Sunday the Rutgers crew came out in force, this time for a hundred plus miles of pre Super Bowl masochism. Spirits were high from the prospects of the temperature breaking freezing for the day. College Ave. was deserted when we met to leave. The whole campus is ours at this hour. There was agreement to keep the stopping to a minimum. We needed to get back in time to join the rest of the Heartland in the gluttony and general excess necessary for football watching. Like a skinny, silent motorcycle gang, we rolled onto College Ave. proper taking up both lanes. There were no cars, but we looked fearsome enough that it didn't matter. So many people in matching Rutgers kits earns more than the usual respect from the cars.
A few miles down River Road Ricardo flats, changes the tube, and flats again. So much for luck with the stopping! He decides his tire is not wont for this journey, so we leave him behind and press on. In the time spent changing the flat, Joe, Jay and I managed to ride 1.3 miles in circles on a side street. Take that, century.
The action begins when we climb the hill before Frenchtown. The long hill gives everyone a chance to overheat within the windproof confines of many layers. Chris takes a decisive sprint at the top of the climb, while the rest of us roll in throughout the ensuing 5 minutes. Don goes up the road to film some overly grainy footage for his documentary. We make it to Frenchtown and try to have hasty coffee, pastries, and bathrooms. This is impossible with so many clowns crammed into such a small clown car.
Leaving Frenchtown the sun shines and the layers begin to come off. We keep good time as we cover the flat miles along the river and enter the second climb of the day with big rings a roaring. We pass a recreational rider on the climb at a furious pace, no doubt looking like a bunch of showoffs. Sorry, dear rider friend, this fury has been brewing for miles before we saw you. I lead the stampede. with Chris, Coach Ken and Don clinging to me. Chris manages a second win, paying me back for nicking him on the line last week. The hills never forget.
After a quick water fill at the gas station, we get to the mile of dirt road in the century route. With ice melting under the afternoon sun, the road is ugly. Real ugly. Unable to decide the proportion of ice, mud and gravel beneath my tiny tires, I fall to the back and tripod the winding swamp decent. The rest of the team takes the ice with impressive (some might say foolhardy) speed. It is quickly clear to your roadie author why Rutgers is the three-time ECCC cyclocross champs. Something about the icy slush on their backsides makes the these guys right at home (or so I imagine, as the team is now far out of my sight).
We enter the "dark hours" of the century with plenty of time to spare. By this time each rider is battling personal demons. Chamoix are out of place, butts are sore, legs are fading. We still manage to assault the Landing Lane hill with prideful stupidity. If anybody has life in their legs, this does the job of emptying it out. The utter lack of any desire to pedal means we are finally home.
...just in time to watch the real athletes on TV.
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