D2R2: The Mystery Ride and the Implosion of Shad: Part IV

Under way again

We stopped at a convenience store about ten miles after leaving lunch. Almost as soon as we'd set out from lunch I'd been desperate for something cold, something carbonated. It was weird. I lusted for an ice cold ginger ale, preferably in a bottle, preferably from one of those antique soda dispensers where the bottles were all laid on their sides and you opened a glass door and yanked the bottle from its metal cradle and then popped the bottle top on the opener affixed to the dispenser. I desperately wanted to chug an icy soda in a glass bottle from 1972.

Instead, I selected a Ginger Ale infused with high fructose corn syrup in a 16 oz plastic bottle from a wall of beverages in an industrial walk-in refrigerator at a gas station, and Nut and I shared it, standing with our bikes against the shaggy stand of arborvitae at the far edge of the scruffy parking lot. I also bought more water, COLD water. We refilled our water bottles, we reviewed the route ahead and promised ourselves that we were on target for a respectable finish even though we had a long way to go with several savage climbs to come and it was already getting on toward 2:00.

We arrived at East Rd in good spirits. I'd eaten the meditation and concentrated 
on my pedal stroke, concentrated on how my legs worked in tandem with instructions from my head, and everything started to seem do-able again, like this insane enterprise wasn't that insane after all and that stout lads like ourselves could rise to the occasion and, with the proper attitude, summon the requisite karma & just the right amount of energy to get the job done. 

The slopes of Berkshire East

In fact, circumstances were vaguely reminiscent of 2013 when a small group of riders, confident in their motion forward, had breezed by us en route to East Rd, and how we'd eventually caught them and dispatched them one by one. Today, when a clutch of riders had been with us and then gone ahead, I caught myself wanting to show them what Team Shad was all about, I wanted to school them in the Myth of Shad, so after climbing up the first stretch of pavement and coming to the left turn onto dirt-surfaced East Rd, I thought "Okay, Dubstoevsky, time to get it done."

Except it was different from how it was three years ago. I was different. 

Hell, everyday is a new day and any yesterday's performance, while a valid mile marker at the time, doesn't guarantee that on any other given next day you'll accomplish the same feat, or that your body will react in the same tireless manner. It's a day to day thing. A moment to moment thing.

Wing Nut solo'd off the front. I kept him in sight. We passed a rider, then another rider. We entered a long empty space devoid of other cyclists, we were alone, we were Team Shad grinding our competition down, grinding upward, always upward, forward, forever forward, the next summit was just ahead, just around the corner, we were on the cusp of triumph, despite our limitations.

On East Rd

Then I heard a loud snap, a SHOT, like a rock hitting something that pinged. And in an instant I knew I'd broken a rear wheel spoke. And just as instantly I told myself "it was just a rock" and kept on pedaling. And then the spoke jammed into the derailleur and that was that. 

"Nut!" I shouted. He wasn't far ahead. I'd almost brought myself back to him when the spoke went. Utter fucknatty. "NUT!" He looked back, turned around and rode back down to me.

We evaluated the situation. It was bad. We were far, far gone on the Mystery Ride. It was almost 3:00 in the afternoon. Forty miles from the Big Tent where the beer was. Where everything was.

Wing Nut, a chevalier of the First Order, realized what had to happen. In his mind, it must have been bitter to consider. This, his 13th CONSECUTIVE D2R2, would end with a DNF. Did Not Finish. Double fucknatty. And not by any fault or failure or weakness of his own.

We agreed. He would abandon the Mystery Ride, he would take the most direct way possible back to D2R2 HQ in Deerfield, to the big meadow where our cars were, and he would get his and come to Dubstoevsky's rescue. His phone was in his car so in the unlikely event I should finagle a ride to Deerfield, I should text him (yes, I had my phone with me), he would check for texts and voicemail as soon as he got to his car.

He suggested it would take him at least 45 minutes. I assumed an hour, maybe 90 minutes, though I wasn't too clear on how far he would have to ride. He wasn't sure which way to go either. The most direct route would involve dirt roads; would a more round-about way on pavement be faster? He wasn't sure and though I knew where he was going, I didn't have a clue as to the best way to get there.

What we both knew was that at the top of the climb was Forget Rd and that to the right not a quarter mile up, just passed the well-tended 19th century graveyard, was Side Hill Farm, the makers of the maple yogurt that I eat almost daily. Nut said that he'd pick me up there.

I took the Side Hill Farm yogurt connection as a positive omen. Even though Team Shad had bottomed out, the way forward was already beginning to reveal itself. 

Still, it was a sad moment. With stoic Shadian resignation, we said little. Then off Nut went on his mission of mercy, steadily moving up the still-mile-to-go-East-Rd-climb and gradually out of sight.

Part V
Part I