You don’t have to do everything wrong to bonk while riding your bike. It just takes one or two misguided choices, and you’ll find yourself on your bike wanting only to get off and leave your two wheeled contraption leaning against a stop sign while you sit on the ground, intending never to get up again.
If you want to bonk, here are some ways to do it:
• Don’t drink enough water.
• Don’t eat.
• Don’t sleep enough the night before.
• Ride in the heat.
• Ride really hard at the beginning of a long ride.
• Don’t use sunscreen.
• Rest too long during the ride.
• Ride against the wind.
• Go for a century when you’ve never gone more than 20 miles.
• Ride on a path with too little room.
• Ignore the weather.
• Don’t look at a map.
• Get information on terrain and distance from non-cyclists.
• Decide you’re invincible.
• Etcetera . . .
Here’s how I bonked: On Saturday May 29, 2010 I headed west on a solo ride from home, past Red Rock, out to the 160, over “The Hump” of Mt. Potosi, and north to Pahrump. My plan was to go back the way I came, making it a 130 mile trip and my longest ride ever. If I had followed that plan, I would have avoided the pleasure of reaching my true limits and experiencing that empty, dead-end feeling of bonking. I did not follow the plan.
I felt fine climbing Potosi. The north headwind never let up as I descended into Pahrump. It didn’t bother me because I was going downhill most of the way and averaging more than 20 mph even into the wind. When I reached Pahrump, I felt great. I can ride a hundred more miles! I thought. The temperature was in the 70s, and the wind didn’t scare me. I replenished my supplies at the Shell station. No, it wouldn’t be a lack of fluids and nutrition that would do me in. It would be the idea that I was invincible that would sink me, kind of like the Titanic.
Just as I was thinking about my invincibility (not about the Titanic) an old man coming out of the Shell station asked me where I came from and how far I was going. “Vegas,” I said, and I thought about the north route home instead of going back the way I came. I knew it would be an additional 30 miles, but hey, if you’re invincible, what’s another 30 miles? “I’m going 160 miles total,” I said. I still wasn’t firm on that north route, but I wanted to hear myself say it. I asked the man what he thought of my going north instead of back over Potosi. “Oh, it’s pretty flat that way. It is longer, but you don’t have to go back up the hill to Potosi.” A woman working at the Shell station confirmed what he said: “Yea, it’s pretty flat that way,” she said. Sounds pretty good to me, I thought. I’ll do it!
I have relatives who live in Pahrump, and I decided to visit my aunt Gloria and uncle Roger. Their house was not far off the route heading north. My next mistake was to stay too long visiting. I felt great. I wasn’t in a hurry, so we talked for more than half an hour. During that time, my muscles cooled off, and my body decided I was done for the day. It must have thought, “Hey, he hasn’t ridden in a while, and he doesn’t seem ready to leave soon, so he’s done riding.” My body didn’t bother to notify me, but I think it went into rest mode some time during that visit. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed talking with Gloria and Roger again after years without seeing them, but I should have made it a shorter visit. When you’re invincible, however, you ignore what you know best, such as not to rest too long. Long rests during long rides have only been detrimental to me. I should have known better.
Eventually, I headed north, expecting a short climb into the wind, then a long haul on the flats, finally leading me to salvation: Riding south on 95 downhill with a tailwind all the way to Vegas and almost no effort on my part required, something I felt I would have earned after riding into the headwind for so long. This is the fiction I created for myself to justify my choice of going north. This was also my next mistake. I never considered that a giant iceberg could tear my hull open and sink me. It was just too nice outside (except, of course, for the now 20 mph plus headwind) but who’s counting wind speed?
Okay, just this next part of the hill, and I’m at the top turning east and getting more of a side wind. Yea, just this next hill. Alright, just this one more hill. I’m almost there. Oh, it really must be this next hill. I can see it now. I know it’s going to go down soon. Just a little farther . . . Where’s the top? Doesn’t it at least turn east? Is the wind actually getting stronger? Why does it seem that I’m always going into the wind even when the road curves? Yes, I can see the road dropping, but why am I only going 15 mph? And, where’s the 95? It must be here somewhere. Come on, am I really climbing again? No way. Am I going east yet? Shouldn’t the wind be coming from my left by now? Where the hell is the 95? Is that it? All the way the frak out there? Do those cars look like they’re going uphill? I though it would be downhill. What’s going on? How can I still be pushing into a headwind? Really? 8 mph? Come on!! Okay. Finally. The 95. What’s this? Where’s the shoulder?
Note to self: If a non-cyclist tells you that the road is flat, don’t trust him. Everything seems flat in a car. You don’t want to discover you have to ride 30 miles into a 20 mph wind up a hill when you’re already on the hill.
After finishing that “flat” hill, I noticed that some geniuses appeared to have just completed a new stretch of road on the 95. Nice new asphalt with some really cool warning ruts right at the edge of the road . . . and a nice wide shoulder—not! No shoulder? Well, some shoulder, about eight inches of it, deep ruts to the left and steep gravel to the right on a two lane highway. Okay, I can do this. Just balance. Talk about pain! My mind was ready to tuck into my aero bars and coast downhill, but instead I was balancing on a thin strip of blacktop, using worn-out muscles, tittering between being vibrated to death and crashing my nice new Trek into rough, steep gravel. I wasn’t worried about myself, mind you. I can heal, but a scratch on my bike will never go away.
And, guess what? It’s not downhill, either. And guess what? The eight inch strip has gravel and rocks on it. And guess what? The person who imprinted the ruts had a bad day or was drunk and strayed into my 8 inches of pathway, leaving basically no plain asphalt for me to ride on. I stopped and looked for options. I didn’t see any. As it was, cars were swerving away from me and hitting the center warning ruts as they passed. I could walk through the rocks on the path or just ride it out. I decided to ride and swerve around the rocks with the scant inches I had to work with. I don’t think I could have gone slower without tipping over. This seemed to take more energy than the climb against the wind, and it certainly robbed me of any optimism I may had left.
Finally, the road split into four lanes with a good shoulder, but it was too late for me by then. Bonk! I’m calling some friends to pick me up. I kept riding, thinking I could get to Indian Springs 20 miles ahead before my friends arrived, but even that was too much. I pulled into the gravel, leaned my bike on a pole and sat down. By the time my friends picked me up, the wind had stopped. I couldn’t deny that it was a beautiful day, and that most of the ride was a blast, but I didn’t have enough in me to do much more than sit.
I had finally found my limits. I hope that knowledge will help me some day. Even so, it still gave me my longest ride ever: 108 miles. Now I need to work on stretching those limits. For now, I’m left with an interesting memory (I’m still not sure what to think of it) and some very odd patches of sunburn where I was sloppy in applying sunscreen.
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