Though I only had a half day today (the afternoon was support van duty), I spent last night worrying that I wouldn't have enough gas to get through my 35 miles. But after a good night's sleep and another Southern Breakfast I felt ready to go. And I did it. We made only one tourist stop this morning: French Camp, an old trading post from the early 1800s. There is a nice little cafe there (that we didn't eat at) and a cute little gift shop (that was filled with stuff that your 80-year-old Great Aunt would love, so we didn't buy anything at). But it was nice to see some cool old buildings, and it allowed for this artsy shot of bicycles on an old fence:
After French Camp, my day was over just a ways down the road at mile 195. But it didn't come easily. One thing I should note, because it has been on my brain most of the week, is that when you are riding the Trace you become acutely aware of each mile marker. Like, you are almost obsessed with it. That's for two reasons. First, we have been taking turns riding in the front of the group, with mile markers noting the order change. So when you are up front, you are looking as far down the road as you can for that little brown marker because it means you get to hang out in back for some recovery time once you get there. Sometimes, you see it, and it turns out to be a stick or something. Not cool, stick. Second, this road is 444 freaking miles, and most of the scenery - while pretty and bucolic and peaceful and all that stuff - is pretty repetitive. There are fields, and trees, and fields and trees, and trees and fields. And that reservoir from yesterday for like 10 miles. When you get on the bike each morning, whether you have the whole day or just a half, you know your distance. So to mark your progress, and to know what you've got left, you count those markers. And each one is a welcome sight.
All of that was a long introduction to the "didn't come easily" part. We were clicking along pretty nicely through the first 25 miles, and then we hit a pretty steep (but short) hill. We got up it, and the ride down it was fun, and by mile 30 I was feeling pretty comfortable and thinking about my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But then, seemingly from nowhere, we got hit with what has been our steepest hill yet. It was short again, but I was down to 7 mph and I was huffing and puffing and cursing myself for ever thinking about doing this ride. It was the only time today that our rider group got separated; I couldn't keep up with Mike and Brandon and lagged a couple hundred feet back. My Garmin data shows the hill pretty dramatically:
On a good stretch of road, and especially in the morning, the mile markers go by on a regular schedule. You can feel the day progressing along and you imagine yourself finishing the ride. But when you get to one of those butt-kicking hills, it's almost like in a movie or something: you imagine the mile marker slipping farther away from you. It seems like you just aren't. going. to. ever. get. there. And you start to feel your crampy legs, and your numb hands, and your squeezed in feet, and your strained back, and you think "I gotta stop. This is over."
But of course you can't stop, and you don't stop. You keep the pedals spinning, and you know that your buddies up ahead are there to help if you need it, and eventually you get to the top. Then you get to ride down the other side. We did that, and we went 38 mph, and it was great. And then pretty much immediately it was time for lunch and I drank a cold Coca-Cola and ate some Fig Newtons and got the keys to the air conditioned van and felt better. Here are Mike and Brandon in the shade they could find:
(We haven't been reading the signs closely but I'm pretty sure "Jeff Busby" was a Native American term for bison. They have like 200 different words for bison.)
My afternoon of driving was uneventful. It allowed me to be a cameraperson, and like the GIF of the group coming to mile 61, I got a nice one of them going from mile 222:
Tomorrow we've got 70 miles to Belmont, Mississippi. We'll go through Tupelo on the way. It's my day for all 70. I will do it. I will get to the End-of-Day Fist Bumps.
We have seen a whole bunch of cyclists out here, and at least three other groups who are riding the whole length of the Trace. And the guestbooks in these B&Bs are filled with dozens of groups that have been here before us. It's a thing that people do. As I count each marker along the way, I am thinking about why.** In the meantime, it's time for some Aleve and bed.
**Note that this seems like foreshadowing and that I am gonna get deep and philosophical on you at the end. But honestly, I don't know. We are having fun, and I am grateful for the time with this riding group, but every day is hard as hell. It's constantly hot, and the road is tedious, and the cycling is exhausting, and at the end of each day we all smell terrible and then have to lug our stuff into the next hotel. There are easier ways to have fun with your friends, right? Are we just proving that we can do it? Is that the point? Do people (not me, I have learned) really love riding bikes so much that they want to do it for 325 miles in a week? I am hoping we'll see.
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