Off the Map

For some reason, I have lately felt like going off the map.  As I said in an earlier post, I have discovered some old, apparently little-used trails in the park where Muttboy and I roam.  We have spent a couple of hours just wandering, not really knowing where we were or exactly how to get back.  It has been a lot of fun, just following our instincts–or my instinct and Muttboy’s nose–to wherever we happen to end up.  I’ve been doing the same thing on my bike rides lately as well.

Last Saturday, I decided to follow a route that I had only been on once, and then I planned to add some drama by veering off and finding a different way to my halfway point.  It worked out well, and I discovered a great new road with a killer descent.  It felt good to strike out and try a new series of roads, not knowing if they were hilly or flat, though in this part of Connecticut, the real question is not hilly of flat but how hilly.

Today, I added even more drama.  I planned to take yet another road, and then I would piece together several other routes to form a Frankenroute–a ride of unknown length with surprise variations I could throw in depending on my whim.

Here is what I ended up with:

• 103.67 miles
• Duration:  5:51:34
• Average Speed:  17.6  mph
• Maximum Speed:  My computer screwed up and claims 94 mph, which is not true, I am sure.  Let’s say 45–I remember seeing that on a descent.
• Feet of climbing:  My computer does not have an altimeter function, but I’m guessing at least one million.  And that’s a conservative guess.
• Calories:  5,671

I nearly killed myself at about mile 88.  I was cruising along River Road, concentrating on avoiding the worst potholes and the broken glass (I think the high school kids like to drink on River Road and toss their empties) and trying to look cool while riding no-hands and eating a Clif bar when I saw a bike up ahead.  As I got closer, I saw that the rider was on a flatbar hybrid bike, he was wearing baggy shorts and a t-shirt and no helmet, and he had on a backpack.  In other words, the dude was begging to get dropped.  I got even closer and realized that the dude was ripped–big body-builder muscles, and I started to rethink my dropping plan.  Just then, the dude noticed I was behind him and stood up to sprint away.

With the gauntlet thrown like that, I had to crush him.  I passed him on a hill and eased back into my rhythm.  I glanced back and saw him pushing to keep up with me.  This was bad news.  When you drop someone, you have to make it stick.  Luckily, I had a turn coming up.

I turned and then heard badly adjusted v-brakes squealing as the dude decided at the last minute to make the turn as well and chase me.  There was a little bit of a climb, and I wasn’t worried about that, but the descent afterwards made me nervous.  I looked back and the dude was there, chasing me about one hundred yards back.  I picked up the pace without looking like I was picking up the pace using my top-secret spin method (I would tell you what it is, but then I’d have to kill you.).

Once the road leveled out, I looked back again.  The dude was still there!  He was about 400 yards back, so I was gaining, but still.  I decided to try psy-ops.  I sat up, no-hands, and pulled a Clif bar out of my jersey pocket, to make it look like I was not only not trying to dust this guy, but was so unconcerned that I was eating.  It worked.  The next time I looked back, he was toast.

Despite my stupid testosterone-fueled smackdown, I ended the ride feeling okay.  Tired, achy, hungry, thirsty, but okay.  It was the longest unsupported, solo ride I have ever done, and it felt good to do.  I liked the freedom of not having a set route and taking whatever roads felt right at the time.