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More than 8,000 cyclists from all over the world were lining up for the annual El Tour de Tucson. By 5:30 am, pro racers, amateur racers, wannabe racers, bike clubbers, and families stood chatting, stretching, taking pictures, and drinking coffee. Some of us would finish in just over four hours. Some would finish in twelve. And some of us would bonk.
I shared stories with Lorene, from Bullhead City as 7am rolled around and the sun came up. Music blared through the loudspeakers. Announcements were made. Off went the starting gun, and the pros took off like their shorts were on fire. The masses began to roll out. The hundred-mile party had begun.
In the first miles, pace lines 30 bikes long were getting longer as more riders were sucked into the draft. "On your left!" they called as they snaked by. Families and locals lined the road, waving and cheering us on.
At about mile six, riders carried their bikes across the first dry wash, clomping their way through the cobbles and sand as the dust rose and air began to warm up. The sound of mariachis cut through the dust, and in another minute, we were back on paved earth, snacking on doughnuts while we emptied our shoes of sand. Arm warmers and tights were strewn all over the road, forgotten in the excitement of the day.
The mass flowed eastward, through the outskirts of town, up and down the saguaro and scrub-covered hills. Horses milled around, shaking off the morning cold, and the smell of bacon and coffee wafted across the road. My pace was slower than last year, but the same as my solo rides at home. I unclipped the computer and put it in my pocket.
By the time I got through the second dry wash at Sabino Creek, through Canyon Ranch, and up the dreaded Snyder Hill, I’d met people from all over the country. Finally, I made it to Fire Station 80, the famous pancake stop, and took my time enjoying every hard-earned bite.
Continuing south through the little cactus-covered hills, the desert was quiet, and beautiful. Without the computer, my mind was no longer doing time and distance equations. Instead, I was enjoying the desert and the day.
Nine hours and 109 miles later, I coasted across the finish line. Slowly, I got off my bike and took off my helmet. Everything hurt.
"Hey! You made it! Congratulations!" Lorene had finished two hours before me, cleaned up, and come back for the barbeque. She walked with me back to my room, chattering about how much fun she had and how she couldn’t wait until next year.
By the next morning, I couldn't wait until next year either. I was already dreaming about hitching up my trailer and heading toward the edge of the map.
October 2, 2014
Sounds fun!