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!
