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Cool Kid Salutation!

Can a group of fast and furious car loving teens consider me, a guy wearing Lycra and riding a bike with a trailer cool? If so then why can’t the rest of America?

I was riding to an interview, decked out in Lycra and towing my trailer, when I pulled up to a red light. The thing that made this particular light different was the fact that parked in the lot of the corner store was a group of Cool Kids with their cars freshly washed and ready to be admired.

They were all standing around chatting with each other and their girlfriends and assorted hangers on when I pulled up to the light. I knew what was going to happen before it did for this was not the first time I had happened upon such a situation.

They saw me and looked at each other then started hooting and hollering at me as if they had become a troupe of baboons. Pointing at me one of them yelled “Nice car!” This made the rest of them scream with laughter.

That was about the same time I reached the light and stopped but instead of unclipping from my pedals I balanced. I did what is called a track stand, where I point my front wheel into the crest or peak of the road. You then push the pedals, moving forward then release tension, letting the hill bring you back. With this technique I can “float” at a stoplight for as long as I need to. It also looks really cool, especially with my trailer hooked to the back of my bike!

So I started doing this, ignoring the screams of the ape-men, when suddenly they stopped. I looked over to see what caused their silence but they were still looking at me. I didn’t know what exactly to think of this, what was going to happen? Would one of them throw something at me? No, instead the leader yelled at me once more but this time it wasn’t a jeer, it was a cheer!

I really didn’t expect this, it completely took me by surprise and I wasn’t quite sure if he was being honest or mocking me. But then the rest of the monkeys, sensing their leader’s approval changed tack and followed his lead. Then I thought, “why not have a little fun with this?”

So I looked into my bag of tricks and pulled out the one-handed track stand, it was right next to the no-handed track stand but I figured with the trailer I didn’t want to risk falling over. That simply wouldn’t do!

So I looked at them and threw up a peace sign! They loved this and showed their approval with a loud “Oh shit! Look at him! Wow!” I liked this, and proceeded to roll backwards, about a yard or more, and then go forward, back and forth.

That was when they told me something that I remember quite well, “You should be on the Olympics!” As if it were a reality TV show that I could simply try out for and get on for my personality. Oh well, reality TV generation.

Thinking back to that day it still puts a smile on my face for it points out what I mentioned in my last post, the thought processes of Americans are changing toward bike commuters. We are being considered “cool” now, it’s “hip” to be a commuter, look at how the urban fixed gear scene is being marketed.

So, to all of you out there that ride remember, when you throw a leg over a bike you transform yourself into an ambassador for the cycling world, whether it be the bicycle as transportation or as sport, we need to remember that we live in an image conscious society and people see us. Remember that.

Is the tide turning?

I used to get asked WHY but now I get asked HOW about commuting via bicycle. This is an important thing to note.

I have been transporting myself without the aid of an internal combustion engine for the past five years now. It started because I moved to the city where, quite simply, I learned to make do without. At that point in my life I wasn’t riding very much, I had recently quit racing and honestly it was the last thing I wanted to do.

How did I get around? I was located in one of the most urban and pedestrian friendly parts of the Metroplex, Uptown Dallas right on McKinney Avenue. Located outside my door was a free trolley line that would take me to the grocery or to shops where I could buy, really, anything I needed. This was also where I learned how to hail a cab. Fast forward a year and I once again found myself in the homeland of suburban sprawl, Arlington.

For those of you that aren’t aware, Arlington, Texas is the largest city in the country without public transportation, a fact that the city leaders are proud of. Well, when I returned home after a year spent in the city my thinking had changed. I no longer looked at an automobile as a necessity for life.

Why, you ask?  Well when I came back I decided that I was going to make a living as a server, waiting on all the disgusting and rude people that regularly go out to eat. It was good to me and I, in turn, became very good at it.

You can see how, with this, it was easy for me to afford cab fare to and from work every day. It was around this time also that I started to enjoy riding the bicycle again. Yes it took quite a while to get it back, my love for the velocipede, but once it started coming back it was like when I first got hooked.

The reason I originally fell in love with cycling was because the freedom it affords you. At the time it was the freedom for me to ride out my front door and across cities, even counties, but when I reemerged on the scene it was the freedom from traffic, vehicle cost, and stress. My love and I had returned to each other.

Unfortunately, though, it was a rocky relationship and it took a while for us to once again gel. Before I had quit racing I was in decent enough shape to whip around a track at 40 miles per hour then sit in the group and again sprint all out, I could do this over and over. However, when I quit I went as far away from that as I could. I started smoking cigarettes and hanging out in bars and this, unbelievably I know, led me to become quite out of shape. So yes, when I returned to my beloved bicycle it was not as easy as I remembered it to be.

No matter, I was no longer a racer, I was now a commuter. I would ride, my messenger bag slung across my back, in all weather, to and then from work. I did this for several years and week by week, month by month and finally year after year I became stronger. Not only physically, though, but mentally. Yes mentally stronger and I give a lot of the credit to the bike.

The bike had once again taught me lessons for life, it taught me to plan my day, it taught me to be early not simply on time, to think ahead and foresee potential problems. And it taught me about people.

One thing I remember most about the early years as a bike commuter is that people will always ask you why. Why do you want to ride instead of drive? Why would you rather sweat instead of being in the AC? Why would you want to ride a bike fifteen miles across town when you could simply jump in a car and be there in minutes?

It’s a hard question to answer. If you don’t already know the feeling of freedom that the bike can give you then it is doubly so; to this day it is a hard question to answer, my only savior being that most people I meet these days simply accept it as a part of who I am.

But this might be because of another reason, for I have noticed that in the past year, year and a half, I get the question of Why less and less and instead get asked a new question; How.

Realizing this the other day while riding home from school I actually had to slow down, for it made that big of an impact on me. The tide is turning; people’s preconceived notions of how they transport themselves are starting to change. They realize that, while they don’t have to go to the extreme I did and sell their car in favor of a bicycle they can and even want to use a bike for some of their trips.

More and more I am asked by people what the best routes are from one place to another, or what particular type of bike is best suited to their needs. I love it when I get asked for advice or help because nothing makes me happier than to see someone get on a bicycle and ride around the block. Especially when you get to see a person that hasn’t ridden one since childhood, when they straddle the seat for the first time in years and push off, wobbling at first then as they become more comfortable and gain speed you see them smile.

It is said that whenever a bell rings an angel gets its wings, well whenever a person rides a bike for the first time my heart skips a beat. We all need to think back to that feeling from our childhoods, of flying down the neighborhood, the wind in our hair and the feeling of ultimate freedom in our hearts. That is why I ride and that is what you can get from a machine as simple as the bicycle. And to me that seems a tad better than sitting in a car complaining about the traffic.

The Ponderer has gone VIRAL!

Yes, I am now on Facebook! Click this link to see what is going on, become my friend to easily get updates of all the new posts as well as my plans for traveling and bike rides. Hope to see you soon!

Dog Grooming?!

What do you get when you combine corporate marketing and a new level of stupidity in America??? Groomer Has It.

Rumor has it that the proletariat of America is being systematically dumbed down by corporate media outlets. If this sounds like a conspiracy theory to you then maybe you should click the button at the top of the screen that reads “Next Blog.”

Yes, I am going to move away from my usual ramblings on various feelings and bike rides, of the interconnectivity of us all and how we need to learn from one another to discuss something that, I feel is being both downplayed and overlooked.

Corporate media, that is all the television stations and radio that we watch and listen to, is owned by a total of five, yes five, companies. They are the ones who inevitably decide what it is that we watch, who we look up to and what we want to buy.

Call me crazy, stop reading my blog, do what you will but I have had these thoughts in my head for quite a while and haven’t said anything, that is until the other day when I saw the new TV series that is being launched.

“Groomer has it” is a series, not unlike Top Chef and Americas Next Top Model, where contestants are put in a house and told to live together and compete against each other for a grand prize. This show, however, is focused on dog grooming.

Yes, silly as it sounds this is, in fact a real show, and as I watched a few minutes from one of the episodes, it seemed that the people that were competing were just as serious about it as those that are on all the other shows in this genre.

Why is the question that I asked myself. Of all the things to make a silly show about, why would you focus on GROOMING? Well, it’s all about profitability, go figure.

You see, as mega pet stores and mail order “pet boutiques” have learned over the last decade, pets are the new money pit. Think about it, think of your Aunt or someone else you know that thinks of their pets as their children, they would spend innumerable dollars on that member of the family. They would do whatever they could to save their child.

And they would also pay very large sums to ensure their happiness. Well, companies have figured this out and they have started marketing to these people. Anything from “Organic” pet food to oatmeal enriched pet shampoos. It is simply a way to twist the heartstrings and in turn the coin purses of the “parents.”

Marketing, profitability, and a very small and select group of corporations that are involved, without the general public’s knowledge, in our everyday lives and purchases; it is for this reason why we need to be above the hype, think for ourselves, question everything and, perhaps, listen to the crazed ramblings of the conspiracy theorist on the corner.

I spent the majority of the day today in Abbeville, Louisiana attending my grandmother’s funeral. Now, I am not saying this to garner any type of condolences or sympathy, rather I am sharing this to the world because I was able to see a number of individuals that I had no previous relationships with; my family.

I am the only son of my mother but she, on the other hand is the oldest of seven, and today her entire family was gathered in the same room and I was able to speak with them. I learned much and spent many hours conversing on many different subjects. It once again reaffirms my belief that you can learn and take things from each and every individual you come in contact with. You can sponge their experiences and learn from them; you can make yourself a much better person. You simply have to allow yourself to listen, and realize that everyone you meet is not below you nor above you but is a tutor that can show you a point you did not know existed.

Tx Tough Crit

Pro bike racing in Dallas, Texas? Yes! Last Thursday 125 of the nation’s fastest Criterium racers came to Victory Park to do battle with the elements and each other. All this in an area that normally sees overweight basketball fans, but now was flooded with shaven legged bike dorks and others that happened on to the scene.

It was amazing, the spectacle that was staged for the evening, the helicopter flying overhead, the money that was thrown in the race, the weather, and especially the party that seemed to erupt during, and after the event. All combined to make a night that both Dallas and the racers, would never forget.

For more than a week it had been steadily raining, nonstop it seemed. It was as if I had been somehow transported to Seattle. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on the point of view from which you were looking and whether or not you would be racing, the rain had yet to stop. It was going to be an interesting night for sure.

Making my way to the epicenter by both train and bicycle I, of course, had to be there early, I had to see this from the start. I wanted to see all the people drift in, and I wanted to see the festivities begin as I knew they were sure to do. And I wasn’t disappointed.

Arriving about two hours before the start of the race gave me plenty of time to scope everything out and it really was impressive; they had been setting up the VIP tents, barricades and viewing areas for a while now and it really made the area look like a real “race village.”

I kept circling the course, looking, for what I wasn’t sure. I wanted to see all that was before I finally settled on a spot from which to watch the night’s event. The course was the standard four corner crit. Three 90 degree turns and one, the last before the finish, a 120 degree. Normally, this would mean that the first person through the corner would have a good chance of taking the win but that night, but with the rain soaked roads, who knew?

Suddenly it was nearing an hour before the start and the masses were starting to show. I was still cruising the grounds, running in to people I hadn’t seen in years. For it was true; this was the biggest cycling event Dallas had seen in years. Sure, Dallas hosted the Olympic track qualifiers in ’99 but that was a drop in the bucket to the spectacle that was about to start.

The promoters had obviously been hard at work for they had procured some great sponsors. I think the one that everyone most enjoyed, though, was Miller 64 for they had coolers upon coolers of beer to quench their thirsts while watching the race. They would need it too, for by the end if you weren’t hoarse from screaming at the racers, you were simply watching something else. It was awesome.

So, where are we now? The race was about to start, there was enough free beer to make even the surliest of mountain bikers clap with joy and we were in the heart of the city. Good.

I eventually made it on the course, of course, I had to. It has been about five years since my tires had touched a crit course and I simply couldn’t stop myself!
I was restrained and composed, at first, then as I got comfortable passing the police that were barricading the roads, comfortable through the corners with their wet pedestrian stripes. I started to push a little harder, then still harder.

Suddenly, and oddly, the voice of reason overpowered my cry for speed; it said “You would look like a complete fool if you crashed out here, in front of all these people.” Damnit. I hate it when I’m right! So I turned off; riding away from the course, then looped around the edge of downtown, and came back to it from the opposite side.

On my way back I ran in to a friend of mine that works at a local bike shop. He also had taken the train, with his bike, and was now looking to have a fun time at the race. We chatted for a bit and then, after once again cruising the course, decided to combine our powers of awesome fun seeking and headed off to the American Airlines center in search of the event office..

Why? Because, as it turns out, he was in possession of a VIP pass, the key to the city if you will. Like I said he works for a local Bike Shop and one of his rep’s had come by and given him, along with all the other employees, the passes.

Unfortunately for me, though, he only had the one. Our plan was then to acquire another. We found the event office, which by this time was swarming with racers, went inside and then, chatting with one of the volunteers, were given another pass.

Bikes, check; free beer, check; VIP passes, check! Leaving the office and riding down the ramp, from the AA Center, doing our best dodge ball impressions through the swarming crowd, we inched our way once again in to the center of the festival.

Yes, for at that moment, beer in hand, in a crowd of likeminded people, all waiting for a race to start, a race that promised blazing fast speed, it was almost too much for me, I was in bike heaven!

The start was now minutes away and we were getting more and more excited by the second, this feeling was helped by us finding the Oakley tent, the area our VIP passes were for, and the booth that was giving away vodka and Redbulls.

I was quite simply amazed, I had come to this race, with barely enough money to cover the cost of the train ticket, and there I was, VIP pass around my neck, beer and pizza in my belly and a delicious vodka and Redbull in my hand. It reminded me of something I had already learned; sometimes you have to go in to a situation armed only with the knowledge that you are going to have a good time, no matter what.

The race was starting by this point, but first off was to be a lap of honor for the recently deceased Chris Hipp. Chris had been a local racer that dominated the Texas racing scene for years and was friends with many in the local and national racing scene. The group rode a lap of the race, in silence and honor. Then, however, it was on. Full gas and balls to the wall!

The first lap took me by surprise for it had been a couple years since I had seen a pro level race, the speed was incredible. I had forgotten how colorful the pack was, multi-colored polka dots that moved and jostled about, going down the course. Two laps went by then suddenly a bell rang.

The announcer, a small blond man that traveled the circuit with the racers, had started ringing a steel cowbell and screamed “$1000 prime on the line!!!” Holy crap! One thousand dollars? Are you serious?

You see a prime is a prize, in this case money, which is given to the first person to cross whatever lap it may be called for. This is used by race promoters as a way to spike a race, give it some life, and to disrupt it a bit if you will.

Well, it definitely had the desired affect! After that was called out a group of four leapt off the side of the main pack and flew, en mass, down the course. The first breakaway of the night had gone out in search of money and glory, but would it survive, probably not.

This was to be a 90 minute race, plus ten laps; now, I’m not sure of the exact speed but they were easily doing a lap every two minutes, if not less. You figure that out. That’s too many laps for four people to stay off the front, alone, and make it to the finish line. It simply doesn’t happen.

Round and round they went, lap after lap, and more and more people were dropping out. By the half way point in the race, after numerous breakaways and prime laps, more than fifty people had either been pulled or dropped out of the race.

Why, though, was it so hard? I asked a friend of mine, who had been in the race for thirty minutes, what happened and he said with the wet roads the group would sprint down the straight-aways then brake hard in to the corners and again sprint out the other side. When a group does this it creates what is called an accordion effect where the back half of the group is constantly working harder than the front and struggling to stay in contention. This is why it is always so very important to be near the front of a bike race.

By this point the crowd was on its feet. We were pushing up trying to be as close to the course as possible, slapping the barricades as hard as we could to cheer on our fearless warriors as they plowed a lonely road to the finish.

It was almost done, there were maybe fifteen minutes left in the race. The group that was now off the front had already spent ten minutes there, all by themselves, vigilantly working together for otherwise it would be over. They had the advantage, though, for every team that was in the main field was represented in the lead group. This would mean that there would be no real chase to bring them back, all they would have to do would be to play it smart, keep the tempo high and not crash!

This went on for the remainder of the race; our six leaders, pushing themselves ever onward, and the main group, looking as if they had relegated themselves to a Sunday stroll. When, suddenly, with two laps to go, the promoters threw a wrench in the race’s gears.

In bike racing it’s called a “Gamblers Prime”, it is a prime lap that is called either a lap or two before the finish and it is given out for those that know they aren’t going to win but want some money. It is also a very good way to disrupt the final flow of a race, maybe even to the point of allowing an en masse field sprint.

It was to be for $2500, quite a prize for a National level professional racer, who struggles to make ends meat. And you could tell when it was called to their attention, that a few of the breakaway riders looked hungry for it. The lap leading up to it went by, understandably, very quickly and the riders were once again seen coming through that last tight corner but when we saw them it was but one man, from Seattle no less, which was gunning for it. Perhaps he had come to an arrangement with his group mates and they were going to split it, perhaps everyone else had their sights set on the win and didn’t want to spoil their legs. Whichever it was, Adrian Hegyvary of the Hagens Berman pro Cycling Team got it with a smile. The question was now whether he could hold on to finish with his compatriots, or if they would kick up the pace and shell him out the back.

It seemed as though they were going to stick together, and for the final two laps were keeping a close eye on each other. The mass of humanity at the finish line was, at this point, screaming. We were all watching the jumbotrons, waiting to see how this most spectacular race would finish up. Who would win?

We noticed at this point that there was one individual of note in with the leaders, that being Heath Blackburn. He was the same person that won last year’s event and again he was off the front at the finish, could he make it two years in a row?

One lap to go, bell lap, the time when the cat and mouse chess game on wheels really shows its head. Who would lead out the last lap? Would it come to a sprint or would someone shoot off the front?

The riders were on the opposite side of the course now; the crowd was watching the giant screen. What would happen? Two corners left then they were coming out and around, almost one turn left then the finish. The crowd was jumping up and down, who would it be?

Then, to everyone’s horror, the news copter that had been diligently filming the entire race, went behind a building! We couldn’t see what was going on! What happened, why would they allow this?! We craned our necks over the railings, waiting to see who would come around the now dry corner first. Who would it be?

It was Heath, the man racing for the Texas team but coming all the way from New Zealand, out of the corner, one of his adversaries close behind. 300 meters left, all alone but with a man breathing down his neck; could he make it, could he do two in a row?

200 meters to go, Heath still in front, 150 meters, 100, 50, another racer was trying to pass. It was going to be neck and neck at the line. A collective breath went in from the crowd, “Ooh!”

Heath Blackburn got it! The Kiwi made it two in a row in Dallas and won his team’s home race again!

Wow, the crowd was finally able to breath; we all looked at each other, beaming, for this had been a race! We chatted amongst ourselves, grabbed another beer and relived moments of the race while we waited for the rest of the bunch to roll across the line. Soon we could all gawk at the victors and mourn those whose day it was not to be. However, for Joel and I, we had another goal.

By this point we had heard talk of an after party that was to be held at the top of the acclaimed W Hotel, at the 28th floor in the Ghost Bar. We had to continue our streak of stumbling in to fun situations, we simply could not end the evening yet! The night was still young!

We cruised the scene for a bit, wanting to wait till the racers had a chance to change out of their soiled Lycra and in to more appropriate party attire. By which time we made it back to the hotel and locked our bike to a tree outside, the street level bar was hopping with racers, fans and passersby alike.

And here I was, in cargo shorts, Crocks, and with a messenger bag that was completely full of sponsor’s beer, walking in to the jewel of the Dallas skyline. Oh yeah, no shame.

We found ourselves in an environment that had forty foot chandeliers hanging down from the fourth floor to the first, an environment where panels on the walls changed from iridescent blue to green to red, one where instead of seats there were chaise lounges with men and women sprawled out. A swanky environment and one that was being overrun by people who, normally, wouldn’t dare set foot inside.

But no! We were not to be thrown out, in fact our goal was to make it up, to the heralded 28th floor, where the magik was. For the time being, however, we were happy hanging out here, with me pouring out my glass of water and pouring in it one of the beers in my bag. Like I said, no shame!

Joel and I found a seat and started planning our next move, what to do? Perhaps it was my Crocks, or possibly my bag, but we caught the attention of a group of women. We locked eyes then started talking, they asked who all the people were and we explained about the race then asked them whether or not they had made it up to the Ghost Bar. One of them in fact had so I prodded her for information.

She told me that it was a private party that was being hosted by Heineken and that we could try to go but that they were turning people back left and right. This was at about the same time I met Sir Floyd.

Floyd Landis, the Tour de France champion turned dejected doper. He, having his two year ban from professional racing lifted this year, was back on the Pro scene, albeit on a much smaller team and racing much smaller venues. Nevertheless, I was in with a Tour champion!

I started talking to him, we chatted for a bit, talked to a couple other people, including a few that I also knew, then decided to climb the tower. We were going up!
Walking outside with, at this point, a gaggle of drunk on lookers we strode up to the famed velvet ropes and I, along with my friend Joel, spoke with the wall-like bouncer. I said, “This is Floyd Landis, former Tour de France champion, he should be allowed upstairs!” Move aside ape man, for we have important people in our midst, is what should have been allowed to leave my lips but, oh well.

He looked at me, my clothing, then to Floyd and the rest of our posse, then discussing this with the small Asian girl holding the list looked back our way and retorted simply “I’m sorry sir this is a private party and you don’t seem to have any wrist bands, please get back to the end of the line.”

Damn. I looked at Floyd, whose face was getting more and more twisted by the second and paused. He broke my silence with a quote that I swear; no matter how long I live I will never forget. It was “Floyd Landis doesn’t wait in lines, I don’t wait in lines!” Then turned on heel and walked off.

Honestly, with all that had occurred and all that I saw that evening, culminating in those words, I was stunned. I stood there for a second, and then walked off. Wow.
Joel and I started to give in to the idea that we were not getting in to the citadel, though by this point we really didn’t care. Both of us, taking the train in with barely any money to our names had, by this point, drank possibly half our body weights’ in free beer, seen a most awesome display of bike racing, and spent the rest of the night at the ground floor bar of the W Hotel. It was a success! And I got one of the best and most narcissistic quotes I’ve ever heard!

The trailing edge of the night went by in a blur. We mingled, chatted, drank, and eventually caught rides back to our respective homes. And I realized something, a thought that had been pushed out of my mind ever since the afternoon I was denied entry in to Canada, it’s not the destination, but the journey that is truly special.

Last night I took the train out to Dallas to the Tx Tough pro criterium which happened to be the last stop of the US Crit series. Great time, fast racing and awesome fun. Happened in to a VIP pass and spent the race right next to the finish line. Saw some people I hadn't spoken to in ages and consoled a broken Floyd Landis after he was denied entry to the Ghost Bar. Full write up coming in the next two days, come back soon!

Going farther then he's ever gone before...

A couple weeks ago a friend of mine once again started promoting his Century of the Month (more or less) ride and last Saturday I went out to the shop to participate. This was to be the second of such ride I will have attended and I really think I like them.

They are especially enjoyable for me because they always feature free breakfasts. To be honest if you tell me there is going to be free food I will just about come to anything, but this is especially true for a bike ride!

At seven thirty I get to the shop, say my hellos, grab a cup of coffee and a handful of bananas, then go back outside to sit on the concrete.

Thirty minutes later we look to have a total of about 65 people, all of which are doing a variety of route lengths, and are ready to head out. The eighty to hundred mile group goes out first with the rest trickling out behind us. Before the ride started I happened to see a friend of mine named Todd, the two of us are at the front from the beginning, spinning comfortably, though, already in the big ring.

As we head out of Arlington and in to the country I get an incredible burst of excitement. This was to be the second century for me in two weeks, both on a Saturday, and I was planning on repeating this trend for at least the next month.

One thing you must realize about me is that when I am on a bike, and I start to enjoy myself and become excited, I go faster and push harder. On the flats I hammer and through the corners I power. It’s much more fun to ride like this and, hey, if you can do it why the hell not, right?

For some reason all the people from the past came out for the ride so we were all bouncing off each other and the pace was anything but steady. My buddy Kolt, who may or may not be a professional cyclist by now, it might just depend on the week and how much prize money he gets, he was up there with me and we were cracking jokes and legs. I remember together we went through this nice little S curve in the road; our shoulders were touching the whole time. It had been so long since I had felt that.

A couple guys I knew kept throwing in little attacks, up rises and around corners, so the whole time was spent responding to somebody. Or at least till we got to our first rest stop at mile thirty five.

We had reached the town of Venus Texas, a tiny place that has about three lights and four stores. We stopped in one to refill our bottles, grab a snickers bar marvel at how quickly we covered the miles. At this point I went around to all the riders asking everyone about their desired route. Of course I was the only one that wanted to do the century. Damn!

Suddenly Jeff, one of the designated leaders, exclaims “Sixty Mile Route!” and rolls off to the driveway. I’ll admit, I got to this point, found out no one that came out wanted to do the full ride, and was, perhaps, a bit mad. So, I rolled out and said, “Later guey”, and headed in the opposite direction. “Screw them”, I said, “I’ll do this thing by myself!”

Fifteen miles later I was heading away from the town of Waxahachie, back to FM 157 and the return trip home. It was there that the idea popped in to my head, “why not go to Alvarado, that would add about twenty miles to your route and assure you that you made it past your goal.” Well, I was lying to myself because if I did that I would get about one hundred and fifteen miles.
One hundred and fifteen miles? Yes! I know, I know, that is quite a bit, however, I felt as though I were ready for it.

Over the past couple months I have been putting in more and more miles while on the bike and one thing that I have realized is that when you go farther, you see new things. It is so true because on that day, not only did I ride further than I ever had before I got to see roads I’ve never seen before. I was way out of my sphere of influence; the only thing I knew was that I was East of I-35 and South of I-20. With that knowledge I kept going, hell bent on making it to Alvarado!

It surprised me how strong I felt, I had been pushing hard for the whole ride, and even when I was off by myself I was still in the big ring the majority of the day. It’s funny, I have been thinking of this for a few weeks, when I was a Junior and racing, I would always spin the pedals really fast. Now, however, I can usually be seen pushing, not grinding, a larger gear. Obviously I have my trailer to thank, for nothing will make you stronger than hauling one, but I think it has a bit to do with maturity.

Not emotional maturity, though, because obviously I am still the clown I’ve always been, no, muscular maturity. It is quite true that it takes a while for your body to be able to handle long rides comfortably. It takes years of riding long miles to reach the point where your endurance is at an optimal level. Why do you think they say the peak years for Tour de France contenders is thirty?

By the time I was on the other side of Venus and heading home, my legs were still feeling strong but my mind, however, was starting to wander. I remembering passing my third dead skunk of the day when I came up with this scenario, I will explain:
Little Johnnie’s mom is in the kitchen doing the dishes when all of a sudden she encounters the foulest stench she had ever smelled in her life which was immediately followed in by little Johnnie.
“Hey Mom! Guess what?! I made myself a Coon Skin Cap!!!”
Little Johnnies mom wipes her soapy hands on a dish towel and looks over to her
smiling son and exclaims “Why Little Johnnie, that isn’t a Coon Skin Cap that is a SKUNK Skin Cap! Take that off!”

Like I said, I had been in the sun a bit too long. Fortunately, though, I was about twelve miles from the shop and from there ten miles back to my mom’s house. I could do that!

It was also at this same time that I found an extra burst of energy, love that sugar water! I got back in the big ring and back to the task at hand, putting in the miles to get to the end. Unfortunately my Quadriceps had another idea. As I was pushing over a little rise in the road I was unfairly forced back in to the saddle, my right leg started twitching so bad that I couldn’t move it and had to wait for it to subside. Eat a banana, I told myself, and hoping that the potassium could somehow magik itself in to my muscle fibers and stop the pain. Well, one can hope.

As quickly as it came it left and I was once again riding, albeit a tad more subdued, to the shop. Fortunately it came quickly; I had reached my oasis, with water and air conditioning, time to rest for a minute before heading to my ultimate stop.

By the time I got to my mom’s house I rode, give or take five, one hundred and twenty five miles. This was a new record for me, before the farthest I had ridden was one hundred and ten. The thing that surprised me though was the fact that I really didn’t experience any discomfort, save the cramp. This impressed me, and got me wondering how much farther I could push myself. Two hundred miles? That's another post...



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Everything that is negative is a secret positive. I have grown from my pain and have unlocked values in myself that I can treasure forever and pass on to other people I meet and other relationships I find myself in. For this I am grateful.

A rendezvous in Hell

It has been said that the ride starts before the first pedal stroke is ever turned. Well, in the case of the century at the Hotter ‘N Hell, it started a whole two days prior.

Before I had even arrived in Wichita Falls I had ridden about 130 miles, all the way from Arlington, it was a journey that I will both never forget and can’t wait to repeat.

But let’s move back to the Century, I had never done this ride, even though I have been riding for ten years now. This has amazed people when I have told them, for it seems that if you are a road cyclist in Texas, you were supposed to have ridden this rally.

But why is this thing so popular? Why do fourteen thousand people show up every August to sweat it out in the Texas sun? There are no mountains; there are no distinguishing characteristics to speak of, save the sparseness of the landscape and, of course, the people.

At six I woke up in my tent to the sound of music and voices. Already people
were up and getting ready, some even already in their bike shorts. I, on the other hand was not even close, though, to give myself a break, I can get ready for a ride in less time than most can say Mississippi. However, this morning I had to ensure that I ate some breakfast; it takes more than desire to ride for five hours straight, it takes food!

One thing was true, though; your great Ponderer’s legs were feeling quite heavy that morning. It was as if I could feel every one of those hundred and thirty miles on top of all the eighty plus pounds that I pulled in my trailer. This being said it was all I could do to drag myself out of my tent, go to the bathroom and light my stove so I could make breakfast.

As my rice and tuna chowder was simmering in its pot I went back inside my
nylon cave, willing myself to rest for just a bit longer but, unfortunately, my brain brought me back to the pot, “I must eat, I will need this later,” I told myself.

Six forty five and finally I was up and dressed, then, slinging a leg over my bike I rode up the hill from my campsite and to the starting area. I wasn’t in a hurry, yet, for I was under the impression that the ride started at eight am. Well, I was mistaken.

Six fifty five rolls around and suddenly I hear what sounded like the National Anthem being played over the loudspeaker, “wait”, I thought, “why would they be playing the National Anthem unless the ride was about to start, oh crap!”

Sprinting to the start I was suddenly taken aback by the giant mass of humanity that greeted me. There was, quite literally, a sea of people. Taking a side alley, I tried to get as close as I could to the front, and still it took me fifteen minutes to begin riding after the starting cannon goes off. It was amazing.

Seven twenty and I was finally on the bike and riding. Looking ahead I saw an over pass, which seemed to be crawling with multi colored, Lycra clad ants all heading toward the same direction but not quite in a line.

I found myself riding down the road, amidst all these people, where suddenly I had a burst of energy. Here I was surrounded by fourteen thousand other people, and I wondered if I could make it to the front.

Off I went, no longer feeling the miles I had put in to get here, I was on a mission and it was to see just how many people I could pass!

There were so many people, all over the road. We were on a four lane road and we were taking all of them but remember, we were in Wichita Falls and it was seven o clock in the morning, on a Saturday. Not the most trafficked place in the world. Nevertheless, it was amazing that they were allowing all these thousands of people the right to do this. It really does say something about the support the town gives the rally and us, the riders.

The support was definitely needed, too, for cyclists were bouncing off of each other left and right. I remember thinking that I, in all my years of riding and racing, had never before seen as many ambulances or people being carried away on backboards.

After about the eighth of such scene I, still making my way through the scattered packs of riders, came to the first rest stop of the day. It was on a corner and I remember it being quite a mess. There was a gaggle of cyclists, all either getting off, climbing on or riding through the area.

“Hmm,” I thought, “maybe I should pass this particular stop by, too many people that don’t really know what they are doing, that could be bad for my health!” So I went through, to the other side and to safety. From that point it was only about five miles to where the hundred mile loop split off from the rest of the ride so I precious little time to keep pushing through the masses.

It was at this point that I really put my head down and went for it, I was riding on the left most edge of pavement, narrowly passing rider after rider. Looking back this might not have been the best thing for me to do but I really didn’t care, it was fun! After about three miles of this I look back to see that there were seven or so riders hanging on to my wheel, “Cool,” I thought, “let someone else break the wind for a bit.” Unfortunately I seemed to be the only cyclist willing to ride the way I wanted so after a couple minutes of this I was again back at the front.

Right around the same moment was the time we arrived at the split, hundred milers went to the left where as everyone else kept going straight. It was amazing the difference that little turn made in the amount of people. One moment there were so many you could barely breathe and the next just a scattered few, mostly in groups albeit much smaller in numbers. It was here, however, that other differences made themselves apparent.

Two things that I clearly remember from this point were the terrain and the type of cyclists I saw. The cyclist I remember seeing around me had, at this point, a different look about them. It was as if the turn off had signaled to them that it was time to focus, that there were no short cuts from here on, it was one loop, they had made their beds and now it was time to lie down. They all knew that from this point forward we all were in fact brothers and sisters in arms against the miles ahead of us.

The other thing that was different was the landscape. Before this there were scattered ups and downs in the landscape but here it was totally flat. So much so that I felt as if I could see all the way to Oklahoma, which might be true!

One thing I remember in particular about this section was a little town that we went through, which also had the day’s second rest stop, I can’t remember its name but the thing that did stick in my head was the sign that read “Pump Jack Capitol of the World”. If you don’t know what a pump jack is they are the see saw looking things that go up and down on an infinite loop, trying to get as much oil as possible out of the earth. Personally I thought that the capitol of such things would be in west Texas or perhaps Saudi Arabia, well, I guess that shows how much I know.

Whatever this town was one thing was for certain, the rest stop they had was amazing! It amazed me how accommodating everyone was and how truly helpful they were to the cyclists that came to them. It was as if the whole town had shown up in force, ready to cater to all of our needs.

Before I had stated that I have never seen why people were attracted to this ride and why they kept coming back, year after year, well after that first rest stop I knew the reason. It is the support and encouragement given out by all these nameless people, all the cheering and back patting, the encouragement and the orange slices that keep the masses returning.

I mentioned that it was as if the whole town had come out, well, by the looks of some areas it probably had. At about the fifty mile mark we passed through another town whose name I have forgotten, and going through the main drag there were people sitting out in lawn chairs, just sipping on iced tea and waving encouragement. These were people that had perhaps never ridden a bike more than a couple miles but knew exactly how much it would be to us to see a friendly face after long hours in the saddle.

At this point I had decided that if these people could be as welcoming to us as they were then I could do the same thing back, and from that instant onward I vowed to wave at all of the bystanders. However, anyone that knows me must realize that I cannot simply wave.

Instead, whenever I came to a bystander that was showing their support I would sit up as high as I could in the saddle, clap my hands above my head and let loose a whoop that would put any full bread redneck to shame! “Ha!” I thought, “I bet the next group of cyclists that comes to these people get such an exuberant hello that they’ll wonder what, exactly, got in to these people.”

At the same time I started impersonating the endangered Whooping Crane for all those that were on the roadside I happened to come up to a rather large group of cyclists, all of which were wearing the same jersey. This was rather spectacular because the whole ride I had been accustomed to seeing a smattering of jerseys that would combine to make a psychedelic explosion of color on the road. These guys, and girls, though, were keeping a smooth double line that was steadily passing all those that happened to be in their way.

“This,” I thought, “is the group I’ve been dreaming of!” I quickly jumped across the road, found an open spot in the group and tried to assimilate myself in to the collective as best I could. Unfortunately, a youngish looking midget girl wanted none of this. “EXCUSE me,” she cried, “we are trying to keep this a ‘team only’ group, and we ride together all the time and I don’t like riding with people I don't know…”

This completely floored me, I looked at her, my face as screwed as I could possibly make it, then threw her the best “what the hell are you talking about” I could manage. “This girl has got to be the most retarded and stuck up person who ever saddled a bicycle” I thought.

So I popped out the side went back a few riders then quietly snuck back in. Screw her, this is a public ride that I paid thirty five dollars to participate in and I’m not going to let some overbearing and loud mouthed dwarf-girl tell me I can’t ride in her group. I was now determined to ride the rest of the course, about forty five or so miles, with this group.

I really liked these guys though; it was a festive and light hearted bunch. They were smooth and strong and you could easily tell that there were many years of riding experience here. Reading the back of one of their jerseys I learned that they were from San Antonio and later learned that they represented the bike shop that promotes the annual Fiesta Ride.

I was gelling inside the group when we found ourselves at the fifty mile rest stop, at which time the entire “Fiesta Train” rolled to a stop. This stop was really neat, there were the usual awesome volunteers but this particular stop also had a DJ and a set of steel palm trees that had been arranged around a sand pit, “I guess we rode to the beach,” I thought.

Trying to stay out of sight yet close to my adopted group, I patiently waited for everyone to remount and hit the road once more, then the group got going and we were again speeding comfortably across the plain.

It was several miles later that I finally felt comfortable enough to start talking to the people around me and I was pleased to see that not everyone was as blunt as the dwarf girl. They simply wanted to stay together and discourage every rider and his brother from jumping in and disrupting the flow of the group. This made sense to me for I had seen too many ambulances for one day and welcomed the thought of riding in a pack that was sans idiot cyclists. This made for quite a great ride too, for we were very quickly putting in the miles and were easily passing any other group that happened to put itself in to our field of vision.
Then it happened, I should have been expecting this but, honestly, I just plain forgot. One of the older guys, a leader of the group that I had fallen in love with, came up beside me, tapped me on the hip and asked if I wanted to come to the front with him and pull the group for a bit. “Sure,” I said, got to earn my spot in the group.

Together we went to the front, which caused a bit of a stir in the pack. You see when you get a good group of people together that know what they are doing and are riding smoothly; the individuals tend to disappear and are replaced by a single entity, the Pack. Well this had happened and when The Pack saw someone going to the front who was not in Its jersey It got a little confused. “Who is this person and why is he at the front, do we want this person at the front?”

It was now up to me to assuage Its fears and let it know that I am a good person, It can trust me and know that I will take care of It. I was on the spot, one little mistake and I knew I would be chastised and thrown out to ride once again travel by myself, I could not let that happen.

Fortunately everything worked out. I stayed on the front way longer that I needed to, urging myself not to go too hard over the rollers, working on keeping everything smooth and even thinking about the weaker riders. By the time I went back into the belly of the Beast I had made about twenty new friends. And I was happy.

Now it was if I had known these guys and girls for years, we joked, chatted and a couple of them even helped me in joined me in whooping and clapping like a fool to the locals. With this energy we sped past the scattered packs, almost always riding in the left lane and flew through “Hells Gate” which marked the point of no return for the hundred mile loop.

Bounding with energy and joy like I hadn’t experienced in quite a while we continued putting in the miles; sixty five, seventy, seventy five then once again we stopped, refueled, got some liquids and hopped back on. This is when it really got exiting.

“Man now we’re really going to have some fun,” I yelled, “twenty five miles to go, that’s nothing, I do that when I’m riding around going to Starbucks!” Everyone liked the sound of this and they agreed twenty five miles is a drop in the pan, so that is how we looked at it from then on. We were all on our bikes, having fun and playing around, out for an afternoon twenty five mile stroll!

It was as if we all became young again, back in our teens; having fun, going fast, playing around on our bikes. Even those couple riders that had been struggling on the rollers were suddenly full of life and pep.

Up, down, around; twisting through the last few miles we were closing in on
our goal of Wichita Falls; suddenly I see a beautiful sweeping curve, I’m at the front and feeling good. I go for it, not quite pushing hard but putting some extra oomph in to it, I make it through, look back and see only one guy on my wheel. I slowed, feeling slightly sad. “I feel good! I want to GO, why doesn’t anyone want to play with me?”

So we waited, waited for the group to come up to us, there was one of the stronger guys in the group on the front and in the aero bars, putting the hammer down as the saying goes. I Swoop over to the left most lane of the four lane road, see a gap behind the third rider in line, then swoop back across all the lanes and in the exact spot I wanted. I look back, make some eye contacts, “who looks good, who looks spent and who would want to play today,” I thought; doesn’t look like too many were up for it, plus those that normally would felt a need to finish with the group. “Hmm.”

Then, it came in to view, the thing I had been looking forward to all morning, it was a sign and it read, “Wichita Falls- eight miles.” Oh man, eight miles, I pointed it out to one of the people that was close to me and said something to the affect that I “could do just about ANYTHING for eight miles!” He liked that. I looked at him, and around to everyone else, and then launched myself out of the group. I put my head down, shifted to a harder gear, and then pounded it in the pavement. I exploded, putting more and more distance between myself and the group that I had spent so much time with.

Oh man! I felt so good to just go like that! The next thing I knew the road dropped down and made a gradual sweeping curve, allowing me to put even more power in to my wheels.
I was really pushing by this point, and I was starting to realize that, maybe, this was a mistake. “How would you feel,” I asked my brain, “if suddenly the group caught you? You simply cannot let that happen!” Damn, time to hurt!

I hadn’t pushed this hard in the lactate threshold in years, probably since 2004 when I raced my last time trial, I liked it. It felt good to hurt like it did. I pushed hard through the next corner, freaking out one of the bystanders and nearly going off the road. I pushed going over the bumps and through the first corner in to town. Then, ahead, was the overpass that we went over in the morning. Damn, it suddenly looked that much larger, I felt the gear I was rolling on and mentally checked my legs, “okay, I think I can keep this up!”
Shifting in to a slightly easier gear I stood up and forced my beaten body up and over the crest of the “hill” then got over the bike and sprinted down the other side. I was easily going fifty miles an hour, then at the base of the overpass I moved all the way to the left hand lane and threw myself into the hard right hand turn. Easily keeping my speed I suddenly found myself in downtown Wichita Falls.

Oh man it felt so good! I made it, three more turns and I would be at the finish! I zipped up my jersey, cause you’ve got to look good, slowed it down and soaked it in. I soaked in the miles and the ride that I had just done. Ahead the finish line was coming up fast. I started to smile then I thought of something.

Do a wheelie across the finish line! Yes! “I will do that,” I said! Just as I crossed the two hundred meter line I got ready, I shifted, and then I put a little pop in to the pedals. My front wheel rose off the ground and I rode it for the last hundred and fifty meters and across the line. People clapped, I felt good, the announcer said, “Hey you need to let us know when you do things like that so we can take pictures!” I laughed and nodded. Right in front of me the fire department had turned on a hydrant and put a nozzle on the end, pointing it skyward so a gush of water would fall to the ground. I walked underneath it and felt wonderful.

I looked back to the finish area and saw the group that I had ridden so many miles with, I walked over and I thanked them for letting me join in their fun. “No problem,” one guy said, “you were a joy to ride with!” I liked this and smiled, then said my goodbye and left.

Then it was over, the ride was finally done, five hours and some minutes
after I started I was done with the hundred miles. “Where’s a beer,” I thought “I’m thirsty!”

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What is 100 miles long, has 14,000 moving parts, and lives in Wichita Falls? The Hotter 'N Hell Hundred! Check back tomorrow to read the full Pondering Ride Report!

Ride to the Falls Pt 2

As I rode slowly down the black ribbon of asphalt that had become my path I suddenly became completely overwhelmed with joy. I was finally living my dream, albeit for a weekend, of taking off on my own.

Now, the fact that I couldn’t get over was that I was riding on the actual highway. Though, to be honest, I was on the shoulder of the highway, but, no matter, I was still on the highway! Suddenly, all the images I had ever seen of loaded bike tourists came flooding back at me, and the one thing that all of these had in common was the fact that every single one of them was riding on a highway.

When I say this know that I don’t mean the expansive freeway of the inner city, no, I mean the rural country highway. Still, it was awesome. And I felt completely safe. Probably seventy five percent of the time I was passed, the automobile doing so would move into the left hand lane. This was seen by me, the city bike commuter, as being incredibly thoughtful.

It was amazing the feeling that washed over me, here I was, a self contained little turtle, I had my trailer with me and in it my house and kitchen. I could go wherever I wish if I so felt like it, and happened to have the money for food, I could turn around and ride to Chile!

Not yet. Anyway, there I was, slowly putting away the miles; being passed by cars, trucks, highway patrol officers, everyone, and all I had to do was turn my legs round and round in infinite circles. That and think, it was the same exact thing that made me fall in love with cycling in the first place, I was alone and unhurried. I was simply free to be, free to ponder, to sing, and to gaze across the incredible landscape that I had suddenly immersed myself in.

And what beautiful area it was! There was a point, I remember, maybe 20 miles south of Decatur, where the highway made this graceful arc and I felt myself plunge down with it in between two lonely hills where suddenly the light shifted and the trees had this amazing gold hue to them.

Here again I am reminded of a phrase I reserve for automobiles, that is a climate controlled bubble. You really miss something when you drive, something people don’t think of, you miss being in the environment you are traveling through. To some people this might not be greatly missed, however, to others, myself included, it is.

You see, I appreciate that what could be called wind-in-your-hairness. I like the feeling of the weather around me. I enjoy the feeling of the air and the sun on me. I love going out in the rain and when there are storms, it’s almost as if I can feel the power. Good thing to because ten miles south of Decatur the wind shifted and the temperature dropped 15 degrees. Looks like a storm!

Indeed, for the past fifteen miles or forty five minutes, I had been watching, to the left of me, a dark area in which occasionally bursts of lightning could be seen. “Nothing to worry”, I said, “that’s way off toward Denton, you should pass it by.” Well, remember when I mentioned the winds turning? No such luck for the Ponderer.

Well, the temperature dropped, the wind turned into me and started beating me in the face, then, all of a sudden, I felt raindrops. Just a few at first, these were actually greatly appreciated for it had been a hard ride thus far. I might be in good shape but when you are towing eighty pounds behind you, so much that it makes it hard to get out of the saddle to climb or adjust yourself, it’s a bit of a “drag”. Ha ha!

But then, right as I was coming in to the main thoroughfare of Decatur, it started. Great big beastly drops of water pelting down to earth, “I better get some cover” I said. Fortunately, to the left of my vision I glimpsed one of those beautiful green signs, ahh, a Starbucks! So, I stopped in for some rest and a delicious cup of java.

As I rolled up I immediately caught the attention of the patio people, attention that by this point in my trip I was used to. I parked my rig under the awning so it wouldn’t get completely drenched and sauntered in to the shop. I was met inside by the delicious smell of coffee and smiling faces. Walking up to the counter the smiles turned into curious gazes and I was met with the question, “Where you riding from?” “Arlington,” I said, “I’m riding to Wichita Falls for the Hotter ‘N Hell.” “Oh, is that this weekend? Oh no! We are going to be so busy!” She went on to tell me that the last time she worked the morning of the event it was a nonstop rush. Well, I guess this thing does attract quite a bit of people!

I hung around the coffee shop for about forty five minutes, maybe an hour, until I saw the sky once again clear, then I bid all the lovely baristas adieu, straddled my steel pony and took off toward my goal, the town of Bowie, twenty five miles north.

One thing I love about cycling, as I mentioned before, is the fact that you are in the environment which you travel through. Well, when I left Decatur that evening I was surrounded by one of the most beautiful evenings I had ever seen. The storm had passed and what it left was a beautiful landscape and the farther I traveled from Decatur the more and more spectacular the view became.

The sun was starting to set and the color intensified. I was riding into an orange and blood red starburst.

Suddenly I felt as though I felt a burst of energy, I was on a nicely rolling stretch of road, so I thought “why not have some fun?” So here I was, caffeinated, riding toward my camp for the night and shifting it in to the big ring, “let’s go!”

I was cruising, pushing twenty five miles per hour while pulling eighty pounds of gear and food. Now I was really having fun!

Unfortunately, the sun was going down and it was getting darker by the minute, I passed a sign, fifteen miles to Bowie, will I make it in time?

To be on the safe side I started scanning the terrain for possible sites to pitch my tent for the night. I was looking for something in particular. You see I was going to do what is called Stealth Camping, basically what this means is I was looking for an out of the way place, hopefully one that is hard to see, maybe behind a stand of trees.

Isn't this illegal? Maybe, I think it depends on where you are, it most likely ties in with the vagrancy laws. Whatever the case might be, it is a form of camping that is used quite a bit by those that are traveling under their own steam. Bicycle tourists, backpackers, long term tourists, they all use this type of camping.

Eventually I found a picnic area, having decided against another area that was under a bridge. Good cover but potential risk for flooding, not good! As I pulled in to the roadside rest stop I quickly began scanning the darkness. I put this off too long, the sun had gone down and the visibility was nill. Fortunately there was a moon that night so it wasn’t quite as bad as it could have been.

Looking around I found a large grouping of trees and decided that would be my bed for the evening. I turned off my LED lights, because the thought of someone following my trail and raping then killing me was in the back of my head, and made a round -a-bout path out there, scanning behind me to ensure no one was watching. Eventually making it to my hollow in the woods I faced another problem.

It was dark and I was trying to pitch my tent, this wasn’t really a problem, though, because I had a flashlight. However, I didn’t want to use the light because it would give away my position!

Well, that also would have been really bad but fortunately I have assembled this tent many times previously and could almost do it standing on my head. And I did use the light, making sure to cover it so only a minute amount of its light would appear.

By the time everything was set up it was approaching ten thirty, I didn’t want to break out the stove for dinner so I made a sandwich, called a few people, and went to bed.

Friday morning came and I found myself in my tent behind some trees that were beside a highway. Good morning! The past day’s journey, with all its wonder and excitement, came back to me and I couldn’t wait to get back on the road.

Looking around I could see trucks idleing in the picnic area and I decided I should probably put in a couple miles before breakfast. Why push your luck, Zac. So I broke down my tent rolled it up, packed the trailer and took off.

I immediately knew that Friday would be a bit different than Thursday, the legs were tired and it was taking quite a bit of effort to get them going. “Lemme get to Bowie and I’ll stop to make breakfast,” I said pleading to my legs, “can you get me there?” I think they could do that!

Thirteen or so miles later I entered the town of Bowie, which I am assuming is named after the famous knife wielding man, and found the place where I was originally planning on sleeping last night. The spot was called Cougar Mound, and it was high above the highway, I had to traverse an easily sixteen percent grade to get to the parking area but when I finally managed to pull my rig up the steep road I saw a pristine location. It was covered with thick trees and enormous rocks; the kind that are large and round and you can climb upon and drift off to sleep. Or make a delicious breakfast on!

Thee menu was to be tortillas with honey, chunky peanut butter and jam. Ooh, so delicious, and the sugar put me in to quite a good mental state. After that I grabbed some crackers and a sandwich and was ready to head off to Wichita Falls!

Looking back at this next section of the trip I am very glad I was feeling that good because it was to be a hard day! My rolling terrain had changed slightly. It had become flatter but the hills were longer. A false flat is a term used in cycling circles for this type of terrain, it describes an incline that is almost imperceivable but is in fact there. And when you combine this with a headwind it can be a little demoralizing.

That’s what it was; constant, demoralizing rises with an ever present headwind, pulling a trailer.

The week before I had described what I was intending to a cycling buddy and he looked at me then said, “Well, we know that you’re going to be strong when you get back!” I have been riding and racing for ten years now but this, however, was in fact one of the most challenging and difficult days I had ever experienced.

The fact that after I had covered about thirty miles I just wanted to stop and lie down was one reason it was such a struggle. From that point onward I stopped at every single gas station I saw to fill my bottles and sit down on the concrete. It was intense. My glutes and hip flexors were screaming at me, remember I was forced to stay in the saddle, it was something I never before experienced. At one point I pulled over to the side of the road because for the past three miles a group of horses had been following me behind a fence.

I pulled off, set my rig down and walked over to the fence, where I was met by two of the more fearless, or friendliest horses. I had a jam sandwich in my pocket so I took it out, ate a bite of it, then tore off a corner to show the horse. He sniffed it then cautiously grabbed it in his mouth. I did the same to the other horse then before I knew it I was petting them!

It was at that time that a truck towing an RV and a recumbent bicycle pulled over, scaring away my new friends. A man walked out, looked at my bike and at me, then asked, “Everything okay? Do you need a ride?” Oh man, that was tough to refuse but I knew that I would never forgive myself if I accepted a ride in to the Hotter ‘N Hell, especially seeing as I was only 20 miles away! I told him I was fine, he looked at me and got back in his truck, leaving me, again, all alone.

Finally, the signs started reading thirteen miles to Wichita Falls, about an hour left! I was nearly there and as soon as I caught sight of the city my energy started to return to me, can’t look like a bum when you ride in Zac, you have an image to uphold! Then I took the last exit toward the city and passed it, the Falls of Wichita! Actually it was simply a fountain with some landscaping that is beside the highway just as you enter the city limits, but from what I understand that might be the closest thing they have.

So close, it was driving me crazy, I was at this point off of the freeway, searching for signs of where to go next. Then I saw someone that might be of help.

At that point two cyclists, from Midwestern State University, passed me at a light. I quickly veered off course to ask for directions and shifted up to the big ring to catch them. When I did they told me that I was very close. Just on the other side of the downtown. Finally, I was just around the corner from my destination!

I followed there directions to downtown Wichita Falls and as I rode down the main street of town I couldn’t help but think back to that image of the dusty, trail weary cowboy that rides in out of the desert. That was me at that moment. I was the unknown rider atop the steel pony. It was awesome. I was my dream at that moment.

The next day was to be the century ride, I needed to find a campsite and eat so I could be ready for it.

Check back soon for the final chapter in this story, The Hotter ‘N Hell Hundred. How would the trip affect my legs? Find out!

Ride to the Falls Pt 1

Jump to Part 2 here.

It started when I was a boy, this desire to adventure, I would sit and listen to my father’s stories of the days when he would work on a ranch, riding a horse all day. Often, he would tell me that he would have to leave the headquarters carrying only what he needed to survive and be gone for days, at times even a week or more.

Yes, I have that cowboy mentality inside of me; I like the image of the dusty traveler, astride his horse, rambling in to town. Where is he from, no one is really sure, the only stories they know of him are the ones he tells himself.

So, it comes as no surprise that, even while I was obsessed with racing, I dreamed of loading up my bike and setting off to some far distant locale where I could be that dusty stranger. To some then, the fact that I haven't, until now, gone on a fully loaded bike tour might seem odd. Aren’t I supposed to be the guy that is planning a three thousand mile trip next summer? Well, this, my friends, was to be the inaugural ride, an experience from which to learn.

Really, though, it was the perfect route for the first time wanderer, only 130 miles and one night of camping each way, fairly easy I should say, not too close but not too far. I was set to leave Thursday, giving me two days of riding to reach my ultimate destination, Wichita Falls.

Why on earth would I ride my bike to Wichita Falls? There is absolutely nothing out there, besides a school and an Air Force base; but otherwise it is a flat, ever expansive wasteland of barren, dry grass and pump jacks, those see saw-looking things that endlessly go up and down, all day. Well, the reason I, and 14,205 other cyclists, were going to this community out west was for the annual Hotter ‘N Hell Hundred bike ride.

My goal was to leave by noon and ride eighty miles to the town of Bowie; there, I was told, was a great little place that I could set up camp for the night. That was the goal; however, I didn’t leave until nearly two, already two hours behind schedule. “Eh,” I thought, “I can cover eighty miles before it gets dark! No problem!” Hmm, keep reading.

This is when it starts to get interesting; it took me an hour to figure out the best way to pack the trailer with all the things that I, at the time, knew I would need. Lantern, check; two changes of street clothes, got it; pan with lid- that weighed about two pounds, check; see where I’m going here?

So I get all of these things strapped on to the trailer and I take off down the driveway only to realize, wow, this very large amount of weight might not be distributed very well! Why, when I pedal, I can feel it sloshing around as if I am carrying a large vat of water. No good!

Thirty minutes later I finally decided that, this time, I was truly ready to go. The route that I chose was to be straight down highway 287 and right on into Wichita Falls; however, to get to that point I first had to ride across four cities to the town of Watauga.

It was there, in Watauga that I, finally, felt the journey had begun. For it was there that I was in unknown territory; all alone, just me and the trailer, slowly putting down the miles to the night’s destination.

Once I was on the shoulder of highway 287 I felt as if I had become a new person. I was no longer Zac the cyclist, student and bike commuter; I felt as if I had changed in to someone else, someone new, I was The Pondering Cyclist, traveling the highway headed west, with all of his possessions on his steel horse.

You see, like I mentioned before, my goal for next summer is to complete a three thousand mile trek from Texas to California. What I had not realized, though, until that first mile on the interstate was how very different it would be from my normal everyday riding.

I find myself at a stopping point of sorts, tomorrow I will pick up the journey where I leave off today, on the highway. Until then, however, I am going to leave you with a little tune by The Eagles, and something that I think fits this story quite nicely.


"On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night."

This past weekend I rode out to Witchita Falls for the annual Hotter 'N Hell Hundred bike rally. Full camping and ride report to follow soon!