Day 3: Black Rock State Park to Franklin Delano Roosevelt State Park, New York; about 76 miles and a good 12 inches . . . of rainThere are those days, you know, that you never forget. And for me, there are a few bike rides that remain in my memory like crystal: my first double century; the 145 miles loaded from Villisca, Iowa, to Atchison, Kansas; the ride from Ojai, California, to Santa Maria (Michael and I have only to look at each other and say "Cuyama!"); the ride on Route 1 from San Simeon to Monterey. Those were all rides where I went further or harder or endured more than I ever had done or planned. And now there is the day from Black Rock to FDR State Park.Prior to this day, the heaviest rain I'd ridden in was one day in Ohio, where the terrain was dead flat. It was a classic midwestern thunderstorm with steady, blinding, cold rain and some wind. There were probably tornadoes around. I went about 25 miles to arrive at the next substantial town, and rode into foot deep water on their main street. When my alarm went off at 4:15, the rain had let up. That, at least, was good news. I moved fast while I could. OK's Cascade was accommodating enough to open the breakfast lines early, so we could try to get out before the rain came again. David Kohn, Mike Neuwirth and I ate breakfast at the wet table in darkness broken only by Mike's flashlight. They were setting up big tents to cover the dining area, but they weren't up for us. We went back down to the campsite, where we discovered the water pressure was disappearing as we brushed our teeth. We teased a just-awakened women mercilessly and almost felt guilty about it. The evening before they had shut off the showers for awhile due to a water shortage. They had to truck in water for us. This was too much like the night we had spent at Pinnacles on the California Ride. We managed to finish brushing. Packed our things, took down the tent, carted our things over to our baggage truck and headed for security. It was beginning to barely mist, but there was no real rain. As I took my bike from security, they were handing out paper towels so we could wipe off our saddles. Since there was no hope keeping my butt dry today, I used the towels to wipe my mirror.
They Come Out For Us I hadn't even gotten to the Naugatuck before I had to stop and stow my eyewear, which today was to have been happy yellow. The mist was collecting on them too much and blinding me already. Riding bare-eyed in the rain isn't so bad. Sure, you get lots of mud directly in the eyes, but it gets washed away immediately. Before long I had caught David Kohn on a hill and we rode together for a bit. Less than five miles into the ride we began a long climb up Echo Lake Road. This one went on forever, and was more demoralizing because the mist and clouds kept us from being able to see all of the hill. Some people walked. Eventually there was a top. From there to Pit Stop 1, it was rolling, but no killers. The route paralleled Route 6. There were occasional showers, but nothing too terrible yet. I was wearing my Gore-Tex jacket. Pit Stop 1 that day was in Woodbury and I hung out there longer than usual hoping Michael would catch up with me. I joked with David Kohn and Bill Murphy over carafes of Gatorade, while cleaning my eyewear with paper towels (handed out by that charmer, James). The mist had stopped, so I thought I could wear them — the eyewear, not the towels. Mike Neuwirth walked his bike in with chain troubles and headed directly to the repair van. Michael never showed up, and later he told me that as he mounted his Cannondale T700 that morning, his seat bolt had snapped. He had gone to bike repair (International Bicycle Centers) where they had quickly replaced it — with the wrong size bolt. He rode away, but was plagued by a slowly dropping seat. Finally he fixed it by fashioning a shim from an extra part that he carries for his SPD cleats (Michael definitely carries too much with him). By then he thought he was so far behind me, he decided to blow off Pit Stop 1, which was in a parking lot behind a church, so I didn't see him as he rode past. I continued on newly paved Route 6 out of town. I had rolled up my jacket and put it in my fanny pack, but in less than a quarter mile the rain began to come down hard. I joined the sudden line of cyclists on the side of the road quickly tossing on jackets. Then another half mile or so along, the rain just stopped, or dropped to a mist. We turned right off Route 6 and took a left on Transylvania Road. Besides going through the woods, this road went uphill and brought us the rain again. This was a rural area with frequent ups and downs and lots of wetlands. Just check this list of landmarks in the area:
The road we were on eventually came to a T intersection with River Road, which parallels the Housatonic. Here the State of Connecticut had placed one those damned traffic lights that are triggered by vehicles — vehicles, that is, which contain at least a ton of ferrous materials. River Road was busy, wet and slick, and blind in one direction. And we couldn't get a green light. Some riders ran the red, but I waited until a car came up behind us to trigger the light for us. Then it was not much farther to Pit Stop 2, but first we turned onto "Mile Hill Road." This astonishingly well-named road took us up to the Fairfield State Hospital where Pit Stop 2 was situated. It was not raining right then, so I hung out with Bill Murphy again. He hadn't seen Michael yet either. Across the road schoolkids played soccer on a rugby/football/soccer/whatever field and ignored us something mighty. Not long after leaving Pit Stop 2 (and traversing a really lovely downhill) we hit Main Street in Newtown. Here I spotted a wonderful payphone. It was in a little strip mall, outdoors, but under a roof, and it was not in use! I stopped to call Charles and Dennis in Manhattan to try to make social arrangements for the next day. It was a great feeling after a morning of rain and a couple days of sleeping in the dirt to think of people in their Manhattan homes, comfortably planning a day's events. From Newtown to Pit Stop 3, things blur a bit. The rain really began to come down finally. But here's what I remember:
I Come Out For American Made Artificial Fibers Here at the lunch stop, walking in my Gore-Tex, I found Michael! I got the story on his broken bolt. He introduced me to someone he had met along that morning's ride — and that someone's parents who lived in the area. They had come to stand in the mud and pouring rain just to be sure their son was having a good ride. Today's misting tent had been canceled, apparently. Lunch always came in little white cardboard boxes. I would just go over to the stacks of boxes and look for the vegetarian section. Grab a box and away. Lots of the riders were huddling underneath the trucks, just as we had done the day before. But to me, the idea of scrunching down in a close, muddy place while all soaking wet didn't seem too lunchy. I just stood in the open trying to eat as fast and as much as possible, hoping the box lid would keep my pita dry. I poured on more calories than I had at any other lunch. Then I felt a chill. Told Michael I was leaving and went for my bike. He grabbed his, and we started up again, the rain still pouring down. I had been mistaken. I thought I had been riding in pouring rain. Silly me. How could it have been anything heavy at all when I could still see the horizon, I could tell which way the road went, I could hear cars pass me. It must have been just high humidity. Because after lunch we got RAIN. It was oceans coming down. Literal oceans. I could hear nothing but solid white noise. Sometimes my visibility dropped to less than 100 feet. It was like driving in a blizzard. I could tell we still had hills, but I couldn't see them. Michael was ahead of me, but I couldn't tell how far. For the first time ever I clicked on my taillight in daylight so that other cyclists would see me. Never have I ridden in anything like this. After a few miles I could tell I was hot and sweating because the flavor of the water running into my mouth turned salty. I stopped to take off the Gore-Tex. No sense in being hot as well as wet. Somewhere in here on a tremendous, curving downhill a car passed me doing maybe 40 or 45 mph (it was a 55 mph zone). Right on the tail of the car was one of our cyclists. Absolutely shocking! Of course, as long as the driver never touched his brakes, the cyclist was probably in a pretty safe position. It seemed to take me days to get down that hill, riding the brakes, watching for road irregularities (i.e., potholes), and being aware that we are probably not visible to cars behind us. But at the bottom there was no cyclist smeared across the pavement, so I guess this time the guy was lucky. The rain eased off, becoming just a normal heavy downpour. As we riding here I noticed the rider ahead of me had the quick release on his rear wheel wrong. This could be dangerous, but I thought that trying to stop him there in the rain might be more dangerous. Plus it looked like it had gotten him a couple hundred miles already without mishap. I could now see that Michael was not too far ahead. We could read road signs again, anticipate hills and turns. We could hear cars. Merely pouring rain, how nice! We thought if this pleasant weather would hold, we'd have a fine ride the rest of the day. Rides are built on such false hopes. The falling flood waters returned. Just as before we were blinded and deafened. We could do nothing but watch the edge of the road.
The Empire State Before too much longer in the rain here was Pit Stop 4. We were on a downhill, and entering the pit stop required a sharp right on some gravel and then a sudden steep climb — in the blinding rain. Easy enough, but when I grabbed my brakes I squeezed my rear brakes and the lever went down until it almost touched my handlebars. Rain wears down brake pads like nothing else, because all the sand and grit from the road sticks to the rims when they're wet. I managed to get myself down to a safe speed and into the pit stop. In the pouring warm rain I relaxed. It was no different than being in a warm shower — wearing all my bike clothes and fanny pack. I adjusted my rear brake so that worn as it was, it would still get me to Manhattan safely. Some people were a bit excited that the porta-potties had been delayed by the rain and hadn't yet been delivered to Pit Stop 4. I was able to deal. Some cyclists were huddling under one tent that had been set up. Why, I don't know. They would have to stand there and be hypothermic for hours before this rain would stop. I looked around for the rider with the bad quick release, but couldn't find him. Michael and I headed off again. The road twisted here and there, it went up and down, the solid rain continued. Not too long after leaving Pit Stop 5 the rain began to ease off. The hills began to lessen until we came to roads completely flat. There were a couple of roads where we traveled alongside a reservoir. The roads had very recently been completely resurfaced with perfectly smooth, perfectly black asphalt. The film of rainwater that spread across the road made a perfect mirror. I'd never seen such an effect on any other ride. If I let myself be pulled into the optical illusion, I would be riding on a sheet of plate glass. Under me were trees arching over another biker traveling upside down. It was a wonderful, dreamy illusion that was hard to pull away from. I found the rider with the bad quick release again, and saw that he had made the same mistake with his front QR as well. This didn't look good. I stayed with him. When we got into Pit Stop 5, the rain had completely stopped. I slipped on my charm and pointed out the QR issue. The young man just as charmingly responded that other people on the ride had told him the same thing, but no one had stopped to show him just what they meant. I showed him the amazing magic of the QR. Astonished and pleased, he thanked me and rode on, arriving alive at camp, and in Manhattan the next day. I lingered with Michael at pit five for awhile. Riding in the rain had given me quite an appetite and I ate every Reese's Peanut Butter Cup I could find — those I couldn't find had ended up in Michael's pockets for later. Then we continued on leisurely to the end of the day's ride. It's a great feeling to be on fairly level terrain, to know that all of the big hills are behind you, and to know that tomorrow you would descend to sea level once again. The weather remained a solid gray, with a bit of mist, but no rain. We passed another reservoir and came eventually to one of the most wonderful little bike roads. There was a little stone chapel where we hit a very sudden and sharp climb. You had to anticipate this one or walk. I didn't anticipate well enough, but I didn't walk either. We climbed to a narrow road, only big enough for one car, with stone walls close on both sides. Then we got a long, long, twisty, rapid descent. Some of the riders just let go here. One rider passed me screaming "No brakes!" but I think it was just a joke. For a short bit I could hear a barking dog pacing me on the other side of the stone wall, but I couldn't see him. I didn't worry much since at 35 mph, most dogs tire pretty fast. This was Granite Springs Road just past Quaker Church Road, and I recommend it highly if you're in the area.
Yorktown
We rolled our bikes into the security area, thankful the rain was still holding off. Here they told us that our campsite was a mile away! and that we could wait for a shuttle bus right over there. I saw quite a gang of cyclists already waiting at the designated stop and, relying on our good MBTA experience, Michael and decided to walk to camp — as did many other riders. Thank goodness for my Hollywood SPD shoes. One shuttle van passed us on the way. We also passed an empty parking lot that looked like it would have been a much better location for security. End Of Day 3
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| 1995 California AIDS Ride | 1998 Texas AIDS Ride |