maybe... 120? 130?) stopped in at Gina's Pies Are Square Cafe, and ate several enormous pieces of Guinness pie.  As usual, a crowd gathered, cheering him on.  For the rest of the week, riders all along the rail trail kept pointing him out.  "Look!  There goes the Pie Man!"  

Scout, on the other hand, is the quiet one.  She is the one with the plan, always scouting out the next job, the next purchase, or the next great adventure.

Today Popeye and I have no mileage goals and no agenda.  Except maybe to head north toward the little bakery in Floral City.  We tag along after Scout, along the trail, then off the trail, as she checks out the local real estate possibilities.  We not only follow along, but egg her on shamelessly, since we'd love to have a place to come visit in this neck of the beautiful Withlacoochee woods.

Scouting for land.

The property along the Withlacoochee River has my vote.

6 baby alligators flop into the water as we wheel up.

Scout says from here you can get all the way to the Gulf of Mexico...

...in a shallow draft vessel, of course.

Back to the trail and on to the bakery. 

Why I didn't think to take one picture at the bakery, I don't know.  Could have been the distraction of freshly baked brownies, though.  

The very nice lady who owns the place is out front on the porch.  She puts down her newspaper to come inside and wait on us.

Speaking of real estate regret, I realize this appealing little bakery is literally one house south of a property that Scout and I scoped out a couple years ago.  We had decided then that it would make the perfect, trail-side, square-pie type shop.

Potential Pie Shop - 2009

When the brownies and streudal are history, we go to the next block and see that the beautiful potential pie-shop, along with its beautiful oak trees, has been bulldozed.  Coulda shoulda woulda....  sure hope this isn't a condo next time we ride here.

Back on the road again.

But which way?

It really doesn't matter which way you go.  The trail is full of surprises.  On the adjacent horse trail, these (Menonite?) folks stop to chat with Scout.  They are on their way home from church.

Off they go...

One thing there is no shortage of along the Withlacoochee is variety. 

Pie Man calls to tell us he is on his way to a biker bar called River Ratz for lunch.  OK, now we definitely know which direction to head.

We find paddlers, motorcycles, cars, horses, and Pie Man already there.   Neither Popeye nor I ever thought to bring locks.  We just don't normally stop when we ride.  Luckily both Pie Man and Scout are well equipped for this sort of relaxed riding, and we add our bicycles to the  assortment of rides in the parking lot.

As I am taking pictures, the horse lady comes over.

Her half-Arabian, half-Chincoteague Pony gets a root beer to slurp.

Bridge over the barely moving Withlacoochee.

Pie Man, bless his heart, has found us trail-bikers a table

far away from both the vroom-vroom variety of bikers, and the band.

After a couple weeks of eating carefully, the salad and burger I split with Scout sits pretty heavy on the ride back to the campground. 

This is the part of relaxed riding that I would need to come to terms with.  I can barely bring myself to pause for a sag snack, let alone a full-stop lunch of sandwiches and beer.

We will need to practice though.  We had such a good time on our relaxed ride that day that we went and committed to the week-long Bike Florida in March. 

Yikes.  Although, it's good to have a new and different goal. 

Six long, relaxed, 60-something mile days.  Camping. 

And don't forget lunch.  

You can come too.  There're still openings for a few more good eaters.  I mean, riders. 
http://www.bikeflorida.org/bf2012/2012.php

So.  Who's up for a lunch ride?

Gosh, it's good to be back in training.

  

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.   

Perfect ending.

Because you can't drink out of a tee shirt.

*6pm.  Time to locate my lights and meet Popeye on his evening commute.  Tomorrow, the rail trail.   

Food for Thought - and the Croom 50 - Protein Bites

Croom is coming up on Saturday!  50 miles of fun easy singletrack in the Withlacoochee State Forest.  A similar ride to San Felasco in the fun, easy, single track department.  Different in the added challenge of tent camping and campfire cooking instead of staying at the cushy Cabot Lodge and eating out.
 
We learned a lot in the last ten days on our abbreviated version of a detox diet.  Mainly don't do one.  But that said, all of the recipes from the detox were delicious.  We just wanted more.  More recipes, more food, more protein...  But that was the point, I suppose.  (Personally my biggest lesson was that I actually can say no to myself.  At least for ten days.)

One of the recipes on the snack list of the detox diet (Whole Living Magazine, February) was for Dried Fruit and Nut Bites.  Pretty basic, pretty tasty, and super easy.  Although this much fiber and fat on long sustained efforts, like a 4-5 hour bike ride, could be trouble, we thought these were great snacks for when you're feeling empty on sedentary days.  

Left:: recipe as written 

Right: with a touch of chocolate

Whole Living's Dried Fruit and Nut Bites:

1-  In a food processor, pulse 2 c. dried fruit.  Transfer to a bowl. (I recommend sticky fruits, like dried cherries and pitted dates.  And if you are done detoxing, and have some organic dark-chocolate coverered raisens to throw in with the dates and cherries, all the better!)

2-  Pulse 2 c raw mixed nuts and seeds until finely chopped.

3-  Add nuts to fruit, with a dash of cinnamon and pinch of salt.

4-  Knead together and form 1 inch balls.  Roll each ball in sesame seeds.  Makes 20, serves 5.


These tasted pretty darn good when all you had to eat so far that day were a kale smoothie and a salad.  They provided sweetness, plus the hunger squelching fats from nuts during our week of restricted  dieting and (resulting) low effort. 

Delicious, yes, but the high percentage of nuts seems a little too tough on the digestive system to risk taking along on a lengthy physical effort.  For long rides, we have found that we need more easily digestible carbs, with a little protein and some stuff to help with electrolyte transport.

The look of this snack reminded me of the protein balls we make for long rides.  And since the Croom 50 is this weekend, it's time to switch out the detox recipe for our distance version.

* You might remember that Just Plain Mike wanted to name these snacks Popeye's Balls.  Suggestions for a better name are welcome.  Let's just keep it PG though, ok?

Biking Bites, Protein Balls, whatever...

Distance Bites

(especially if you don't eat enough)

In a food processor, pulse up:

2/3 c. pitted dates (no added sugar)


1/2 c. tart dried cherries (no added sugar)


1 tsp honey


1 tsp apple cider vinegar


1 tsp lemon juice


1/8 tsp salt


1/2 c. high quality protein powder (about 40 gr. protein)


1 c. Kashi Oat Cereal


1 T. all natural peanut butter (no hydrogenated fats!)

Pulse until the mix is coarsely chopped.

Grab up a bit, smash and roll it into a ball in your hands. It should form a firm ball and hold together.

We thought ours was just a little dry, and added water a tsp at a time. 2 tsp water, perfect!

Yield: 16, 1" balls


Serving size: 3


Protein: 9.75 gr.


Carbs: 38.4 gr.


Fat: 1.5 gr.


Calories: 189

original post, January 2010:
http://bikeeatsleeprepeat.blogspot.com/search/label/protein%20balls 

Never Say Diet

"You can't beat the biology of blubber."   - Dr. Oz

Great.  Now there's a name for it. 

The Biology of Blubber. 

It's real too.  I know.  I've had it proven to me often enough.

My body's always taking care of me, even when I'm mean to it.  Anytime I stress it out with starvation or sleep deprivation, it pays me back with some nice, cushy, extra padding.

It's not just me.  Ask anyone who put on the Freshman 10 in college.  (Or gained 20 in the first year as a newly hatched flight attendent.)

Stress, bad food, odd hours, too little exercise.   The biology of blubber strikes again.  And again. 

So what's an XL to do?

If the XL is me?  Nothing.  No diets!  At least not since the yo-yo days of youth.  Some lessons had to be learned more than once.

It seems better to just carry around a few extra pounds rather than get all restrictive, and risk going off the deep end.  I'm long done with that cycle of losing, only to gain even more back.

So I've been a little wary of detox.  Super low-cal is usually a bad thing for reformed yo yo dieters.

But, like so many things that scare me - big drops, for example - a detox attracts me too.  And maybe, just maybe, if it's handled right, the benefits could outweigh the risk. 

Filtering out common allergens for a week or two and infusing your system with super nutrition is an alluring idea. 

We train for mountain biking here with nothing but bridges for mountains.  I trained incessantly for triathlon despite years of Atlanta-based stress and airport food. 

How far could we take our training if we were super-nourished?  Could the Cross Florida feel easy?  Might the Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run actually live up to it's name?

Popeye's always on board for super-nutrition.  I've got nothing to lose but blubber.  Just think what we have to gain. 

Hey, no guts, no glory, right?

Kale Smoothie

Publix check out.  Whole Living Magazine.  February issue.  If you miss the magazine, see 

http://www.wholeliving.com/152870/2012-whole-living-action-plan

C'mon, what have you got to lose?


Whole Living Magazine. Ohmygosh, the photos of food are fabulous. I just can't help myself from wanting whatever is on that plate, and sometimes I even want the plate!  Especially when it's one of my niece Michele's incredible ceramic pieces. If you love beautiful table presentation... Or the color blue... http://elephantceramics.blogspot.com/

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.

Colorado calling.

Had a dentist appointment first thing last Monday morning.  And groceries, and laundry, and...

But it's January, and I wouldn't have tried to get in an early ride anyway. Just get the indoor chores done and look forward to afternoon sunshine. That's winter. (And the plus side of unemployment.)

But chores snowball.  Late afternoon. The fourth load of clothes, and my long sleeved bike shirt, are still rumbling in the dryer. My vest is… well, somewhere, I’m sure. And my full fingered gloves have disappeared as quickly as the time.

Finally. Tires pumped and out the door.

A block later:  Jeeze, it’s after five o’clock. Duh. Go back for lights.

Nearly night. I am on my own. I have no agenda. There is no wind to dictate direction. On Tropical Trail, the llamas will probably be in their little huts for the night, but I might as well go see.

By the time I reach Mather's Bridge, the sun has already set.  Time to switch on the lights.  I expect full dark before I reach the north end, five miles away.

But it's January. Two months in a north facing townhouse and I've already forgotten. On a clear winter night, the sunsets here go on and on.  The colors intensify long after my turnaround at Pineda. The river is mirror still, and still pink, even after I turn my back on it to head home.

Tropical Trail

But just as I lose the sun behind me, I see the moon.  Dead center between the red and green lights of the swing bridge, full and huge, and edging up into the sky.  The turn toward home forgotten, I become a two wheeled moth, on an eastern heading, drawn to the light of the moon.

The beach is spectacular.  Waves crash gently, and recede.  Light treads a wavy path straight from the moon to my feet.  It follows me down the boardwalk and on my way up the road.     

Tail light - boardwalk rail - full moon.

Tuesday morning, another bright day, another drive to Vero.  The second time this week.  A1A is brilliant with winter sunshine. Even so, the drive seems to take forever. 

Out the car window, somewhere south of Sebastian inlet.

Why is it that 42 miles on a bike is easy-like-Sunday-morning, and yet driving 42 miles to the next town feels so darned long?   

TriLady is sorting out and packing up. She's sold her house, researched jobs, and renewed her Colorado contacts. She's about ready to go.

I am driving down to help.  

Years and years in the same house. Memories, mementos, dust, and STUFF. 

She has to be out next week.  There's no going back now.

I really am the right person to call. When regret comes slithering in across the bare tile floor of all those empty rooms, I'm the one who will say (as often as it takes),  "You're going the right direction. You're doing the right thing. You have very-good-reasons."

Who hasn't made an irreversible life decision and not panicked, asking, "What on Earth have I done?"

I know the feeling. I also know, as long as you immediately start ticking off all your very-good-reasons, you will feel better before you get to the last one.

(Even if I don’t feel so good. I’m losing a friend to the distant mountains of Colorado. Where she will surely spend her weekends having really cool bike adventures without me.)

But TriLady is a seeker. The long quiet highway is not her path. She has lived here long enough, and is wise enough, to recognize her need for a place to really call home.  She isn't the first of my friends to desert the flatlands, but she just might be the first since I decided it's not my place to give anyone grief about it.

Somewhere along that long road south, I realize the difference. 

Even the longest bike ride leads me back home.  But what if it didn't lead to a place with which you have made your peace?  Every ride would seem as endlessly long as a trip in the car.  

Nah, no regrets allowed, at least not on my part.  

The same moon follows you wherever you go, beating the same path, straight to your door, wherever you are.  

It's only fair to let people go.  Even the longest rides of your life ought to lead you home in the end.