The Century

In cyclist lingo, The Century is a 100-mile ride. The truth is that anyone in decent shape with a day and a bicycle could probably knock out a hundred miles. But, and this is key, the vast majority don't.

This is an account from last Thursday.

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When I left the church at 1:00 for West Lafayette, I was already 34 miles into the biggest day of my cycling career. I had also just eaten a big, greasy chicken sandwich. Both of these things would work against me.

Immediately after my departure, I noticed that lunch was sitting heavy in my stomach like a beer-battered cannonball. I had sat just long enough at the restaurant for my legs to tighten up again. This was mile 35, and I was convinced that it would be the worst mile of the entire trip. This was later disproved.

Highway 136 West was calm. My body didn't feel great about things, but slowly; the sun loosened my muscles, and my intestines went to work on an evil chicken sandwich. By mile 44, I was turned onto Highway 39 and I felt fresh again. I started to go to town on my water bottles and found little ways to relieve the pressure that had built up in the previous hour. (Infer what you must.)

The road was quiet, peaceful, and clean. The wind blew softly; always at my back. I remained on the shoulder through Lebanon. I was forced to a longer-than-expected stop by a number of emergency vehicles squealing the other direction. I covered my ears in the fashion of a small child.

Lebanon came and went, and after a Clif Bar, I found myself turning onto US-52, a little used four-lane highway. Through Boone County the road was rough; the shoulder not even serviceable. Cars stayed away; after all, there was more than enough room for all of us. Still, potholes and cracks were unavoidable. I worried once that I had blown a tire. Moments later, a still-smooth ride helped to assuage my fears.

52 left Boone County into Clinton, and the road underwent a radical transformation. Rough and cracked concrete was replaced by smooth, seamless stretches of road. The ride had become ideal. Straightforward, holding at 18; I climbed tiny hills and coasted through tinier valleys. Miles 68-97 were barely noteworthy.

Then something changed. Mile 97 sucked. As an Indiana boy, I am aware that my next statement has little meaning to anyone from anywhere else in the world: Mile 97 was the most intense climb of my life -- It would have been a challenge at mile 4. I watched cyclists - who certainly appeared to be in better shape than myself - dismount to walk this hill. And as far as ratification of the Century goes, walking is cheating.

I did not walk. I climbed the hill hard, then slower; finally dropping to nine miles-per-hour before achieving the summit. Now, I was close, and thank God for that.

I rolled into my destination at 99.2 miles, explained to my friends that I would be riding around the block now, and tore off with a vigor that I did not entirely expect. I returned a moment later, triumphant; The Century complete.

I rushed into a shower so brief that I hadn't finished sweating by the time it was over. Then it was on with the day. After all, the most impressive accomplishments are the ones that cease to be a big deal and instead become commonplace.

Soon, this will be just another day.