I biked one hundred miles today. Again. I guess I didn't learn my lesson the first time. Despite clearly remembering the tight tendons, achy muscles, and neck pain that comes from long days, I thought that my second "Century Day" would be easier than my first.
And I would be lying if I didn't say it was, on many levels, miserable.
However, this trip isn't about being comfortable. Nor is it about self-flagellation. I knew that riding these high mileage days had to be approached with the right mindset. If I thought they were going to suck, they probably were; because that's all I'd focus on. Therefore, as an experiment, I approached this long day in the context of the reward. I was staying with family and was going to get to sleep in a bed, inside a building. I was also going to get to take a zero day and get to explore a new city: New Orleans. Hopefully this mindset would make today at least bearable. Or at least that's what I was telling myself. I ate my breakfast of balls of bread and peanut butter, ramen soup, another can of tuna, and several handfuls of random assorted nuts as I charged my phone and tried not to think about the negatives of the day. Then I straddled my bike and tried really hard to not think.
Then I really thought.
And I began cranking.
And everything began melting away.
After twenty minutes of riding something changed. I fell into a steady cadence. A consistent tempo of gears and chains. Something familiar and nice that I recognized. A regular repeating of a beat. I was creating a sort of music with my bike and leaving the notes embedded in pavement as I eagerly rolled West.
The first forty-five miles were beautiful as I rolled past cows and farm fields as a lazy fog slowly lifted itself higher and higher as time passed. It felt like Michigan on a cool, June morning. The type of morning many Michiganders relish in, including myself. And as I approached Gulfport, Mississippi, I began to transition from nature to city. Trees gave way to homes then buildings and the odd casino or two. I rode along the beach and stopped for, what I hoped, would be a quick lunch of a thousand plus calories then Kona and I could continue our pleasant melody of music. Then I was approached by Dwayne. A new member in my band that played a very different tone than Kona and I. If anything, Dwayne was playing in an entire different genre.
First and foremost, Dwayne was nice. He was a vet travelling to either his friend's place or his son's apartment (he wasn't sure). He spoke quickly and jumped between several different stories that had all began before he had even met me. His accent was difficult to understand as he garnished his sentences with French words and Louisiana Creole slang. For the most part, I understood about half of what Dwayne said. I also knew that Dwayne wasn't concerned with me understanding, he just wanted someone to listen. So, I nodded my head and said "yeah" as I ate Ramen and tuna. He would tell a bit of a story, laugh, and then point to his seat while talking about his "bike seat" (bahk-seeyt) with a tone of anger and wild movement of his hands. I reached over, tightened a ring for him on his seat post, and went back to my lunch as he continued his stories. He thanked me profusely in between his off-color political jokes and then rode off West. I'm still not sure if he knew where he was going, but he seemed confident regardless. I washed my pot and spoon in the ocean and carefully swung my leg over Kona, getting ready to mount her. I was just under halfway through the day, and I could already feel my legs tightening up as I began to push West again.
After a few dozen or so miles I had to make a stop to charge my phone and refuel. I pulled up to a water tower in a quiet area among empty lots. The perfect place to be left alone. I plugged my phone into the fortunately placed electrical outlet and ate my second-lunch of Gatorade and various granola and protein bars. After a short charge, some food, and a quick pump up of the tires, I began the final stretch of my journey.
I crossed into Louisiana. I was now only twelve miles from my final destination. I thought the worst was behind me and shifted down a gear to sprint the final bit in. I was now desperate for some food and a cold beer. However, I struggled the entire time. I couldn't recapture my steady tempo and I felt choppy. No steady spins. Just short. Choppy. Spins. And as I wrestled with my bar-end shifters I began to notice something odd about the world.
As I biked I felt myself sinking lower and lower into the Earth. Of course I knew this wasn't right, as my bike was made of steel and not some magically shrinking material. Additionally, it felt as if my pedals and handlebars were remaining in place, it was the rest of the bike that felt like it was shrinking. It was at this point I knew I had gone too long without food and hadn't had enough water leading to what medical professionals would call an "altered state of consciousness." I would call it "seeing things." Fortunately, I only had six miles left so I ignored the clear problem I had and proceeded my inconsistenet spin to a cold beer and warm shower.
Eventually, I arrived to my rest stop: the Givens. They are family and welcomed me with more exuberance than I was prepared for. Their beautiful home, they informed me, was also my home for the next forty-eight plus hours. After some amazing food and beer, we created a battle plan for my first visit to New Orleans and drank as preparation for the event; because, it is New Orleans after all.
The current state of my tan lines.
So I sit, at 2am, after some sharing of stories and planning, heavily buzzed looking forward to tomorrow. I get to experience NOLA as both a regular and a tourist. It's a rare chance that I absolutely will not waste.
Nor will I waste this moonshine.
Cheers.