Remembering the End of 2016's CASAs for Kids 24-Hour Cycling Challenge

The hour is before 8:00 am on Sunday, somewhere in Indiana.  I have since finished cycling 300 miles on a closed test track for Subaru Isuzu cars - my bike odometer was sunk, I couldn't trust the mileage on it. All I know was that when I crossed the lap counter, Birt was yelling from the sidelines, "300 miles! You hit 300 miles, like, I dunno, a while ago!" I pulled off, and found my training partner, who was luxuriating in her accomplishment. We had separated several hours ago, it just organically came about that way, I harbored no ill will. We shared a hug or ten, some folks were taking photos. I was handed a Diet Pepsi, even though I fucking hate Diet anything. If I'm going to have a soda, I want my pancreas to really feel it. I chugged it like it was a cup from the Fountain of Youth.

Birt then says, "You've got a little over an hour. Why not try and double you RAIN miles?" As the caffeine from the sugarless poison broke through the fog, I shrugged. Sure, why not? I would have to average ten-ish miles per hour for the next two hours to do it, I calculated in a stupor. I swung back up onto my saddle, feeling the stab of pain from a saddle sore caused by a bad pair of shorts I had put on sometime back at 2 am (and promptly tore off 10 miles later - I don't think I've seen them since).

I pedaled so slow that next lap out - I couldn't remember much. My laps, my miles, how the fuck I got here. All I knew was to keep turning those cranks over. Pedal, dammit. Birt passed off another Diet and some margarita flavored shot bloks. Christ, was someone trying to choke me?

My next lap, my heart rate was coming back up. My mind was focused on the road, not my ass. I found myself steadily climbing in pace, lap by lap, until a group of riders wearing CAT jerseys absorbed me, and I felt the tug of adrenaline peak back. When it came my turn to pull the paceline, the guy behind me said, "Whoa, wait! You're solo. Drop back, let us pull." I tried to argue that I should earn my keep, but he insisted, so, okay. I only had so much energy.

Dropping back, I found myself riding next to the man I dope-ishly named the Red Pirate back at mile 180. He was from Team Crossfit Uncommon, and every time he'd come out on the track, all swagger and muscles, red beard and bravado, he'd holler at us solo girls. He started calling me Socks, on account that I was so cold and tired I had slid on my stripey compression socks (UCI be damned).  So, anyway, the Red Pirate once again, "Hey, Socks! I like those socks!" I latched onto his wheel and held on for dear life. As Teams CAT and CrossFit Uncommon tore around that track, exchanging riders every lap or so, I would hear people talking at me. Things that registered through my brain: a gorgeous pair of women (who seemed so youthful at the time, but it turns out we are all elder millennials) exclaimed, "Oh, my God. You are inspirational. I want to be like you*."

I thanked them, thinking the fuck, why, tho? So I just focused on the Red Pirate's ass, pedaled, and suddenly, it's 10 am. The race crew is pulling us off the track. I am delirious with caffeine and disbelief: 324 miles ridden in 24 hours.

Several days later, the captain of the team I used to ride with e-mailed me. He was looking at my lap times, and could not believe what he saw. He wrote, "Dude. The last several laps, you were pushing twenty-plus miles an hour. What in the actual hell?"

Cheekily, I wrote back, "Diet coke, cheering people, and I think I had latched on with the red bearded pirate who was calling me socks. I was delirious, I think I was in love with him or something? Who knows."

* Fast forward to 2017. There are three women who break the 300-mile landmark and take the top three podium spots. One - Chloe, the woman in in the final miles of 2016 who swore she was going to do a solo ride based on seeing my efforts that year. She nailed it  -  three hundred and sixteen miles. I've really enjoyed getting to know her this past year.