Diabolical Debacle

If my blog were a volleyball match, the previous entry would be the set.

Now, for the spike in the face.

Oddly enough, being that this is my blog and negative things happen to me in the ensuing paragraphs, I guess I'm both the spiker and the person who gets pelted in the face.

Me. Only tall and blonde. And female.

Ryanne and I left after work on Friday for Maryland. We planned to do a double metric century with a bunch of climbing on Saturday. We stopped to get some food on the way down, then settled into a hotel room, not too far from where the ride was starting at Wisp.

Before the debacle. Relaxed.

It's a benefit ride in the Gran Fondo format with GPS-timed KOM climbs sprinkled throughout the route. Ryanne seemed set on hitting those pretty hard to contend for QOM, but I figured her over-ambitious attitude would take a turn back to reality somewhere around mile 60-70.

The alarm sounds off, and I'm awake...

The morning is bright and clear. We start to line up a few minutes before 7:00, and make our way past the guys and gals waiting out in front. Pro kits, $8k road bikes, matching helmets and socks. Greater than 3% body fat need-not apply. I keep walking.

About 400 people later, I find myself near the back. I stand in the shadow of a chubby guy wearing a 7-Up jersey, and who like the pros out front, also has a super-expensive bike. Perfect. I suspect he'll be the overzealous one to run me off the side of the mountain on the first descent.

A minute later and we're off. The first descent lasts about eight miles. Ryanne and I work our way up and down a bunch of rollers and through a good bit of the field. I'm too used to the 35's on my commuter bike. I react to every little pebble on these hard and narrow tires, but it feels nice to be able to ride somewhat fast on the road.

We hit the first major climb and Ry moves through the bottom timing station for QOM. The grade steepens, and I drop to my lower chainring. She stands up and keeps moving. I look up and can't figure out where it all tops out on the winding ridge. There's an elevation profile taped to my top tube, but I'm too busy looking at tree lines that I forget about it. I keep moving.

Still climbing. Sunglasses are starting to sweat up, so they come off. I feel a guy creep up on my back wheel. We're on a 20% grade. I'm going about 6mph, and this guy's trying to draft me. I wish I was on my mountain bike somewhere else.

I stand up. Sit down. Stand up. The grade isn't letting up all that much. Patches of fine gravel. The guy behind me is coughing. Still on me though. He grunts and asks if those are wine corks in my drop bar ends. I nod. He seems offended and asks for what purpose. I tell him if he pulls me up the rest of the hill, I'll tell him. He falls back, and the mountain munches on another soul.

The grade relinquishes a little, and I down shift. The timing station at the top of the climb beeps as riders roll through. I hit the quick descent and see Ryanne, who looks like a giant sweat-ball on a bicycle. She says that is the only QOM she's going to go for. It's too hot and far of a course to go hard every climb. I predict otherwise.

Fast-forward another 15 miles, and we're at the bottom of the second QOM hill. She takes off.

I'm halfway up the second climb. Easy gearing. There's a really cool fence lining the field to my left. It's half wire and half white picket. The day is nice. Sunny. Not obnoxiously hot. I keep looking over at the fence. Really, really cool. Unfortunately, this is the same time the shit hits. And by shit I mean my rear derailleur blowing up on itself.

Loud, bad noise occurs. The cage around the lower pulley snaps and pings off the asphalt below. The tension on the drivetrain causes the derailleur to go 180 degrees vertical, while snapping in two. Not wanting to be the only broken thing on my bike, it takes a hard left turn into my spinning rear wheel and shears through a few spokes. Cracking my frame was the coup de grâce.

Mini Park multi-tool and orange Pedro tire lever not going to fix this one.

The exasperated riders all check if I need anything. I ask if they have a rear derailleur and some spokes in their pocket. They laugh. I'm too frustrated to come up with a funnier line, but it seems to be enough to entertain my suffering, hill-climbing audience.

Eventually, I feel like a touring comedian with overused material. My audience gets older and less physically fit as time passes, and this results in fewer laughs. I know my quip's dumb, but they can't complain. It's a free show.

I sit on the road for about twenty minutes. My act is washed-up by now, so I contemplate nap-time. As I start to lay down, my sweat-ball partner rolls back down the hill. She had waited at the top after crossing through the timing station, and after realizing something was wrong, rode back down. Now, she's resigned herself to suffer in the sun with me. I tell her my joke. She doesn't laugh.

A super friendly local drives us a half hour back to Wisp. I offer her ten bucks. She refuses. I decide I'll use the money on my planned after-ride burrito reward, which I still intended to purchase and devour.

We get cleaned up and find the nearest local coffee house.

Cheers to a job well done.

We drive down to Deep Creek State Park and go out for a six mile hike. It's 90 degrees at this point, and I question my decision to pack only bike shorts and corduroys.

After the hike, we go back to the same coffee house for more espresso, then hit the road back to PA.

After the debacle. Still relaxed.

We stopped in Morgantown on the way back and met up with a bunch of friends who were doing the Hilly Billy. Joe gave me his sticky beer jar and I proceeded to drink away the bad thoughts of the afternoon's events. He had a broken hand. I had a broken bike. Almost the same, but not really.

We all left after an hour or so, and it made me feel a lot better to see everyone. I had almost completely forgotten about my crippled road bike in the back of the car, until I saw it again.

On Sunday, Ian and I went up to Kennerdell to meet Gotch to ride. Jason and J-Pok were going down to the watering hole to swim. They made fun of us for not swimming. We made fun of them for not riding.

The three of us hit most of the trails. We held a quick pace and didn't have any issues, so the ride ended up being really great. In a rare moment of useful thought, we had remembered to bring our Steri-pen, and it ended up being a life saver over the course of a few much-needed fill-ups at the stream crossings.

We climbed back out to the cabin, where our friends were waiting and so kindly cooking food for us. Again, they made fun of us for not swimming.

I'm losing the Junedoggle to Gotch, now. I said earlier the Diabolical Double was the "one" in my one-two punch. I never really had a "two". Maybe I just thought he'd knock himself out and not ride for a week.

OK, so my old one-two didn't work out. So, what next? I'm not sure, but I have a week left to counter, and in the boxing world, that's a lifetime.

I'm planning my next move, and either way it'll be all glory.