Saturday August 7

It was dark and cool at 5:20am, and I quietly craved my arm warmers, neatly folded in a drawer 600 miles away.  I stood among thousands of cyclists, pensive with anticipation.  Heartbeats quickened when a young woman with a beautiful contralto voice belted out the Star Spangled Banner, and at 5:40am I eased across the starting line and headed eastward on Route 20.

Spectators lined the sides of the roads, cheering us on at this ridiculously early hour.  This year I started a little further forward in the pack than usual, and as a result the pavement, although crowded, was not as densely packed as in my previous experience. Though in a crowd, I rode alone with my thoughts.

Earlier in the week I spent a few days in my home town of Norwalk, Connecticut.  Each morning I took my father to the local Dunkin Donuts, his favorite hangout.  Since 1996 Dad has faced down cancers of the colon, prostate, bladder and lung.  His medical defense involved surgery, chemotherapy, radiation and more than his share of suffering.  He is now elderly, frail and sometimes confused, and I doubt he would prevail in another such contest.  For now, however, he is still with us and it was nice to spend time with him and see him happy.

A few minutes past noon I emerged from the 100 mile rest stop, the final pause on Day One.  Despite having been on the road for six and a half hours and skipping the 85 mile stop, I felt frisky and cranked up the pace.  In the town of Onset I overtook and latched onto a fast-moving pace line.  We tore through winding roads, passing other riders, but in Buzzards Bay as we approached Bourne, the traffic congestion slowed us down.

After 111 miles I crossed the finish line at 12:47pm, 27 minutes later than in 2009.

Sunday August 8

At 4:50am I downshifted and climbed the steep incline of the Bourne Bridge.  In the Cape Cod Canal below, calm waters quietly flowed with the shifting tide.  After the descent we rode the length of the access road along the eastern edge of the canal.  In the darkness the only sound was the rolling of tires on smooth pavement. After seven miles, near the Cape Cod Bay end of the canal we passed beneath the Sagamore Bridge, sparkling with its illumination in the clear, predawn darkness.

Through the towns of Sandwich and Barnstable we spent about 10 miles on Service Road.  This is a nearly straight line to the northeast, with seemingly endless rollers.  The air was cool and moist and I breathed deeply as I repeatedly climbed and descended.  I appreciated Isaac Newton’s gravity on the way down, tucked into an aero position on the flat sections and stood in the pedals on the climbs.  Everyone is different, but there is something conveniently special about the way this portion of the route complements my strengths but doesn’t strike at my weaknesses. I hammered for the length of Service Road, frequently exceeding 30 mph, catching and passing dozens of other riders, and being overtaken only twice.

A few days before the Pan Mass Challenge Michele and I met for lunch in Stamford, Connecticut .  She laughed and talked as we remembered the old days.  In 1993 she was fit, healthy and 34 years old, and her Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma diagnosis was the shock of a lifetime.  Her journey over the next seventeen years was a long, hard and crooked road, but she survived against the odds.  It was wonderful to share a meal with her, and to hear her talk of things she intends to do in the coming decades.

Just before the 40 mile rest stop at Nickerson State Park in Brewster, a long hedge lined the left side of the road.  Every year hundreds of people congregate here, yelling and cheering, blowing horns, playing bagpipes (and I swear this year somebody was playing an accordion).  This is a fast, flat section of Route 6A, and the crowd jacks up the volume as each rider approaches.  It literally takes your breath away.

At the rest stop Jack stood with this year’s sign “I’M 14 NOW THANKS TO YOU!” As a toddler Jack experienced horrors of surgery and chemotherapy that would challenge the endurance of a grown man.  The minimum age for riding in the Pan Mass Challenge is 15, so in 2011 instead of standing here with another sign, he will pass through this rest stop on a bicycle. Can’t wait to see him on the road!

Riding through Orleans , Eastham and Wellfleet I started to fade.  At times I felt strong, at times I did not.  I found myself repeatedly overtaking, then being overtaken by the same cyclists.  At 64 miles I crested a hill in Truro and encountered a police officer with both hands in the air.  “Easy, easy.  Rider down ahead!”  I pedaled around the next curve to find a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, surrounded by EMTs.  An ambulance waited nearby. As I coasted past I saw that he was conscious, speaking but not moving while a neck brace was gently put in place.  Long distance cycling is challenging, euphoric, and for obvious reasons both healthy and hazardous.  Several days after the event, an email update included a variety of statistics.  Among them was the statistic that a dozen riders had been injured and hospitalized, and all had been released, having sustained no serious injuries.

The Cape Cod peninsula is shaped like an arm with clenched fist.  The wrist is part of Truro, narrow and treeless, with the Atlantic Ocean to the right and Cape Cod Bay to the left.  The winds here are simply appalling, and riders, with so many miles behind them, are weary.  I firmly grasped the handlebars in the drops, tucked my head and shoulders down and pushed the pedals around with as much force as I could muster.  Traffic whizzed past on my left, and most drivers were considerate enough to leave plenty of space between the left side of me and the right side of their cars.

In Provincetown the route turns off Route 6 for some nasty climbing among the dunes.  This year a sign at that intersection essentially offered riders the option of a more direct route to the finish line, avoiding the final series of ascents.  No way, baby!  I turned to follow the longer route, and spent five miles climbing into hellacious headwinds through the dunes.

After 80 miles I rolled across the finish line at the Provincetown Inn at 9:43am, nine minutes later than in 2009.  I was scanned in and a young woman handed me a slice of fresh watermelon. Ahhhh.

******

It’s difficult to find words to accurately describe what it’s like to ride in the Pan Mass Challenge.  The central mission of course is to raise money for cancer care and research, and this event is phenomenally successful in that endeavor.  If the $31 million 2010 goal is met, a cumulative total of $301 million will have been raised since 1980.  This includes over $63,000 that folks like you have donated to sponsor me since 1999.

The money is important, but it’s so much more than just that.  This event is children holding out their hands to touch the hands of passing cyclists.  It is thousands and thousands of people watching and cheering.  It is 3,100 volunteers supporting 5,000 riders.  It is Doug, 29-year PMC veteran, using the big black marker to write the number “12” and adjacent lightning bolt on my left calf before the event.  It is people in wheelchairs at the rest stops.  It is feeling tired and drained, then encountering the guy with only one leg, smiling while he rides uphill.  It is dozens of tandems neatly lined up at the Massachusetts Maritime Academy.  It is devastating headwinds.  It is the memory of friends and family who have been lost to cancer.  It is the thought of friends and family who have prevailed against cancer.  It is Dad, wobbling and leaning on his cane.  It is Jack, another year older and impatient to finally ride in the event.  It is Michele, smiling, laughing, and talking about paintings and murals she has planned for the years to come.  It is fun, dangerous, and immeasurably rewarding.

I cannot adequately express my gratitude to my generous sponsors, and for all those who took the time to wish me well on this, my twelfth jaunt across Massachusetts .  With you it is all possible.  Without you it would be just a long bike ride.

The Conte’s ride theoretically consists of 50 fast, hilly miles, and is deservedly notorious for the breakneck pace.  I’ve started it many times, but never finished with the pack.

At 8:00am I rolled out with Oliver, Mark and several other team mates from Team Nature’s Path.  Bill and several from the Rostello team were also there, plus my pal Monica of River City Women’s Racing, and friends Clark and Dan, lone wolves unaffiliated with any official team.  Later I learned that Steve, Chip, the other Dan, Fritz, the lovely Cherie and a few other TNPers rendezvoused and merged with the group.  Alas, by that time I had been left in the proverbial dust.

We rode in a westerly direction through Henrico County.  Though fast, the pace was not quite the usual blitzkrieg level of intensity.  Apparently some who regularly participate in this ride were instead racing elsewhere in Virginia.

I took my turn in the rotation, and as I pulled the pace line up the hill on Cauthorne Road, Bill’s words drifted up from behind me “Don’t stay in front so long.  Let someone else take point position.”

This was marvelous advice, but as it turned out I had already spent too much time in front. I eased to the left to let the line pass on my right, and when the last guy swooshed by, I was breathless and unable to jump on the tail end. Pumping the pedals as hard as I could, I watched the gap grow wider as my chances of recapturing the group diminished. Dropped again. This day, I had hung on for eight miles.

I was sure the pace line would turn left on Ashland Road, then right on Abner’s Church.  Following that route at my personal pace, I encountered Clarke, Monica and eventually Dan, each of whom had also departed from the pace line.  We four reversed direction at the Rockville Store, heading east back toward the warmth of civilization.

We pondered our route. “Let’s take Ashland Road to Chewning, go the length of Farrington, and turn left for an assault on Chicken House. Returning to Conte’s from there, we should do about 45 miles.”  Chicken House is a very steep hill in Hanover County, and although it sounds like a house of ill repute, it is so named for the nearby Chicken House Gospel Church. It’s a white wooden church with a big plastic chicken standing out in front.  Really.

The wind picked up and Dan led our foursome along Ashland Road. He’s 6’8,” weighs about 215 lbs, and probably his body fat percentage is a negative number.  When there’s a headwind it is GREAT to ride behind him.

The approach to Chicken House includes a mild climb, then a short, breathtakingly steep drop.  At the bottom we have a 90 degree left turn with scattered sand and debris for amusement purposes, then after crossing a little bridge a sandy 90 degree right turn, finishing up with half a mile of some of the ugliest climbing in the Richmond area.  This was Clark’s first encounter with this hill, and to the chagrin of those of us who have slogged up it many times, he was the first one to the top.

Near the finish we pulled into a store, and as Clark rooted around in the cooler for ice and cold water, Monica and I compared scars.  In late December 2009 Monica had surgery on her right shoulder.  Nine days later, the same surgeon performed a similar procedure on me.  As we examined incisions and discussed progress (or lack thereof) in regaining pre-surgical fitness levels, Oliver rolled into the parking area, evidently having dropped all the other participants of the Conte’s ride somewhere beyond Rockville in the uncharted depths of Goochland County.  He saw what we were doing, and yanked back his jersey to reveal his own scar, obtained several years ago in a close quarters fight with a Mindoro crocodile that was trying to abscond with his carbon framed bike. Scary stuff.  Especially because the Mindoro is a protected species, so he couldn’t fight back.

We finished with 43 miles, including the Chicken House climb, at an average of 18.2 mph.

Last I heard, Oliver was pondering whether to send an expedition out to search for the survivors of the Conte’s ride.  There must be some out there.

Eventually the guard brought a filthy bowl full of gruel.  While he watched expressionlessly, I toyed with the gruel, even used the cracked plastic spoon to take a sip of the nasty stuff.  Evidently bored, he turned away and shuffled down the hall, headed for the Tax Library.  Lots of thrills down there.

As the guard grew more distant the sound of his shuffling diminished.  I quickly stripped and rubbed the stinking gruel across my chest and shoulder blades.  Thus lubricated, I again tried to slip between the bars.  I pushed until my chest jammed against the metal, then forced my way further.  I winced as chest hairs were stretched and slowly torn out.  Exhaling to reduce my cross section, I pushed again and my skin scraped against the cold bar.  Centimeter by centimeter I was getting through, though leaving behind substantial quantities of epidermal cells.

With a sudden scrape I was through.  I reached back into the cell, grabbed my clothes and ran, hoping the guard was fully engaged in the consolidated income tax regulations.

*****

At 5:30pm in West Creek, I lifted the machine from the trunk rack.  The official Team Nature’s Path Blue Train was scheduled to roll at 6:00pm, so there was time for a warm-up lap.  Halfway through I saw Des streak past in the opposite direction.  I waved but he didn’t see me.

After one lap at a casual pace, I turned in at the Direct Buy building to find Dan, occasional dungeon co-resident, ready to roll.  We chatted briefly, then headed out together.  On the next lap Des caught up to us, and together we encountered and overtook Tom.  We four then rode in a tight pace line, holding a consistent 18 – 24 inches between the rear wheel of one bike and the front wheel of the next.

As we passed Direct Buy again on the next lap Pascal rolled out and joined us.  With five of us in the pace line the labor force increased by 25%, and we sped along at a higher velocity.  We passed other cyclists, some alone and some in groups.  Down the hill, across the lake and up the next incline, we maintained a steady 23 mph.  I was tiring, but hanging on despite the much faster than normal pace for me.

By consensus we slowed as we began the next lap.  Dan and I rode side by side, and I made a few admiring comments about his slick Cervelo.

“When I STOMP on it the carbon frame reacts immediately. I’ll show you. Let’s pick up the pace again. Watch this!”

The muscles in his quads bunched, the Cervelo surged forward, then rider and bike suddenly blurred around the edges.  Moments later I heard a distinct popping sound as he vanished in a puff of blue smoke.  He briefly reappeared 50 meters ahead, then vanished again, reappearing yet again beyond that.  I’ll need to consult with Stephen Hawking, but I believe Dan and the Cervelo may have been skipping in and out of the multidimensional space time continuum….or something like that.

The engine of the Team Nature’s Path Blue Train sat rumbling, steam rising from the stack. At 7:20am the pistons slid inside the cylinders.  Crankshafts, connecting rods and coupling rods strained to turn the polished steel wheels.  Whistle blowing and steam pouring from rectilinear valves, the train pulled out of Rockett’s Landing ten minutes ahead of schedule.

The Blue Train is a euphemism for the Team Nature’s Path pace line.  This day it consisted of Dennis, Dan, Mark, my former boss Steve (please come back!), Tim, the lovely Ann Marie and others…a very fast group.  I was there because every train needs a caboose.

We headed eastward in tight formation.  After a few minutes we climbed the long gradual hill on Old Osborne Turnpike and settled in for the long haul.

In pace lines each person commonly spends several miles in the point position.  On a long ride with TNP, however, the leader rider rotates off about every half mile.  This makes the line faster, and each person endures shorter stints at the front. When it was my turn to lead the pace line, I firmly grasped the bars in the drops, leaned forward to reduce my aerodynamic profile and pushed hard.  At 22 mph it takes 82 seconds to ride half a mile.

I eased to the left, tapped my right hip to signal that I was dropping back, and slowed slightly as the next rider took the lead.  The line rushed by, and in moments the last man in the pace line passed me on the right.  I powered up to catch the end of the line.  That can be a difficult maneuver, and I nearly dropped off.

We blew past the first rest stop as volunteers scrambled to set it up.

After another rotation it was again my turn in front.  This time it was a bit more difficult to maintain the cadence, and much more difficult to hop on the pace line after.  When I ride with TNP my personal energy level tends to decline before the Blue Train runs low on coal.

The second rest stop was at an intersection 27 miles into the journey. Someone yelled “Go through” and the group maintained its speed.  I peeled off, however, recognizing that if I persisted at that velocity, my ability to finish would be in question.  I rolled in, wolfed down a banana and a granola bar, rolled out.  Average speed so far was 20.6 mph.

The terrain was slightly rolling.  Riding sometimes with other groups, sometimes alone, I maintained a brisk pace, varying between 18 mph and 22 mph without undue fatigue. That could mean only one thing.  Tailwind.  It may seem odd to a non-cyclist, but on a bicycle you don’t directly notice a tailwind.  There’s no perceptible “push” at your back.  Listen, however, and you will observe that it’s quieter because of the lower relative speed of the air as it rushes past your ears. Of course it should also be obvious from the speedometer readout, but as my friend Lanny says “There’s no such thing as a tailwind. You’ve either got a headwind, or you’re having a good day.”

Just before the turnaround point we crossed a bridge spanning the Chickahominy River.  This bridge was a huge hill in the middle of otherwise generally flat territory.  It must have been constructed to enable aircraft carriers to pass beneath.  Across the river I pulled into the halfway rest stop just as the Blue Train emerged, heading back on the return trip.  My average speed eastbound was a respectable 19.7 mph.

I refilled water bottles, scarfed down another banana and got back out on the road.  Climbing the bridge westbound, I had to fight the wind, which was stronger than I expected.  I stood in the pedals and hammered up the incline, then sat in the saddle on the way down and kept the pressure on to gain momentum.  Once back on terra firma I tucked into the most aerodynamic position possible sans aero bars, and settled in to battle the wind as best I could.

A few miles down the road a group of five riders zoomed past in the opposite direction.  My pal Phaedra occupied slot number two, her features characteristically focused and intense.  I checked my odometer and did some calculations in my head, considering that I had 45 miles to go and she was four miles behind me.  Phaedra has the strength and determination to close that much distance on me in 45 miles, on a good day.  Maybe.  Or maybe not.  I decided (well, hoped) that this day it would be NOT.

Minutes later a group of three riders came by in similar fashion, with my friend Kelly leading the pack.  This was her first century, and for that matter, her first ride longer than 52 miles.  She looked capable and powerful, and the two hangers on looked like they would soon be falling off.

The wind momentarily let up, and I cranked past the next rest stop without stopping, at the non-spectacular speed of 14 mph.

I rode alone for five or six miles. Although riders in ones and twos came toward me, it had been some time since I had seen other cyclists riding in my direction.

In 1996 Dad was diagnosed with colon cancer.  Surgeons removed his descending colon and relocated his transverse colon diagonally across the abdominal cavity.  The procedure was lengthy and difficult, and afterwards he had the hiccups.  With each little “hic” he grimaced and contorted his torso in great pain.  He looked as though he were being strangled.  He suffered through a year of chemotherapy.  It was awful.

No other riders were nearby.  Eastbound on Route 5, clearly I was headed in the right direction, but I was unsure of whether I was still on the official route.  The road passed through open farmland, with no sheltering trees.  The hot wind battered me.  At times my speed was below 10 mph.

One day a few years later Dad’s urine was bright red, and we learned that he had bladder cancer.  More surgery and chemo left him weary and unsteady.  Suddenly and for the first time, he seemed very old.

Several more cyclists cruised past in the opposite direction.  My nemesis headwind was their tailwind and they zipped along with minimal evident effort.  These must be among folks who had started the day in Williamsburg, now on their return trip.  If I hadn’t strayed from the official route, I must have missed a rest stop.  I was running low on water.

Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer.  Surgery and radiation therapy left him weak and feeble.

A diesel engine approached from behind, the increasingly shrill mechanical whine a textbook demonstration of the auditory Doppler Effect.  In an explosive blast of sudden presence, a tractor trailer truck blew past, the air itself pounding with the characteristic clatter of compression ignition.  Small cyclones of debris trailed in the truck’s wake.  The wind of the passing machine shoved me sideways.  I held the bars firmly and remained in control.

Dad quit smoking decades ago, but recently he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Thankfully the tumor was small, contained and operable.  His ribs were spread slightly apart and the doctor reached in with a special tool, cut out and extracted the malignancy. Dad recovered from this invasive procedure with some difficulty.

Soon Dad will celebrate his 86^th birthday.  I don’t think he can survive another occurrence.

At 90 miles I ran out of water.  At 93 miles I came across three Cap 2 Cap guys in lawn chairs.  They directed me to continue straight ahead.  Apparently the ferocious winds knocked out some of the signs.  They kindly gave me two bottles of water.  I immediately drained one, and used the other to fill the bottle on my bike’s down tube.

After 101.6 miles I crossed the finish line at 1:45pm, ten minutes behind the Blue Train.  My average speed for the round trip was 16.9 mph.

In 1,975 hours I will ride from Sturbridge, Massachusetts for my 12^th Pan Mass Challenge.  Please visit my profile at http://www_.pmc.org/profile/RT0014.  As always, thank you for your encouragement and support.

“Okay.  I can come back Monday or Tuesday…whatever works.”

“Take off your shirt.”

Moments later her fingers held a hypodermic the size of a baseball bat (apparently the really big one was unavailable.)  She smoothly inserted it into my back and squeezed.  I tried not to squirm as the viscous fluid slithered into me.

“Given that this uncomfortable event is necessary, I’m pleased that you are the one administering it.”

She smiled….a little…not much.

Eventually the hypodermic was empty and I was full of cortisone.

“Here’s a copy of today’s medical record.  Give this to Megan at your next physical therapy session.  The cortisone should make a significant difference”

And she was right.  When I saw Megan a few days later, she said I was making good progress.

*******

Climbing is fun but it hurts.

On a recent Saturday morning Dena, Monica, Des and I rendezvoused in a parking lot below Wintergreen, where we prepared ourselves and our machines for the day’s altitude increase.  Dena and Monica are with River City Women’s Racing.  Des and I are members of Team Nature’s Path.  Monica and I have climbed Wintergreen before, though for both of us this would be the first time since undergoing shoulder surgery.  For Dena and Des this would be their first attempt.

The ride to the summit is only 6.75 miles, but that includes 2,626 feet of climbing.  The average grade is therefore an appallingly steep 7.4%.  That’s the average.  In three places the grade briefly touches 15%.

The route includes only two turns at intersections, which I explained to Dena and Des based on the likelihood that we would become separated.  In a normal ride one can ratchet the pace up or down to accommodate other riders.  That’s simply not possible on an extended, steep climb like this.  The Wintergreen Ascent is fundamentally a solo effort.

We rolled from the parking area and pedaled in the direction of The Beast.

The first mile is a “false flat.” It seems level but if you watch the brook gurgling beside the road, you’ll observe that there is a noticeable incline.  I pushed through, maintaining a steady cadence, knowing that this was the easy part.  After another half mile the angle of ascent was significant, and at two miles there could be no doubt we were on a mountain.

The bike I rode has a compact crank, which means the gears in front have 50 and 34 teeth rather than the standard 53 and 39.  Moreover, the largest gear on the rear cassette is a 28 rather than the typical 25.  The combination effectively provides two or three lower gears at the bottom of the range.

Over the course of the third mile Des gradually pulled ahead.  I shifted to the 34 and started to work my way up to the large gears on the cassette.  The false flat was long behind us.

After three miles I opened a gap on Dena and Monica, just as we reached the first 15% section.  I tried to pedal at a steady cadence, pushing the pedals around in slow circles.  Consciously cranking through a circular stroke delivers more power through the entire pedal stroke.  Every minute or so I stood for about 10 seconds.  I doubt this provided any real benefits in terms of applied torque, but it made me feel better.

There’s a right turn at 3.5 miles, at the enormous WINTERGREEN RESORT” sign.  The 15% grade continued for another hundred meters, then eased slightly at the guard house.  The road turned for a long, straight climb at about 9%.  I stayed in the saddle, intense and focused, thinking of nothing but the climb ahead.  Ahead of me, Des was beyond visual range.  Behind me, Monica and Dena were beyond auditory range.  I rode in deep, contemplative solitude.

A switchback can be good because it breaks the tedium of a long unrelenting climb.  A switchback can be bad because often it is steeper then the comparatively straight sections both before and after.  I saw and heard no traffic, so I navigated through the switchback in optimal fashion, crossing the double yellow line as necessary to maintain velocity, such as it was.

After the switchback a roadside sign warned against feeding the bears.  Now there’s a comforting thought.  Outrunning a bear should be no trouble when careening downhill at 35mph.  Climbing at 5 mph, however…   And come on, what sort of nitwit would actually try to FEED a roaming roadside bear?

An electric speed detection device sat on a trailer at the side of the road, five and a half miles from our starting point.  As I approached, the flashing digits read “6 MPH”…most impressive.  Just past the speed limit sign I turned left toward Devil’s Knob, struggling to climb.  It is so steep here that beside the roadway there are stairs instead of sidewalks.  I stood in the pedals for more than the traditional 10 seconds, forcing the bike forward. Together, my bike and I weigh 161 pounds, but we felt much heavier as we trundled through this second 15% incline.

The road leveled out momentarily turned left in front of a tourist restaurant.  With one mile left I drank deeply from the water bottle, then I tossed it to save a little weight.

The road turned sharply right, then it slapped me in the face with the final 15% climb.  I powered through, sitting back in the saddle for increased leverage.  For an instant my front wheel lifted from the pavement, so I shifted my weight slightly forward.  This helped me keep the rubber on the blacktop where it belongs.

As I struggled past the scenic overlook I smiled in the knowledge that I was nearly finished.  The angle eased, then reached a plateau. I pedaled through the final hundred yards, saw Des smiling and yelling encouraging things like “Where have you been?  I waited for a while, then strolled over there for a haircut and a beer.”

“Arrgghhhh,” I replied with perfect enunciation.  After 1:07+ on the bike, I reached the summit.  That’s the worst elapsed time of any of my in seven attempts….sort of a reverse personal best.

But I did it, and I felt good.

Monica arrived moments after I did.

Not so very long ago, Monica and I underwent similar surgical procedures to repair torn muscles in our right shoulders.  This was a significant test for us both.  Speaking for myself, I thought I could reach the summit, but I was less than certain.  Perhaps Monica was more confident than I was. The photo that Des took consisted of 2 friends, 33 lbs of bicycles, 4 torn muscles sown together, 6 titanium screws penetrating scapulas and humeri, at the summit of Wintergreen.

I learned later that after 5.2 miles Dena pulled over and stopped. She waited for us there and we reconvened for the somewhat terrifying descent.  There’s no shame in not quite conquering Wintergreen Mountain the first time out. Next time she’ll reach the summit with us.

On October 31, 2009 I crashed while riding in the rain. When my shoulder hit the pavement I did some serious damage, aggravating the old flying trapeze injury. On January 6, Dr. Higgs repaired tears in my labrum and rotator cuff, and my humerus and scapula now sport permanent Titanium screws to match the Merlin. Now, more than ten weeks later, the focus of my regular physical therapy sessions is to regain flexibility and rebuild strength. I am progressing on both fronts, though not as quickly as I had hoped.

“Out to the side now, give me ten repetitions, three sets”
“Okay, but Jeez that hurts!”
Reagan pointed to the sign on the wall, bright red diagonal stripe slashing across the word WHINING. “That’s the house rule. Don’t make me mad.”
She really is very nice, and a cyclist / marathon runner to boot. She is doing all in her power to help me recover.

After working under her supervision for 30 minutes with free weights and a variety of machines, Reagan turned me over to Megan for some serious stretching.

Standing by the table, Megan pulled my arm up and back and in and out. She worked the ball and socket shoulder joint through every conceivable direction. My range of motion is still limited, but a little less so at each visit.
“Did you take the pain meds this morning?”
“I never come here without first doing so. Go ahead and take me to the edge of consciousness.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.”
Megan is very precise and knows exactly how far to push.

I’m lucky to have escaped more serious injury in the accident, and so very fortunate to be working with a team of dedicated professionals during my recovery.

Last week I returned to the instructor bike at the YMCA. Soon, very soon I hope, I will be back on the roads, sweating on the hills, fighting the wind and trying not to drop off the Team Nature’s Path pace line.

I can’t wait.

Master 40+ results from the Dismal Dash today.

Ed Baumgartner – 6th
Ed McNelis – 9th
Jim Burns – 10th
Pete Raimist – 11th

I’m not sure how the other 40+ guys felt today, but I think the Masters field is getting stronger and more competitive each year.  My hat is off to everyone who made it down to Suffolk.

Pete

The juniors had a great day riding in clear weather with modest temps (51 degrees with 12 mph winds compared to last year when it was 36 degrees, driving rain, and winds gusting over 20 mph).

Parker Brookfield finished 2^nd in the Boys 10-14 and Taylor Clark finished a very respectable 6^th in the same category.  Mallory McNelis was 2^nd in a very tough field of Girls 10-14.

Abby had an SAT prep class so we had no participation in the 14-18 junior ranks.  If anyone has a 15 to 18 year old son they would like to sacrifice for the club on the altar of BAR points, please let me know.  That is our biggest gap with the junior program at the moment.

Great job juniors!

Jake Tremblay -cat-pro/1/2 – 1st (2nd 1//2/3)
Dan King -cat-pro/1/2 – 3rd (4th 1/2/3)

Richmond Raceway Crit – Masters 35+ from Bryan Vaughan on Vimeo.