The Fugi Bicycles Paris to Ancaster 60km race is done. And it seriously kicked my butters.
Momma Orange drove us to Paris at 9:00 a.m. where Orange promptly assembled our bikes and got our plates attached. We posed for pre-race photos, had one last pee break, and pedaled down to the start line to get into the gate with the other racers. At 10:45 we were off!
5 minutes into the event, my seat collapsed, so we had to make an emergency pit stop to re-position it, avoiding near death at the onslaught of bikes. In the process, I managed to lose my water bottle, which meant I was reliant on dearest Orange for hydration. The first 1/3 of the race was largely dirt track = mud and slop, or gravel roads. Regardless, we were up and down hills faster than you can say "my legs are screaming". But I was having fun, and the sun was wonderful, and in the trees there was very little wind.
By the time we'd reached the half way point, we'd already split one of the Cliff bars, and finished a water bottle. Orange was convinced we were actually further than half way, but one of the little girls manning the apple station confirmed with us we were in fact only... half... way. So we ate the remaining Cliff bar, I inhaled an apple, Orange downed two maple cookies, and we were back to pedaling.
Now, this is where it gets interesting. The second 1/3 of the race is largely comprised of rail trail or farmer's fields = squishy, swamp-like track. The wind is HOWLING. So each pedal you take is like taking 3 or 4 because, of course, we're going straight into a monster headwind. At one point I had visions of that scene from Doctor Zhivago where Yuri is fighting and pushing against the snow and sleet to get to Lara. Same thing, minus the snow and sleet.
Side note: There were no trail markers to tell you how far you'd gone. You had no concept of how far you'd made it or how much you had left. All you had were the police officers closing the road and volunteers directing you to turn left here, or turn right there. We were clueless as to where we were.
Orange is far and above a better biker than I, as he should be what with his years of profesh downhilling. So although he so very kindly stuck it out beside me (on the off chance I popped a tire or careened into a guard rail), he could very easily have motored on ahead. I'm now defs starting to slow down, feeling hungry and thirsty. I'm passed by a UNICYCLER. Yes, a boy on a unicycle whose done the majority of the race with us (minus the muddy dirt tracks, because for those he took the shorter road ways). But as you know, I'm competitive, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be beaten by a kid on a unicycle.
So I step it up a notch, passing Uni and the woman with the pink streamers on her handlebars.
At 50km, I'm done. I start crying. Seriously crying. Poor Orange. But to be fair, I'm exhausted and seriously undernourished (as there have been no race stops for food since the 30km mark). But I'll be damned if Uni and Pink Streamers are going to beat me, and I'm certainly not stopping.
The volunteer Kiddies keep telling us we have 3km left. "Only 3km left!"... "Only 3km left!"... "Only 3km left!"... So frustrating. YOU SAID THAT 6KM AGO! And the last 10km of the ride are mud, slop, and hills. Orange tells me even the professional bikers and Olympians don't make it up the last hill without getting off their bikes. Through the tears and snot careening out of my nose, I apologize profusely to him for my babyish crying, however fitting, as I'm wearing pants that make me look like I'm in a diaper. I also manage to praise the long lasting taste of what I've come to refer to Orange's "designer gum".
Seeing the finish line was orgasmic. It took me 4:54:07 to cross it, but I did it, nonetheless. My body was in shut-down mode, and it took all I had to get to the car and lay down on the back seat. Orangey organized the bikes, and discussed the size and taste of the cheeseburger he planned on inhaling later in the evening. I focused on not wetting my pants or going into pulmonary embolism.
All in all, a successful event. Much like childbirth, I assume I will forget the back pain, leg pain, intense cold, total exhaustion, and mental breakdown and promptly register for it again next year. Thank you to everyone for your encouragement. I'm alive. I made it. I'm sick as a dog because of it. But it was well worth the effort, and I'm feeling vair puff puff because of it.
Mini breaks, no matter how mini, are always a good idea.
But the cottage is beautiful. And the cottage is quiet. And the cottage is in the middle of nowhere, down a nowhere road. And as much as I love him, there's no Bert meowing at the bedroom door, no buses rattling my windows, and no neighbors gearing up their trance music at 4:00 a.m. There are no phones to answer or computers to check or work we can do anything about.
In trade, I get the smell of wood smoke in my hair, the sound of loons at night, acorns in my pocket, sun on my cheeks, s'mores, boardgames, and memories.
Around 2:00 we're motoring along the 400 North when we decide to pull into the Highway Market--a massively random flea market we've both always wondered about.
