40 miles per hour downhill, orangey brown leaves that have blown down off the early Autumn trees stick to my tire and slap against the frame of my roadie as they fling free of the wheel and the road. The skies are pitch black from cloud cover and they open up with an unimaginable rainfall so heavy that I feel as though I may drown in rivulets that flood my skin, inseparable from my own salty precipitation. My breathing is labored, I have just climbed a long steep summit and am now rocketing down the other side, catching my breath and angling my wheel gently into the turns as not to cause a skid on the beautiful yet slippery felled leaves that cake the asphalt. How did I get here? Let me back track a few hours...



BUZZ... BUZZ... BUZZ... The alarm goes off, it is 5am. My autopilot kicks in and gets me clothed and ready. I look out the door of my hotel room. The roadway is flooded with 3 inches of water, the rain falls from the sky in a torrent as if the sky were one large waterfall this early morning. At the base of it lies the quiet town of Perryville, MD. from which this ride will commence. I think to myself, "There is no way they're going to have us ride out in this". Just then an excited crew member walks up and states, "Breakfast is ready in the lounge area, better eat up, you're going to need it for today's ride"

I wheel my bag off to the gear truck and stroll into breakfast. There are many riders there already, preparing oatmeal and bagels, carbing up for a long day of spinning. Everyone is cheerful and excited to ride. Fast forward a few hours... or is it days?

To persevere and not submit to the weather's assault, I must dig deeply so that the elements can not touch my inner self. Because this is where I must live for three days, the ride blurs together in a fog of memories as dense as the blurred vision through my water soaked eyes. It will become a conglomerate of unique and memorable moments, flotsam and jetsam following the tide...



...I am following black arrows on yellow road markings that I can see only vaguely. They steer the way for me to get from point to point... give me warnings for steep climbs, turns and hazards. I am riding behind a tall, lanky rider, mounted on a bike with long tubes and equipped with aerobars. He is wearing a bright yellow rain poncho. It slaps and crackles as the wind whips at its excess material. Water and grime stream off of his wheel in a fantail. We trade off who is in front and back. Many miles wash away. We are silent, the wet peeling sound of the wheel's revolution as it comes off the road is the only break in the viscous silence.



...The cut of her calves and her lean muscular form speaks to the belief that this isn't her first bike ride. She smiles as I pass - she bubbles with youth and vitality. Later in the day I am weary. I have been riding alone for many miles... The cold has robbed me of energy and the snap in my muscles... my legs are cramping miserably... She rides up to me, her pace is strong - I fall in behind. Her vigor and resolve tow me up the hills for fifteen... perhaps, twenty miles... Over the course of these miles she jokes, sings and names the hills, even though I am in agony, I am still enjoying the ride. Her energy infuses in me and propels me over each new hill... she does not realize her gift to me... I cherish it.



...A smile carves its way across my face, for the first time in thirty-six hours, the rain has stopped long enough for me to take deep breaths. My nostrils taste the sweet oaky country air. Ever since lunch, where I squeezed in next to a few blokes to share the heat of a crackling campfire, I have been traveling through the back roads of Pennsylvania with Bob. Bob is a pleasant, kind natured gentleman whose son talked him into doing this ride at his retirement party. He was also my roomie the first night of this adventure and by the end of the day we'll have ridden around 50 miles together. He atop his Ciocc and me astride my Raleigh. We both admire Day Two's scenery which happens to be the best of the three days.



Crayola colored leaves, rushing streams with shale beds, gorgeous fields that stretch as far as the eye can see, deer and other wildlife and of course hills that climb forever, all these become the backdrop for our ride in to the finish of Day Two...



...I come to another rider who labors to climb a steep hill. I look at her gearing from behind, she has lower gears to shift to. Yet, she doesn't downshift. She's new to cycling and possibly doesn't know that she's wearing herself out by not using the mechanical advantage of the gears. I suggest shifting to a larger cog on the back. She explains that she is saving the last few gears in case the hill gets steeper. I explain that she is hurting herself in the long run by working too hard on less steep hills. She shifts down and spins easily up the hill like a swan gliding on the surface of a lake. At dinner she stops by to thank me for the advice, saying that she feels much better after shifting more during today's ride...

All of us huddle together in our Victory shirts. We have crossed 5 states, close to 275 miles and we've ridden over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan together. We've all become friends and we chat about the three days past. It's time to roll out for the final ride together. We'll be cruising through NYC with motorcycle escorts closing streets as we pass through. Our final destination is the soccer field where "our kids" play and learn. They know we've done this all for them. So, when we ride up onto the field, the children scream and cheer. They put their hands out to shake our's and high-five us as we pass them for the lap that will take us around the soccer field. I am filled with a sense of accomplishment. Accomplishment that is vastly different from that which follows the "usual" long ride...