As the sun rises across the desert and brushes its orange breath across our cold faces, we mount our bikes and teeter our way through the loose dirt and gravel outside the Las Vegas Speedway, heading for our once-around the race track. It’s November 7, 2009. The air is dead still. More than 200 riders are here to participate in the 2009 MS Ride going from the speedway to Mesquite, Nevada and back. Some will only go part way. Some will finish the first day and go home. A few will leave in ambulances. Others will embrace the two days with no other thoughts on their minds than doing every mile. I’m in the latter group, so much so, that I’m surprised to hear not everyone intends to finish. I’m not judging their abilities; it just never occurred to me to do anything but the whole ride. Some cyclists don’t even ride around the track. I wonder why.
One of the reasons I’m riding is for my wife, Colleen. What I remember as the first time I met her is that I was sitting in a pool with my friend Randy after a hard bike ride through Red Rock, west of Las Vegas, Nevada. We had been training for a two day, 100 mile charity ride coming up in Arizona. Colleen tells me I have my timeline disjointed, but it makes my next point sound better and gives a tidy circular flow to my narrative. (Cyclists like circles). I remember meeting Colleen in conjunction with bike riding and raising money for charity. Now, 22 years later, I am on a bike again, but this time the charity relates directly to Colleen because the charity is the National Multiple Sclerosis Society, and Colleen has MS. For reasons I can’t remember, I quit bike riding not long after that Arizona ride. I kept my bike on the wall in all of our apartments until we bought our first house. In April 2009, I started riding again.
Colleen discovered she had MS after she lost her vision in one eye in 1997. That is one of the things MS can do. The vision eventually returned, but the MS has not gone away. Sometimes it stays hidden, and sometimes it affects everything she does. She takes multiple shots every week in an attempt to keep it a bay. When I heard about the 167 mile MS Ride (referred to as the MS 150 because of old routes from years gone by) I knew my cycling had a bigger purpose than just me.
I joined a team founded around a website designed to bring cyclists together. The team and the website are called BikingLasVegas.com. As I set out on this long anticipated ride, I think about all the people who contributed to the MS Society because of the ride. I am one of the top three fund-raisers, and our team has raised more than $20,000 because of this event, making us the number one fund-raising team. From one point of view, we have already achieved our success even without riding. But that is not my point of view.
A ride such as this is a physical and mental challenge, and it provides a chance to make a statement . . . a statement to myself, to the world, to this insane disease . . . all of the above. I focused on and trained for these two days during the hot summer months, and as people contributed to my efforts through donations to the MS Society as well as encouragement and positive thoughts to me directly, my ride grew into something that was no longer mine alone. As I will pedal out there on the road, everyone who supported me will be there too, in ways I can not foresee. This is something I have not anticipated or imagined. All the physical and mental explanations can not account for the energy and strength available to me on this ride. Yes, preparation and technology will contribute to my success, but they will not be enough to explain how well I ride during these two amazing days.
We yelp and yowl as we ride through the tunnel into the speedway. We’re on our way! The empty seats around the track are multi-colored and give the illusion that a crowd is watching us. Maybe there is a crowd watching us. We line up at the start line, leaning on our right feet into the incline of the track. I look around to find other members of my team scattered in little groups, wearing their blue and green BikingLasVegas.com jerseys. We push off slowly and come to the first turn. That’s when I understand why some people didn’t want to ride on the track. It slopes up sideways to what seems to be at least three stories high at a 45 degree angle. I’m in the middle with riders above me and below. It is a strange place to be riding a bike, angled so steeply into the road just to stay up straight, but I’m thrilled to be here. Still, this would not be a good place to crash (not that any place would be good for a crash).
We come around the last turn, and I see Colleen and my 11-year-old daughter Athena standing by our van which is parked next to the track. Wow! They just drove right in! I wave as we pass and Athena takes pictures with a camera I taught her to use just last night.
As we finish our lap and exit through the gates of the speedway, I hear the distinctive scrape-slap sound of someone crashing behind me. I can’t turn to look because we’re clustered too close together, and I don’t want to cause another crash. We ride onto Las Vegas Boulevard North and start spreading out as each rider finds his or her own pace. I hear a skiiidddd crack sound, as another cyclist hits the pavement. I can’t look back now, either. Looking behind while riding is an acquired skill I haven’t mastered yet, at least not enough to do it with lots of other cyclists around me.
On my old, steel bike, I have trouble keeping up with young and fast riders. On good days, I can keep up for a while, and my best performance has been a 16 mile per hour average through 30 miles, but my typical average is less than 15 mph. When I took up cycling this year, I also read lots of books on the subject. One expert noted that when a rider reaches a productive cadence in which he’s maintaining a consistent rate of speed and a reasonable heart rate, the added effort needed to increase and maintain the speed one mile per hour faster requires disproportionately more energy than it does to stay at the same pace. In other words, the extra one mile per hour may require so much more energy expenditure that it might not be worth the effort and could actually be counter-productive. So for me to increase my average speed significantly on two long rides back to back, something special would have to happen. That’s exactly what does happen: something special. I will average 17.6 mph the first day and 18 mph the second day.
One of the most renowned cyclists in history, Lance Armstrong, wrote a book entitled It’s Not about the Bike. That title became a source of mild debate and a topic of conversation in the cycling community. One of the reasons Lance chose that title was because he was writing about his “journey back to life” after defeating testicular cancer. Another reason was that he wanted to make the point that riding is more about the fortitude of the rider than the technology of the bike. The reality is that nothing in this world is either one thing or another. We all are a little of everything, and the results of our actions have many causes. Numerous factors contribute to my ability to ride well. One of those factors is the bike.
Yesterday, I arranged to use a top-of-the-line Trek bike, a Madone 5.9 from McGhie’s bike shop. I transferred my bike computer, pedals, seat and bags to this ultra-light, extremely aerodynamic, high performance “Porsche” of the bike world. It weighs less than half what my steel bike weighs. Everything about it makes sense, especially the available gears. My own bike, as someone pointed out to me, was likely designed and built in the 80s for flat racing. Its gears were meant for speed on ideal, flat courses, not for climbing mountains. (I didn’t know this when I used that bike to climb Mt. Charleston, one of the most challenging bike rides in the U.S). In riding the Trek, I am eliminating the handicap of my old, heavy, inefficient bike and using the technology most of the other riders are using. In this case, it is about the bike.
Another little piece of technology I needed cost much less. I wear glasses, and when I ride, they protect my eyes a little but not enough. As the weather got cooler, I found that my eyes got dry very quickly during rides. On one windy ride, my right eye got so dry that my vision stayed hazy for a few hours after the ride. It’s uncomfortable and dangerous. New, prescription cycling glasses that curve around to protect my eyes properly cost a few hundred dollars. Instead, I chose to hit the swap meet. I found some cheap fit-over sunglasses for ten bucks. They make me look like a senior citizen vacationing in Florida or maybe some kind of bug from outer space, but they do the job. Without them, dry eyes would be a big problem and a dangerous hindrance on this ride. Thus, I have no “coolness” credibility except for the bike I ride, which probably confuses a lot of people. If I were on my own steel bike, the wannabe-pro cyclists would ignore me as though I were just another rock in the desert.
We head north-east on Las Vegas Boulevard North, and under I 15 to reach our first small climb. The M.C. of the event rides in a van along with us and parks ahead of us periodically to cheer us on. From inside the van, he blasts energetic music through large speakers, keeping the van doors open so the music escapes freely. “Good job. Good job. Keep it going,” he announces. Our ride support group includes six to eight three-wheeled motorcycles, each with two riders; a support and gear (SAG) van with a mechanic; a vehicle with medical supplies; a couple other support cars; and at least one Nevada Highway Patrol officer in a car. BikingLasVegas.com also has its own SAG as a team member rides along in his van with his wife. In addition, there are ten rest stops along the route, each with volunteers providing water, snacks and other nourishment. The most talked-about rest stop, staffed by women from a sponsoring strip club, includes massages.
Our route will take us around past Apex, up to the Great Basin Highway, onto I 15, through Valley of Fire State Park, north through Overton and Logandale, back onto I 15, and north/east to Mesquite, Nevada, approximately 98.5 miles. The return tomorrow will take us directly back to the speedway along I 15, approximately 69 miles. I don’t think about all this. For me, it’s one curve or one hill at a time. Our first hill gets my legs going. I am immediately pleased to find I’m climbing strong, keeping up with the type of riders who would usually “drop” me. The hill is no problem. Maybe I should slow down, I think. Am I pushing too hard? My heart rate is fine, not even 140 beats per minute.
Reaching the Great Basin Highway and going under I 15, we discover the first rest stop. Already! I’m not stopping. I turn left onto the entrance to I 15, passing Colleen and Athena, who are both taking pictures of me. They volunteered to work at the lunch stop in Logandale and at another stop tomorrow. They have plenty of time to drive there in our van. I wave and head up the entrance ramp. A few others skip the stop, too. Now, it’s time for single-file riding only. Right away the air feels cooler. I think how terrible it would be to ride here in the summer. Right now, in November, I’m glad for the cool weather, and I’m happy to be wearing long sleeves and knee warmers as we pick up speed going downhill. I’m also thankful for the complete lack of wind. Everything feels perfect, and I’m sure the wind will leave us alone for these two days.
A cyclist with a green and white jersey pushes in front of me, and another jumps in front of him. They had been drafting behind me, and now seem to be offering to pull. We trade positions for a while, each of us taking a turn in the front. While at the back, I notice that the second guy has fresh dirt across his shoulder and his jersey seems to have road rash. Maybe this is one of the riders who fell earlier. The road levels and then starts going up. We pass more riders. Still feeling strong, I pull in front as the hill gets steeper. By now, I sense there are a few other riders trying to stay on our line. I push hard up the hill. A blue van passes us, and I hear, “Whooooo.” I realize Athena is yelling out the window of the van. “That’s my kid,” I say to Green & White, who is behind me. “And you’re pulling this whole line up the hill,” he replies. I smile.
At the top of the hill, I try to look behind me. Only Green & White and Road Rash are there. “Where did everyone go?” I ask. “I don’t know,” Green & White says. We dropped them. The three of us continue riding together. When cooperating in a paceline, the most efficient way to ride is close to each other single file so as to take advantage of the draft. Six to ten riders can make a really strong paceline that can generate more speed with less energy usage than single riders or smaller pacelines. We are just three, but it’s better than two or one. When trading places, the front rider should pull aside, signaling that he is dropping back to let the next rider lead. Road Rash does this the opposite way. He decides when he is going to pull and rides up from the back. It’s not the worst way to do things when there are only three riders, but it still wastes energy. In riding up to pass, he has to push harder, using more energy. In falling back to let someone else lead, he could conserve energy. I don’t plan on staying with him too long, so I go along with his backward technique. He sneers at Green & White and me when we don’t read his mind and jump up front after a while. No wonder he had road rash, I think. We stay together until the next rest stop which is across the road from the Moapa Paiute truck stop. It’s crowded, and I immediately lose track of my two companions.
I recognize a couple of my team mates in their blue and green BikingLasVegas.com jerseys. Colleen is there too, and fills one of my water bottles with a specially formulated nutrient powder for long rides. I shed my long-sleeve shirt, knowing it will be too hot later. I wait a while as the rest of my team arrives. We pull out together, 17 in all, forming a double paceline on the road to Valley of Fire State Park. It lasts for a few miles, us talking and really enjoying the ride, before two guys pull away up front and most of the rest fall back behind.
It’s getting steeper. I start pushing to reach the front two and turn up a short hill just as a cloud of dust whips up at the top. As if in slow motion, a wheel pokes out of the top of the dust cloud, then another wheel, and another. I realize the wheels belong to the same bike, and someone is tumbling and crashing. The dust obscures the road and the top of the hill. I pedal harder to reach the top and see one of my team mates turning around to come back in the dissipating dust. We reach the crashed rider at the same time. The guy is sitting in the dirt looking at his bleeding hand. He’s wearing a jersey with a building company name on it. “I just took my eye off the road for a second,” he says. A highway patrolman pulls up, already talking on the radio, calling for assistance. The rider doesn’t seem seriously hurt, but his bike wheels are twisted. I learn later that his name is Steve, and this little crash won’t stop him from riding tomorrow.
The other BLV guy and I decide the situation is being handled okay, and we start off again. Just a little more climbing before we drop down to the entrance to Valley of Fire. The drop is very steep and the road switches back once before turning straight and reaching the toll booth. Two of the motorcycles are there, and I stop to use the restroom, knowing the portable outhouses at the rest stops will have lines of people waiting outside them. When I come out, I see most of my team has passed me and is quickly dropping into the park. I pull out to catch them, but I’m not worried about falling behind because I know the next rest stop is close.
Valley of Fire is amazing, especially in November. With temperatures in the low 70s, I can ignore the reference to heat in the Valley of Fire name and take fire to mean the infinite shades of red in the rocks. The rock formations are so wild in structure and stylish in color that they appear to be designed like works of art rather than formed randomly by forces of nature. The ride is calming and peaceful until the excitement builds as we arrive at the next rest stop. The volunteers cheer and ring bells when we come in, enthusiastically stepping out to hold our bikes or bring us snacks. This is the most beautiful rest area along the route. It sits in front of the rock formations known as The Seven Sisters. They stand like maids of honor in a royal court. Could these be the earthly kin to the Seven Sisters we see at night in the star cluster known as the Pleiades?
I wait a while for my team to continue, but the time just stretches on. I don’t do well staying too long at rest stops. I need to keep my rhythm, so I head out alone. I’m still enjoying the peace of this alien landscape. At the last steep hill before leaving the park, I stand and push hard. A photographer takes my picture close to the top. On the other side, I drop quickly down the hill until it levels off. At the park exit, I turn north onto Northshore Road heading away from Lake Mead. This will take me into the farming communities of Overton and Logandale.
I look back and see a string of riders with blue and green jerseys. A paceline of 10 or so riders from my team is catching me. I slow down because I know they’ll catch me anyway, and I want to join them. They ride up to me, and I become the lead rider for a while. Most of us have been riding together for months, practicing for this moment. We rode 30 to 40 miles almost every Tuesday and Thursday night throughout the summer, and even put together a class on paceline techniques and etiquette so we would know how to ride in a paceline properly.
We work together like a finely tuned machine, calling out when we see obstacles in the road, and signaling when altering our course. We become like a bicycle cog rotating counter-clockwise as we trade pulling duties at the front. After a few minutes, I move left out of the lead position and signal with my elbow for everyone to pass. As I fall back, my team mates greet me: “Hi, Steve . . . nice Pull . . . Thanks for the pull.” That’s how we do it. We communicate with each other, and we become like a single multi-headed rider . . . that is until someone stops paying attention. But that doesn’t happen until later. For now, we’re a winged serpent flying along the road, devouring solo cyclists and gaining speed.
We drop into the valley and start the gentile climb back to I 15. Our next stop is the lunch stop in Logandale, 65 miles into our journey. We all push hard, each only staying in front for a few minutes before rotating back. I recognize the familiar jersey of Green & White ahead, and tell him to jump on as we pass. He seems worn out, and the paceline will help him. I only offered because I had ridden with him earlier and seen that he was a safe rider. I would not have invited Road Rash to join, however. Green & White jumps on and becomes part of the monster.
The feeling of being part of something that is greater than just a group of individual riders, stronger than the sum of its parts, is so special I will crave it when the ride is over. We maintain speeds perhaps 40 percent faster than we could achieve alone. We leave everyone in our wake. I’m only a little tired when we reach the rest stop. Stopping seems more like a strategy than a necessity. Only Green & White seems tired. “I’m worn out,” he says. That’s the last I’ll see of him.
After a while, a second paceline of BikingLasVegas.com people rides in. We eat the chicken and rice served by volunteers. Colleen and Athena are there handing out the meals. I was not planning on eating solid food during the ride because it can actually slow me down while my body digests it. My plan was to stick to my powder mixes only, but I decide to eat the lunch anyway. As it turns out, the lunch does well for me.
With one person dropped behind after having two tire punctures (and another blow-out to come later) we let John, our SAG driver, go back to get him while the rest of us on the team start the climb to I 15. This is one of the steepest parts of the ride, rising 800 feet of elevation over 10 miles. It doesn’t sound like much, but some of the grades are really steep. Usually when I climb hills I just maintain a steady pace, satisfied to reach the top whenever I can. Today is different. First I try to help a couple team members up the grade by offering my wheel so they can draft, but there is very little draft on this steep hill. As the front guys pull away, I find myself chasing them. This leaves the others behind. I pass one rider and catch up to the guy in front as we turn onto I 15 for more climbing. At the top of the last hill, the other guy stops to let the team catch up or to rest himself. I look back enough to see an empty road. They’re nowhere in sight. I’m worried about bonking and coming in behind everyone else at the end, so I keep going, thinking they’ll catch me by the next rest stop.
First the road drops, and then I’m on a long, slow incline that seems almost flat. There’s more gravel on the road here than there was in all of the previous miles. Our riding lane is the breakdown lane of the highway, just inside the grooved portion of the road that is designed to cause noise if a vehicle drives on it. There is plenty room for us, even though cars are only a few feet away as they pass. The highway disappears straight into the distance. Traffic is light. The only rider I can see stands out as a little yellow dot. I make it my goal to catch up. Slowly, the yellow dot forms into a person with pigtails. The yellow shirt is a jersey representing a dental office. I recognize the rider. She has ridden with us many times, and we passed her earlier on the way into Overton. Apparently, she only took a short lunch break. “Hello,” I say as I pass her and slow down so she can take my wheel. She matches my pace but doesn’t stay very close. We reach the next rest stop soon after that.
I stop only to get my bearings and look back to see if anyone is catching up. The rest stop is a turn-out. I notice a rider who passed the exit lane and is not stopping. It’s Jim, and I would like to ride with him, but he’s got a pretty good jump on me. I head out with Dental Girl, both of us planning to work together. Jim is long gone. I do see a tiny dot of a rider, and we start pushing to catch him. It gives us purpose. As the dot gets bigger, I see it’s not Jim. We pass this rider and aim for the next dot. Dental Girl is having trouble staying with me, so I tell her I’m going to catch Jim and slow down for her to catch us. “Damn, it took me a half hour to catch you,” I say as I ride up on Jim. I move in front so he can draft, and we slow down to let Dental Girl catch up. Pretty soon, however, they’re falling behind me.
A paving machine is working in the road ahead. I look for a path to follow and there is none. The work area goes from some cones, which are directly on the edge of the traffic lane, and the dirt and gravel that drops away from the road on the right. The paver is out by the cones. I don’t have any way around but straight on the highway travel lane. I glance back to see a line of big rigs, just as one of the 18 wheelers passes me. I see about three feet of space between the truck and the cones as he passes. That’s my lane now. I push as hard as I can to get around the paver and back into the breakdown lane. I slip by just before the next truck. That may have been crazy, but I certainly wasn’t going to stop and walk around through the desert on my shoe clips. Where are the support vehicles? I wonder. Why didn’t someone do something about this?
I keep going to the last rest stop, the one sponsored by a strip club. My plan is to wait for everyone here. Dental Girl comes in without Jim. He had a puncture and told her to keep going, she tells me. My neck is tight from leaning on the handle bars, so I accept the offer of a massage. I sit in a chair letting a woman try to loosen my neck muscles. It doesn’t help much, but I’m glad to sit down. Eventually, most of my team arrives. We know it’s not much farther now, only a little more than 10 miles, most of it downhill or flat. We head out slowly together, wanting to finish as a team. The gravel on the road is really heavy, even dangerous. I wonder why it wasn’t swept as promised. That was supposed to be part of the ride preparation by the organizers. We’ll just have to deal with it.
Things are going great. Still no wind. The temperature is a perfect 79 degrees. As we approach Mesquite, we can see our destination, the Oasis Resort. I’m riding third from the back, thinking that I will ride a few more miles past the finish line so I can reach another century mark (we’ve got to have our even numbers). This will only be 98.5 miles today if I don’t ride a little farther, and I feel as though I can go for 20 more. I really can’t believe how easy this has been. What a perfect ride! We exit the highway and move to the inside of a line of four-foot tall traffic cones that run along the edge of the travel lane. In our tight paceline, we’re going 22 miles per hour down into town.
Suddenly, I hear someone up front yell “Cone!” just as I swerve to avoid a cone that is right in my path and yell “Cone!” myself. Immediately, I hear the crash and slide as Lisa hits the cone. I know she is right behind me, and Gina is behind her. Two riders up front don’t now what has happened and are gone before I’m done braking. The rest turn around. Lisa is hunched over in the road, her bike off to the side. Gina, who managed to ride off into the dirt and not crash, gets off her bike and crouches over Lisa, holding her shoulders. Don gets down onto the road, too, and they help Lisa lie down. She’s conscious and groaning. The flesh around her right elbow is torn open deeply. Blood drips onto the asphalt. Her right leg is bleeding, too. Our SAG van pulls ahead and stops. A highway patrolman stops. A three-wheeler stops. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” someone asks Lisa, as if she could make that decision. “Is it bad?” Lisa asks. Everyone looks again. Someone says, “You need an ambulance.” Lisa curls over onto her left side as someone puts a helmet down for her to rest her head. Paul takes off his shirt, and Gina holds it on Lisa’s elbow.
The ambulance eventually arrives and takes Lisa to the hospital. The rest of us ride to the Oasis, a little numbed. People cheer and ring bells as we ride in, and it seems wrong to me. They don’t know what just happened. This is supposed to be our grand moment, but we just ride into the parking lot and stop. Everyone is staying at the Oasis except me. Colleen, Athena and I are staying with friends who have a house in Mesquite. Colleen and Athena are still not back from the lunch rest stop, so I sit on the curb as everyone else goes to find their rooms. I visit Lisa a few hours later at the hospital and find that she will be fine and has received multiple stitches on her arm. No riding tomorrow, but otherwise she’ll be okay. It’s a shame this happened to her. She’s the team captain.
In the morning, I decide to skip the official breakfast so I can get more sleep. Instead, I eat a fast-food sandwich, something I feel I should not do. I need to eat something before the ride, however. It’s colder today, maybe in the low 50s, but I choose not to wear my leg warmers. We’re supposed to ride out at 7:45 a.m., but some cyclists have already left when I arrive at the Oasis at 7:30. A lot of the team is there. Three of them want to leave immediately, and I follow. Why wait? It’s not a race, but the sooner we leave the sooner we get done. I’m concerned how well I will do riding another long ride so soon after yesterday’s 98.5 miles. I’ve never done this before. Usually, I would be sleeping in and doing very little the day after a long ride. The three of us go out with a scattering of other riders who ride alone or belong to other teams. There’s no cooperation yet this morning.
The others are slow to get moving. I try to work with them to start the climb. It will be nothing but uphill for 10 miles. I get in front and quickly reach 19 miles per hour. I look back and see they are falling behind, so I slow down again. One of them says, “I think maybe 14 would be just the right pace.” Two couples on tandem bikes pass us. I try to stay slow, but my bike feels like it wants to leap out from under me and shoot up the hill. I start to ride my own pace and get back up to 19 mph without feeling it. Climbing a hill at 19 mph! Crazy! 19 mph is fast for me on flat roads, much less a steep hill. What can I do other than go along with what’s happening? I feel so strong; I just have to take advantage of it. I leave my team mates behind.
The sun rises to my left as I cross a bridge and it casts my shadow down into the ravine. Cool picture, I think, but it’s not a picture. It’s me. This is why I ride! I’m alive!
I can see other riders, each struggling alone as we climb. I pass the two couples on tandem bikes. I pass two more riders, then approach a third, who is wearing a building company jersey. Is he the one who I saw crash yesterday? “How ya doin’?” I say as I pass. “Ugh,” he replies. We’re coming to the top of the hill, and the M.C. is playing Eye of the Tiger. My place in front is brief as Building Company Guy passes me. Just after the top is the first rest stop. Colleen and Athena are there, so I exit and wave at them, but don’t stop.
I’m out alone now, and the desert expands all around me, surrounded by mountains in the distance. The road is quiet and insignificant. No traffic. No riders in sight. I’m really alone. Little wisps of white clouds adorn the deep blue sky. The colors all around, intense blue and purple, make the rocks and dust look so harmless and welcoming. How could this desert ever be hostile? It’s like a leisurely day on a crystal lake. Nothing could go wrong. I know this smile from the wilderness is only a mask for danger, but the beauty could not be more intense or inviting. I’ve been through here hundreds of times in a car, but I’ve never really seen it until now. I feel this moment the way I had only imagined through someone else. This is what poets and philosophers write about, and their words mean nothing compared to being here right now.
I’m still moving fast, almost flying. I don’t feel the effort. How is this happening? The training? The planning? The conditioning? The thoughts and wishes of everyone who supported me? The bike? Certainly all of it. Amazing.
Three cyclists pass me. The first is a large guy wearing a beverage restaurant jersey, followed by a guy wearing a blue and white jersey. Third is Building Company Guy again. He points behind him as he passes, signaling me to join the paceline. I accept. He pulls to the front, and I wait for the rotation. Nothing happens. We pick up speed. Finally, he drops back again, falling in line behind me. Our speed drops as Beverage Restaurant can’t hold the pace. Now I think we’ll start a rotation, but Building Company Guy jumps up again and takes the lead. As we approach the next rest stop, he asks if we’re stopping. I see the other two want to pull off. “I’ll go with you,” I say, and take the lead. “I’ll try to keep your pace,” I tell him. “That’s okay,” he replies. “I’m really tired.” Blue and White exits, but Beverage Restaurant goes with us.
I push as hard as I can as we pass the rest stop and notice a paceline of nine guys wearing the same jerseys Beverage Restaurant wears. They are getting back on the highway after the stop. Building Company Guy jumps back in front of me and says, “I’m going to bridge the gap.” I throw some extra power into my cadence, shift to a higher gear, and push to stay with him. If we can get in their line, our ride will be faster and more efficient. We have thirty yards to bridge, which is significant, but I’m not getting dropped!
Quicker than I expect, we reach the line. Building Company Guy takes us right into the middle as a couple guys on the line fall back. Beverage Restaurant, who stayed with us, pulls in front of me. I relax a little inside the draft, but these guys are going fast. We all have numbers pinned to our jerseys. Our names are written below our numbers. I look ahead and see that Building Company Guy is named Steve, and Beverage Restaurant is also named Steve. How many Steves does it take to bridge thirty yards to reach Team Beverage Restaurant? Three.
Our speed increases to 24 miles per hour plus. I hang on as best I can enough to acknowledge to myself that I was here. We’re really flying! For the first time on this ride, I’m starting to feel as though I’m pushing too hard. I stay with them for a little longer, almost until the next rest stop. I doubt they will stop, and I don’t see a reason to push myself into the red, so I signal that I’m moving over and pull out of the line. Right at that moment, we’re overtaking a lone rider who I recognize as a member of my team even though he’s not wearing the jersey. (Neither am I for that matter because it’s under my blue long-sleeve shirt that I still don’t want to take off because of the cool weather). He’s wearing an orange long-sleeve shirt. I have never ridden with him before, and only met him once. “I couldn’t keep up with them any longer,” I tell him. “Yea,” he says, as though he’s familiar with their team.
We take the next rest stop exit. This is the one where Colleen and Athena are working. I stop next to Colleen as the BLV guy rides up to meet his wife who has been driving a car and stopping at each rest stop for him. As Colleen holds my bike, I walk over and ask if he would like to cooperate on the ride. He says, “Yes, two are better than one.” We head out up the hill, and we re-introduce ourselves. His name is Roger, and this is his 13th year on this MS Ride. “It’s my first”, I tell him.
We’re working our way to Moapa Valley, but first we need to finish our climb. We trade the lead back and forth, eventually cresting the hill and dropping steeply into the valley. The road is covered with gravel. I wonder why it was not swept for us as promised by the organizers. Instead of enjoying the descent, we have to brake a lot and dodge rocks. It’s dangerous, especially with the water drains that extend into our lane along the fence on the elevated parts of the highway. The drains are marked with white paint around them, but we can see that hitting one of these dips would be disastrous.
Climbing again, we pass two other riders. With none of us saying anything, they jump on behind us, another bit of cooperation among strangers. These guys rotate up from the back, too. Maybe it’s backwards week. Maybe they just want to show they’re willing to work. We stick together until the next rest stop when we all nod to each other to acknowledge our successful work. The other two riders get off their bikes as Roger and I ride on. We keep going until the next rest stop where we pull off, and I’m happy to find a portable toilet. A volunteer holds my bike while I re-situate myself and fill my nutrient bottle with protein powder. That and a honey-like gel are my main sources of nutrients these two days.
I squirt some of the gel into my mouth, and we ride on. The finish is only 16 miles away. The bridge portions of the highway leave less room to ride, and we have to be more careful. The two of us stay single-file anyway. Traffic is getting heavy with lots of big rigs passing us. Their wakes hit us in the backs for a push, and then curl around to hit us in the face each time a truck passes. It’s noisy and rough. Our escort Highway Patrol car that I have not seen until now turns on sirens and pulls a u-turn, accelerating and heading back the other way. I don’t know why.
This part of the ride is clearly the worst of all. Out here on the highway with gravel scattered around and 18 wheelers swishing by, it’s noisy, tedious and dangerous. The exhaust from the trucks caps off the unpleasantness. We just keep riding. I’m looking forward to the final exit. My rear is finally getting tired of the seat. I stand more frequently to ease the pressure. I tell Roger, “My butt’s getting tired of this.”
Suddenly, I feel as though I’m riding in mud. Tire puncture! I was beginning to think I was immune to this. Now, I have a problem. I kept my bike seat pouch from my own bike and put it on this bike. The tube inside will not fit the Trek. I realized this the night before we left when it was too late to do anything. I tell this to Roger who pulls out a tube from his pouch which is the right size. As we’re dealing with this situation, we are pulled to the right of our lane at the edge of the gravel. One of the trikes pulls behind us to see if we’re okay. The Highway Patrol car pulls in, too. The officer gets out after parking right in the middle of the riding lane, walks over to me and says, “I need to have you move out of the lane. I don’t want anything bad to happen like what happened to those other two riders,” begging the question.
I look back and see some cyclists approaching. They really don’t have anywhere to ride because of the Highway Patrol car parked in the lane. He signals for them to ride to the right of his car, which they do, just barely. I’m not the one blocking the lane, I think, but I move into the dirt anyway. I just want to get going again. “What happened?” I ask the patrolman. He tells us that an 18 wheeler crossed into the lane where two cyclists were riding side by side, and blew one into the other. The truck did not hit them, but it caused them to crash. They both had to be taken to a hospital in an ambulance. Days later, I will find out that they are alive. One was not hurt too badly, and the other had broken bones. One bike was repairable, and the other was broken in half. Yes, this is the bad part of the ride.
The tandem couples pass us. Damn! I thought I was long past them. More riders pass, too. I find the cause of the puncture. It’s a tiny piece of wire from a steel belted tire. It’s hard to pull out of my bike tire, but I get it out using some pliers the guy with the motorcycle has. I get the new tube in, and Roger uses his pump to fill my tire. Finally, we’re back on the road going downhill. We catch up to a guy I’ve ridden with many times. He’s unique because he is even less cool than me. He always wears a regular green t-shirt and tan shorts, no special cycling gear. Even more significant, he rides a “fixie.” That’s a fixed gear bike without brakes. He has no gears to shift, and must hold the pedals in place to stop. Right now, he’s spinning like a cook whipping eggs. As we pass, I say to him, “You’re a better man than I am.” I really don’t know how anyone could ride a bike like that on a ride like this. I have a lot of respect for him. What could he do with an advance road bike?
Now, all I want is to get off I 15. We exit at Apex and stop at the last rest stop. Roger goes over to talk to his wife, and I eat a power bar I picked up at the previous stop. We don’t want to hang around here when we’re so close, so we leave quickly.
Off the highway, it’s peaceful again, and we enjoy the ride. We can even ride side-by-side and talk a little. Roger tells me he’s never ridden with anyone in all his 13 years of doing this ride. We managed to stick together for half the day’s distance. I’m glad I was able to ride with him, especially because he had the tube I needed, but also because his company was enjoyable. Our pace worked well for both of us. We cross under I 15 and find ourselves on the home stretch. After climbing a short hill, we ride over to discover the entire Las Vegas Valley below us. The road shoots down toward the Las Vegas Speedway. Roger rides in front, and I let the gap widen as I stretch and relax. We’re almost coasting in. I see Colleen alone at the entrance taking pictures, and I hear the bells at the finish but can’t see anyone until we turn right through the gate. The M.C. is there playing music from his van, and a few others cheer and ring bells. Tables are set up off to the left, and a small number of cyclists sit, eating.
I had not thought of the finish line before now. I had only focused on each riding moment, with a definite idea that I would finish. I see a woman in a wheel chair put a medallion over Roger’s head. I ride in that direction, assuming that is what I’m supposed to do. To my great pleasure, I see Athena step up with my medallion on an orange ribbon. She proudly puts it over my head. What a great feeling! What a great accomplishment! It’s such a pleasure to be part of this. It’s such a great feeling to know I could do it. Colleen comes over and congratulates me.
I shake Roger’s hand and thank him for the assistance and company. I only see a few other members of my team. It’s a while before the rest come in. Roger is gone before we get the team together for a picture. I wonder what they went through as we greet each other and pat ourselves on the back. Two thirds of our team was fortunate enough to complete both days. Overall, approximately half of those who started yesterday made it to the finish today. Best of all, I hear the entire event raised more than $100,000 for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society.
For me, this was my best ride ever and one of the greatest experiences of my life. Today I spent 3 hours 48 minutes on the bike for 68.5 miles, an 18 mile per hour average. Yesterday I spent 5 hours 37 minutes on the bike for 98.5 miles, a 17.6 mile per hour average. Those are the numbers I get to keep. They are mine to keep forever. In fact, I can keep everything I experienced and everything I did on this ride except the bike, which has to go back tomorrow. I don’t want these two days to be the only time I have an experience like this, and I love my steel bike, but if today is only the beginning of my life in cycling, it’s time to start saving for a new bike. I can’t look back now. There’s a lot more riding to do.
