A (metric) Century Ends

Actually it was a hair over 110 km. You might begin to imagine the heartbreak when at 100 km, the metric century, I was looking around for a parking lot and a rented silver Kia with none to be found.

I headed out early this morning into the fog and mist of northern Vermont with the Green Mountain Bike club and about 40 other riders. Three rides left together and I was assured that I would find my rhythm and place within the group. After about 15 km I found myself quietly huffing away somewhere in the middle third of a line of riders stretched out over a kilometer or two. My ride skirted the edges of the Green Mountains through a number of small towns, picturesque valleys and between dairy farms, made all the more ethereal by the low hanging clouds and the light mist in the air. Despite the lack of sun, it was great riding weather, not unlike riding at home in the early fall, cool with just enough moisture in the air to be refreshing.

The first 50 km came and went, and the struggle began. It was an all out grind for the last 60 km with few respites from climbing. It is a safe assumption that I am stronger descender than I am a climber, but for every descent there seemed to be three climbs. But the end came, a glorious, weary finish in a parking lot in South Burlington. In the last 10 km I muttered to Davis, a printmaker, that I thought we had covered the last of the hills, and he responded “Hey this is Vermont.” One thing remains, however, one might think I’d be skinnier.