The Billy Ride (from hell)

Yesterday I did the Team Billy Ride and Walk for Research in Saratoga. It was one of the most miserable experiences of my life despite the good intention of organizers and a good cause. A few weeks ago, Sheryl proposed the Billy Ride and encouraged me to get some miles in. I had only been on my bike once so far this season for a 10 mile, 7 mph ride with my 12 year old. I looked up the ride on active.com and saw that it was a benefit for brain tumor research in memory of a twelve-year old boy named Billy who died just shy of his 13th birthday. I assumed that it was a low-key, do-something-and-feel-good event, and was impressed that some 500 riders participated in 2010. The other draw was that the ride began at the Farmer’s Market in downtown Saratoga and went to Saratoga Battlefield which, I am ashamed to admit, I had never seen before despite having lived in Saratoga for ten years.

There was a nice stash of drinks, doughnuts, bananas, etc. at registration but I had already picked up a bagel with cream cheese and coffee at DD on my way up. I left our house quietly at 7:15 am not wanting to disrupt a family room full of 11 year old girls sleeping soundly from Hanna’s birthday party the night before. They had a couple more hours before their 9 am departure with Mike and Haley home to see them off. It was a really nice birthday party (and I did manage to get several hours of sleep).

I expected to see lots of kids and strollers at the start. Not so. It was raining lightly though, so perhaps the weather deterred families from participating. I saw maybe 100 people at the start, mostly diehards with a sprinkling of recreational riders. Great. I saw bright fancy shirts, pricey LeMond and Cannondale bikes, cool helmets, gloves, etc. I was wearing plain black shorts with a padded liner and a light blue running (gasp) jacket that had zippers for ventilation. Sheryl did say that her marathon friend Heather and her ironman husband JB were going. (That might have been a clue as to the caliber of participants) There was assurance, however, from the announcer that this was indeed a ride, not a race, and even JB assured us that he was not going to go out too fast, that he was going to ride with Heather.

We started off through the streets of Saratoga. There is no better downtown. I fondly reminisced of many, many walks through the town with our dog Hobbes and the stroller. I thought This is nice. I chatted a bit with Heather who said that her husband used to be heavy (can’t believe this, the man is chiseled), that she suffered a scary panic attack during a swim for a triathlon, that Saratoga is wonderful... Heather eventually moved up to ride with JB. Bye, bye nice Heather.

The drizzle turned to rain. How long could it last?? I looked up and saw only dark sky. I checked the computer chip on my handlebars. 5.7 miles. Huh. Only 44.3 to go. My socks were completely soaked. I kept my head down to minimize the rain hitting my face but my glasses fogged up when I did so. They stay fogged up for miles. Annoying. I took my glasses off and licked them. (Hey, I spit on my goggles at the pool, why not?) Mile 11. I needed to ditch the glasses. The rain was not letting up. I stopped so that I wouldn’t wipe out. I took water, shoved the glasses into my pocket. Got back on. My butt sent me a message: “HELL--OOOOOOO. You did not prepare me for this.” The skies were unmerciful. Oddly, there was nobody around us. Just Sheryl and me. Sheryl, the eternal optimist. Last year we had a great time doing the Tour de Cure, and she got me screaming “WOOOOOO HOOOOOOooooooooo!!!! while flying downhill at 35 mph. Her joie de vivre is inspiring. So far she had been upbeat but understandably not too chirpy. I thought to myself Let’s see how long her optimism lasts.

The route was well marked. We saw the turnoff sign for the 25 milers. I don’t know why it never once occurred to us to turn to do that route instead of the 50 for which we signed up. Bye, bye, 25 milers, you lucky dogs.

Rolling hills, rural pastures, farms that went on as far as the eye can see, horses and cows penned up alongside the road. The scent of lilacs. The pungent odor of cow manure. Pretty scenery but I kept my eyes on the road. It was difficult to determine whether a puddle on the road meant groove in pavement or gaping pothole. Not much traffic but cars flew past us. New Yorkers are not kind to cyclists. They were probably in their nice toasty cars thinking, “What in God’s name are those people doing out there in the rain, anyway!? C’mon. Move it!”

We turned onto Burgoyne Avenue so I knew we must be getting close to the Battlefield. Impressive entrance to the Saratoga National Park. Grey stone fortress with rows of soldiers’ gravestones lined up like dominoes. We had arrived. Cannons. Signs with historical information posted at lookouts. I made note to bring kids here to explore. Right then, though, I needed a water stop. We found it. The diehards were finishing up and already heading out to “the loop”. We saw Heather and JB getting back on their bikes. I was just getting off hoping my wobbly legs held. I took efforts to “stop” my Runmeter app on my iphone that was wrapped in plastic and stuffed in my pocket. I wanted to take credit for every bloody mile and have an accurate account of speed, distance, etc. Average pace: 16.8-- not bad all things considered…I took a couple sips of water and Sheryl looked ready to go. We noticed that once our heart rate went down we started to get pretty chilly. Our clothes were saturated. We were not even half way done. I tried to stay positive.

We rode off and…saw no one. Where did everyone go? They were JUST there. Of course there were no tourists with all the rain but there was a grey, testosterone-inspired truck with a Confederate flag covering its entire back window. Unusual sighting. Was he looking for Grant’s house in Gansevoort perhaps? Hah. I kicked myself for not noticing the license plate, a silly habit of mine dating back to childhood.

Again, it didn’t occur to us to skip the loop and cut the route shorter – which turned out to be a 10 mile circle – and we forged on. We saw an elderly male cyclist with a woman about our age and asked for directions. No room for error and we were not entirely sure how to get out of the park. And then they left us. We got out of the park and saw another man roadside with a popped tube. Sheryl offered him another but nobody had a pump. He called his wife for her to come get him. Bye, bye lucky man with nowhere to go in the rain but to wait for your wife wherever she may be.

Mile 38. This is when misery came on like a fever. When I am miserable, I get quiet. I was not one of those women in labor screaming obscenities. I didn’t make a peep. I actually thought of the misery of labor while riding. There were moments of pre-contraction-like dread. For instance, we saw a large truck in the distance barreling towards us. There was a cloud of road debris spewing around it, and we knew that we needed to ride through it. F*&^!!!. No time to make a plan. No where to hide. We sped downhill and sure enough, we passed the truck and felt its powerful wake spray us with dirt and pebbles and God only knows what else. I was so relieved once it passed that I was giddy. The awfulness of the situation made me laugh and nearly cry at the same time. Sheryl got something in her eye but managed. We slid into survivor mode. 10 fucking miles to go.

Mile 43. I was going so slowly uphill that I figured I might as well stop and take water. My legs were burning. My hands were numb. It occurred to me several hundred times that I was an idiot for signing up for 50 miles without any preparation, for riding in a relentless downpour when I am not even comfortable riding on roads when it’s nice outside. Just then a white van pulled up beside me. An attractive (maybe not but he was VERY dry) man rolled down the passenger window to see if I am OK. I told him that I am miserable, that this ride SUCKS. I was humorless. He smiled and offered me a ride, saying that no one will think any less of me for doing so. Temptation set in. I was actually tempted to get into a van with a stranger (I did note that he had no bike rack on his van) with the possibility of getting handcuffed and thrown into a ditch just so I wouldn’t have to finish this ride. I carefully contemplated for a minute or two. I declined, saying that my friend is ahead and that I can’t abandon her. He offered me some granola (some candy, little girl?) and I said no, that I have a soggy stash of energy bars in my pockets but thanks anyway. He seemed concerned that I would get hypothermia (perhaps my blue lips matched my purplish toenails from running??) because I stopped so I told him I needed to get going. And he left. And as I saw him drive off I wondered why I didn’t jump in. Bye, bye nice dry man with "granola" baggy.

I caught up to Sheryl. Yup, her enthusiasm had waned. It was gone, actually. Not much conversation. We kept going.

Mile 47. I finally knew where I was. We passed the crew boat house. Lots of good memories rowing while we lived in Saratoga. I told Sheryl we were going straight to Saratoga, that we were not taking the circuitous but safer route back to Farmer’s Market. Straight back. She was now shaking. I was mildly concerned we would end up at 49.89 miles on my Runmeter instead of 50 (the Tracy Influence) but didn't care. We made it back to downtown and zig zagged our way, breaking all kinds of rules of the road (like riding on sidewalk…but they were so bumpy my rear couldn't take it).

Mile 50.02 We FINALLY made it to the Farmer’s Market. But there was no Finish Line. Everything was packed up. It took us 3 ½ hours to do 50 miles in the pouring rain and there was not one ounce of food available. We saw trays of pasta in the garbage cans. Sheryl went to dismount her bike and toppled over onto the gravel. I saw this play out but I was not quick enough. In fact I was still on my bike saying, “Are you OK???” without moving. Someone tried to lift the bike off her but she was still locked in. She freed herself and got up. I felt bad I was no help whatsoever.

In disbelief, we walked to her car. We saw a few more bikes trickle in. We stripped down right in the parking lot and put on warm clothes. I looked at my iphone and saw that I forgot to resume timer at 22.5 mile stop at Battlefield. I realized I won’t get credit. No posting my distance on Twitter to impress my 12 followers. Sheryl said she was taking me to Lakeside Farm for lunch and that she hoped I would still open her e-mail messages. I said I'd open her e-mail as long as Chilled cosmo waiting for you is in the subject line. At Lakeside Farm we sucked down warm vanilla cappuccinos and chowed on scrumptious sandwiches. We said farewell to each other and I headed home to take a long, hot shower.