One More Writer

Ugh. Someone buy me a case of BenGay, my whole body aches.

I went riding with a hardcore group of cyclists Wednesday, part of a story I'm writing for the Record about bicycling in northwest Arkansas.

My stats: 92 minutes of riding time. 14.9 mph. 23.2 miles traveled. 25 minutes of stopping.

Yes, you read that right, TWENTY-THREE POINT TWO MILES. Eat that! As for the downtime, what can I say? Getting to the top of a hill is hard work. I was the only rider to stop and rest (actually, I pulled my bike to the side and collapsed on the grass and asked them if they minded if I died right there. They waited for me but did not humor me, and assured me the best way to cure lightheadedness and muscle spasms was to keep riding. I didn't believe them but I didn't really want to be stranded 15 miles from home.

The guys were so nice. There wre about 20 of them, only one woman, and then a Brook, who merits his own class for how slow he was. I kept up the first half of the ride, except when my tire went flat in the third minute of the ride (it only took two minutes to change, thank God for CO2 cartridges and spare tubes.) I was doing fine until we hit hill number four, or maybe five. I was in too hard a gear, pedaled too fast and started hyperventilating. By the next hill I had to pull over, and from then on it was limping my way back.

Did I mention these guys were great? Although the main pack went on, two of them stayed behind with me the whole time as I chugged back. One gave me his spare waterbottle. Another gave me a bottle of Gatorade - which was all he had left to drink. I felt like a loser. But I rode the whole way, except for a 200 foot stretch near the top of the last hill that I gave up on and walked.

Will I be doing this recreationally? My butt says no. I hurt. But it could happen. I'm just glad I had padded bike shorts, or I'd be feeling more pain than your average prison inmate who dropped the soap in the shower.