125 Miles on a Fixed Gear Bicycle
Joe Sommers
report filed February 2003, at Some Small General Store, Backwater, Virginia
One gear. No coasting. Day dream for one second and you are over the bars. With all the
technology available in cycling today why would someone punish themselves with a single
gear throwback to the 1890's? Why 125 miles on such a dinosaur? It's fun of course! As I
wheeled to the start of the 200km. Brevet hosted by the Potomac Peddlers in Warrenton
Virginia, my primitive velocipede began to attract the attention of the gathered masses.
Double takes and open mouthed astonished glances were the order of the morning as I
parked my steed and walked to the registration area. "Wow, your going to ride that!?"
was one of the comments I heard.
The ride begins with several miles of easy rolling
hills, but I soon realize that this will be a supreme test of brute strength as the
first out of the saddle quad burning ascent has me mentally reevaluating my early
season goal. Finally at the top, I breath an uneasy sigh of relief as I realize I
now get to descend this monster. Quickly the rev s build as my unforgiving ride
reminds me that it was designed before freewheeling technology was available.
Half way down the hill as I peer into my rearview mirror, I notice the
sinister form of an onrushing bike. Two helmets! A tandem busts by
me at double nickels! With Mack truck swiftness it passes in a
blur of water bottles, touring bags, and gleaming alloy, it's
possessed pilot complete with demonic grin. You can only climb
so fast I say to myself as I pass them on the next uphill grinder.
After several miles of endless climbs and equally endless descents,
I begin to make critical errors in cue sheet navigation. BLO RT.
608 TRO Such and Such Road at State Highway Blah Blah Blah--God how
I love my own cue sheets! This process of following directions written
by another cyclist is just not for me as I make another wrong turn.
"Where am I?" I begin sobbing as I pull to the roadside and unfold the
brevet map that is plastered with Rt 611, Rt.612, Rt.715, Rt.751--Confusion
and dyslexia reign as I slowly put the pieces of this puzzle together. If
I make the next right and then the next left I should be back on course I
reassure myself.
Hmm--Yes--Eventually I am able to navigate to the second
checkpoint, a restaurant. After signing in, refilling water bottles and
eating a small mountain of mashed potatoes, I feel refreshed and start
out on the second half of this epic journey. And this is where the real
ride begins. Ten miles or so of flat riding along a river leads to the
foothills of Old Rag Mountain, a switchback adorned climb that has me
turning the pedals over in the low forty rpm range. One steep section
of road after another with no chance to sit and conserve energy. Just
stay out of the saddle and work the bike. Not pretty but obviously
pretty effective as I drop three geared riders near the top of the
climb. Of course I am left in the dust as they drop into fashionable
aerodynamic tucks and freewheel down the mountain.
On the other end of
the scale there's me, trying to descend in a controlled manner as
un-aero as possible in an attempt to slow the mad eggbeater careen
that my legs have become. At one point the road turns into a series
of cartoon-like climbs. So steep (can you say three miles an hour boys
and girls?) and repetitive I'm reminded of a five-hump camel. That wasn't
so bad. I delude myself as a cold rain begins to fall. For twenty miles I
wrestle with the thought of stopping and pulling on knee and arm warmers
and a light rain jacket. "I'll be OK" I mumble through chattering teeth.
Finally! The last checkpoint. A Mom and Pop store in Backwater, Someplace.
Twenty miles to ride the elderly owner informs me as I stuff two mouth fulls
of peanut butter crackers into my gob. Draining a bottle of Gatorade, I come
to the wise decision to pull some warm dry clothes over my soggy limbs. Much
better, I set off to conquer the last miles. I'm always amazed how I can personally
control the weather.
Within five miles I'm back off the bike pulling my nice warm
clothes off as the sun breaks through and the temperature climbs. Actually a good
omen as I tackle Piney Mountain, the last big climb of the ride. Two miles of leg
searing effort later I crest the monolith and cruise to the last turn. Fifteen
minutes later I ride to the finish and am totally blown away by the support and
congratulatory words of the riders who have finished ahead of me. I managed a
respectable 16th out of 41cyclists.
Derailleurs are for failures?
Not really. There are times when a few gears come in handy.
-Joe Sommers
