Prologue
Much as I myself hate being subjected to any tale of a long past athletic exploit—especially one from a brief, bygone youth, soon after cut short by a sudden disinclination ever to move again (which of course you'll be spared)—here goes:
One saturday morning in early fall, 1996, I took off on my new road bike for what I planned would be a lengthy day trip. I had no specific route or destination in mind; I only knew I wanted to head north for a change, as previously I'd always ridden south or west. (East is flat and boring.) Long story short, I ended up pedalling 14 hours nonstop across the hill country north of the Highland Lakes, covering a total distance of 160 miles; it was, without a doubt, the single most agonizing thing I've ever put myself through. And though far from a singular feat—there being plenty of non-competitive ultra-distance junkies who routinely dispose of a double-century or more in a day—it is worth noting this was only the second century-plus ride I had ever done. Not to mention that upon purchasing the bike only a few weeks prior, I'd been long out of shape, even smoking a pack a day.
Afterward, perhaps not surprisingly, the bike simply hung there, untouched, on a pair of hooks in my kitchen, until eventually I stored it away in my parents' garage. Rather than risk a sequel, I timidly returned to the safe haven of my running shoes, where for ten years I remained, free of any wistful thoughts of cycling.
Turns out of course, unbeknownst to me, I was merely biding my time, waiting until I felt ready—ready to properly finish what I started that day. Last winter, the moment finally came.
Addendum 21.7.07: "Hell on the Highlands '96" → 1 2 3 4
One saturday morning in early fall, 1996, I took off on my new road bike for what I planned would be a lengthy day trip. I had no specific route or destination in mind; I only knew I wanted to head north for a change, as previously I'd always ridden south or west. (East is flat and boring.) Long story short, I ended up pedalling 14 hours nonstop across the hill country north of the Highland Lakes, covering a total distance of 160 miles; it was, without a doubt, the single most agonizing thing I've ever put myself through. And though far from a singular feat—there being plenty of non-competitive ultra-distance junkies who routinely dispose of a double-century or more in a day—it is worth noting this was only the second century-plus ride I had ever done. Not to mention that upon purchasing the bike only a few weeks prior, I'd been long out of shape, even smoking a pack a day.
Afterward, perhaps not surprisingly, the bike simply hung there, untouched, on a pair of hooks in my kitchen, until eventually I stored it away in my parents' garage. Rather than risk a sequel, I timidly returned to the safe haven of my running shoes, where for ten years I remained, free of any wistful thoughts of cycling.
Turns out of course, unbeknownst to me, I was merely biding my time, waiting until I felt ready—ready to properly finish what I started that day. Last winter, the moment finally came.
Addendum 21.7.07: "Hell on the Highlands '96" → 1 2 3 4
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