100 Miles

Brandon Figliolino

100 Miles

February 19, 2018

            It was the last Saturday of June 2016. I had spent the past five hours with my butt on the saddle and my feet clipped-in to my pedals. My face was burnt from exposure to the sun, and my arms were caked in layers of sunscreen and insects. I hydrated myself with water and Gatorade, snacked on granola, apples, and lots of bananas. I relieved myself in hot, stench-ridden portable toilets. My bicycle and I shared the road with hundreds of other cyclists. My Instagram was updated frequently with spots I had visited: Erie, Niwot, Hygiene, Masonville, to name a few.

            It was the annual Colorado BIKE MS 150 ride, and I was having the time of my life.

            Having participated twice before, I was now a seasoned rider. I had cruised along at a great pace—the 500 miles of training that spring served me well! So far that day, I pedaled 60 miles, through the dreaded Horsetooth Reservoir, which had been a pain-point for me the previous two years. Horsetooth begins with a steady, long incline, before turning into steep switchbacks. It’s miserable, really.  

Despite the adversity that Horsetooth brought me, I made it down the hill. Gaining speed, I clamped my handlebars tight, and let out a triumphant roar.

My stride that day came with a choice. At the foot of Horsetooth, the road forked. Two electronic signs directed cyclists. To the right, we could beeline to the Fort Collin’s finish line, bringing our ride miles to 75 for the day. Cyclists who chose to turn left would add an additional 40 miles to their ride.

For obvious reasons, I veered left.

“Alright,” I said to myself. “Our first century. We’ve got this, right Caden?” I looked down at my bicycle.

He didn’t respond.  

The first year I participated in BIKE MS, I foolishly rode a mountain bike that weighed 30lbs—I could hardly ride the 75 miles before the sun began to set, let alone ride anything more than that.

I can’t remember why I didn’t ride the century my second year. Maybe I was being lazy and just wanted to rest with a beer. It was over 85 degrees that day, after all.

2016 was going to be my year! I was pumped. Nothing was going to stop me from hitting the goal I had just set for myself two minutes prior.

Then the road wrapped right back into Horsetooth. Uphill. Even steeper than before.

Well, shit, I thought out loud.

I jerked the bicycle into a lower gear. And then another. And another.

“Ugh! Why can’t I move?” I muttered to myself.

I couldn’t see any cyclists ahead of me. I looked over my shoulder. Two cyclists turned left, but a dozen others turned right.

Maybe they had the right idea.

At this point, I was crawling, my mojo gone.

As the two cyclists approached me, I did my best to maintain my breathing; there’s nothing more embarrassing than wheezing in front of other people.

“W—wow, this—is a—lot hard—er than I—thought,” I mentioned when they passed.

“Keep your eyes ahead of you and don’t stop. You can do it,” one woman said between deep breaths.

“Th—an—k—s,” I heaved.

Then they were gone. I was left alone. That’s when it started to rain.

I looked up to the sky. “Really? What’d I do?”

During my ascent up Horsetooth, I hadn’t noticed the congregation of heavy rain clouds overhead. They greeted me with pelting rain and blurry vision.

“I can’t see!” I shouted, to no one in particular.

I pulled off to the side of the road—exactly what the cyclist warned me not to do. I took off my sunglasses and stuffed them into my jersey pocket before pedaling onward; it made it easier for me to wipe the rain out of my eyes. With no one around, I decided to motivate myself by muttering profanities.

It made me feel better.

Forty minutes later, I descended Horsetooth, cheering and pumping my fist in the air.

“Take that, mountain! You ain’t got shit on me!”

 The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung overhead.

“Quit being a tease,” I shouted to the sky. “Either rain or get lost, clouds!” I hoped Mother Nature wouldn’t call my bluff; I was soaked, cold, and yearned for the sun’s warmth.

The next stretch of road smoothed out amongst farmlands and pastures. I didn’t see any cars, any other cyclists, or people.

“What up, cows!” I said on more than one occasion. All were too busy to moo in reply.

With the most challenging portion of the route completed, I steadied my pace. Each year I’ve participated in the ride, there were so many participants squished into bike lanes that I began to appreciate the absence of everything but my bike, my thoughts, and the surrounding countryside. Only yard signs with large, black arrows reminded me I was heading north and not any other direct. Mile after mile, there weren’t even volunteers to clap for me or cheer for me or tell me I was awesome.

I started to miss their cowbells, but not that much.

I arrived at a rest area. There were half a dozen cyclists mulling around the snack table. A volunteer wearing a bright orange shirt approached me before I could dismount.

“Hey, man! Congratulations; you’re almost there,” he said with a beaming smile.

“Well, thanks,” I said. “It’s been a little wet.”

He chuckled and pulled something out of his pocket. “We give these out here, but don’t celebrate yet; you still have ten miles to go before you can grab a beer and a shower.”

I extended my hand. He dropped a small round felt patch into my palm. It reminded me of the patches I earned—nay, tried to earn—in Boy Scouts many years ago when I thought it would be helpful to learn how to tie knots and camp outside.

The patch had a yellow border and blue background. The words 2016 BIKE MS CENTURY took up a majority of the space inside the circle.

“You can sew it onto your jersey when you get home,” the volunteer said.

“Thanks! I will definitely do that.” I waved him goodbye and gave the pedals two small strokes and rolled into the parking lot. I found a vacant spot of grass and dismounted. I rubbed the patch between my fingers, feeling the embossed letters brush against my fingertips. The volunteer told me not to celebrate prematurely, but I didn’t care.

This was an Instagram moment.

Thunder clapped overhead. Fearing the ride marshals might close the ride route before I could reach the finish line, I stowed the patch in my backpack, dashed to the row of portable toilets to relieve myself one last time, and was back to pedaling in minutes. I rode solo, and with a renewed sense of accomplishment, I pushed myself to go faster. Within forty minutes, I entered Fort Collins. The clouds had started to dissipate—in typical Colorado fashion—and I could see a few cyclists up ahead. They pedaled towards another pair of electronic signs. Century and Century + 20 miles flashed with arrows in different directions.

I was close enough to the cyclists to hear one of them scoff. “I just went 100 miles! Now they want me to go another twenty? I don’t think so!”

Her friend laughed and I silently agreed. I committed to 100 miles, not 120. My legs were beginning to spaz and if I went any further I might tip over into the fetal position forever.

I reached Colorado State University and slowed down. Passing a statue of their mascot, a large Ram, I cheered, “Go Buffs!” mostly because no one was around to boo at me or flip me off.

I rounded a corner and saw the finish line posts, with volunteers and ride participants flanking each side, screaming wildly as pop music boomed from the speaker system. I waved and cheered back at them, and when I crossed the threshold, I burst into tears.

I opened my phone’s fitness app and ended the workout at 101 miles.

Riding a century is not easy, even for someone who is slender and has practice riding.

I earned that patch, and the beer that followed!

For 2017, I was determined to repeat my success by riding the century again. Unfortunately, I missed the cutoff time by five minutes. For safety reasons, the ride marshals wouldn’t let me go left. I begrudgingly turned right, but I didn’t let that defeat me. When I approached the finish line, people still cheered for me, they still clapped for me, and they still told me I was awesome by clanging their cowbells while singing to a Katy Perry song that played over the speaker system. My ride, albeit shorter, still made a difference. My fundraising for MS still made a difference. I still made a difference, regardless of how many miles I pedaled.

On a whim in 2016, I rode a century. In 2017, I rode 991 miles. For 2018, I’m planning on doing both, and then some. With a positive attitude, confidence in myself, and a lot of sunscreen and bicycle tubes, I know I’ll be in for some great adventures.

For 2018, I have decided to explore more of Colorado (and possibly another state!), so I will not be riding in the Colorado MS 150. I encourage you to support my teammates, the RawHinies by clicking here. Hinie ho!