Onwards to the Concurrence of our Ramblings

July 26^th, 2007

Chicago, Illiniois

Dear Mr. Greenfield,

It is with great joy I receive your letter of July 6, 2007. I pray your travels across the Northwest Territory have continued unabated and you should not run afoul of savages or road agents.

My own arduous journey across the prairie and back shall take place on Sunday July 29, 2007. I shall depart the beach-house at North Av. at the stroke of midnight. It is my sincerest desire to gaze upon the great Mississippi river and yet return to the beach-house before the witching hour, achieving 275 miles within the 24 hour mark.

Again, our agreed upon rendezvous should be lunch at the Blue Café, located at 321 Main St., Savanna IL, at 12 noon.

I shall expend much effort to keep our appointment but must fair warn you of the considerable variables which may have some effect on my estimated time of arrival.

Firstly, fatigue. I expect I should ride stronger for the first half of the ride than the later half, perhaps arriving as much as an hour earlier and leaving myself an hour more for the noon-time dinner and return ride.

Secondly, wind-field. The predominant patterns are westerly; should I find myself in the teeth of a severe head-wind, it might delay me as much as 2 hours. Contrary-wise, such a tailwind might advance me by just as much.

Thirdly, other atmospheric conditions. I may be delayed by rains, hail or extreme heat.

Therefore, should I not appear at the prescribed time, I encourage you to embark upon your own journey in the hopes that our paths should cross at a later point(s).

In addition to the above, you may wish to consider these other factors:

Route. In the interest of expediency, IL 64 will encompass the entirety of my route. This design will limit wrong turns, time spent studying maps and encounters with road surfaces not suitable for bi-cycles. Unfortunately, these same qualities render this roadway appealing to motorists.

Speed. My strategy involves a 14mph overall cruising speed and 4 hours worth of intermittent rests. You may find this pace unappealing.

Cargo. I shall be carrying only the essentials of tools, provisions and outerwear. My load contrasts heavily with your own burden of a full-capacity, cross-country tourist.

None the less, I look forward to our encounter and rally you to our engagement on the banks of the Mississippi.

Fraternally yours,

T.C. O’Rourke

--- John Greenfield wrote:

> Meeting up in Savanna at noon on Sun. 7/29 will work

> perfectly.

> I'll try to ride at least part of the trip home with

> you.

>

> Cheers,

>

> John

Back in the Saddle Again

I had a big day planned of Sunday, July 1st. 150+ miles and several fabulous destinations, but I couldn’t get to sleep. Excitement, I expect. Getting up absurdly early Sunday has become a regular occurrence, but it seems odd to call being on the road at 7am a late start.

WTTW did a program once about IL 1. They drove from downstate to Chicago, covering the spectrum of our state, from the bookwavers to the Pride parade. Having missed the television broadcast, I decided to do the next best thing: check it out for real.

I shot out of the city on Halsted St. Greektown, the new cookie cutter Maxwell Street, elderly Asian ladies shielding their faces from the sun with baseball caps in Bridgeport. A quick photo at the Stockyards. Englewood. West Pullman. And over the Little Calumet.

It felt good to be back a-wheel.

I didn’t see Archie and the gang in Riverdale, but I got caught by a freight train for 15 minutes. Competing varieties of gospel music blared from the open windows of the queued cars.

My route would take me near Glenwood and Mt. Glenwood cemetery, final resting place of Marshall "Major" Taylor. He seems to be enjoying a renaissance as of late, with numerous articles in publication recently and the “official” (ie final) opening of the south side trail bearing his name. I had neglected to note it’s location and with the mileage on the plate today I was sure he’d forgive me for not visiting.

“But what if it was just around the corner?” I thought, making a sudden left on Volmer Rd. The name “Glenwood” wasn’t on the map, so how big could the town be?

I asked directions of the gents manning the recycling drop off center, where people motor over their trash to feel like they’re “environmentalists.” The cemetery was only a half mile away, but on the other side of the forest preserve, requiring a 4 mile loop north. No problem. I followed their instructions, but could not recall the final street in the series and guessed wrong, ending up south of where I started on Joe Orr Rd.

Heading further east to take another pass, I turned north on Cottage Grove. Correct street, wrong cemetery, aptly named “Assumption”. Undeterred, I pressed on.

I asked a municipal worker near Jurgensen Woods. He could cite no street names, just navigation via landmark: the traffic light, the tracks, the bridge. I disregarded the road closed signs on Thorn Creek and the rocks in the exposed roadbed grew from fist size to head size. Eventually I was ‘out of the woods’ and into Thornton. A quarry seemed an unlikely neighbor to a cemetery, but a quarter-mile later, there it was.

“Worlds champion bicycle racer who came up the hard way without hatred in his heart, an honest, courageous, and God-fearing, clean-living, gentlemanly athlete. A credit to his race who always gave out his best. Gone but not forgotten.”

The plaque was installed in 1948 by a group of retired racers and the Schwinn Company. They also exhumed and relocated his remains from a pauper’s grave.

The excursion had added 12 miles and killed over an hour and a half. I tired of the traffic on Halsted, so I took the back-roads to check out the Thorn Creek South Trail. The pavement went from bad to worse to non existent so I bailed and jumped on the CBF recommended route southbound. Soon the smell of burning leaves marked my exit from civilization.

It was about 11am and I’d done 50 miles, but I should have done 70 with the tailwind I was enjoying. Now off the CBF map, I checked out the IDOT bike map's recommendation, Western Av., which was flanked by cornfields. The previous day Daisy and I had accompanied my friend Ruth Welte for a few miles as she walked the length of the city on Western Av. for an upcoming feature in Time Out Chicago. It will be interesting to see if she encountered any agriculture.

I backtracked to Ashland which was vastly more pleasant. (I’ll never understand those folks at IDOT.) I made my way south through the street-per-mile grid, on other north-south streets also bearing their familiar city names until the Will-Cook county line. I slowly gained on a cyclist in the distance.

His name was John, of University Park, employed in Morris at a Coal Burning Power Plant, to which, once in a great while, he commutes by bike. Much of the ride is I&M Canal Trail. He said at times the insects are so thick along the stagnant canal, he wears a head net.

John accompanied me for a while, guiding us to the better roads and even being sport enough jog over to Momence, where he used to play country music at the Budweiser Inn. I went looking for provisions while he soaked his feet a bit in the Kankakee River. We then doubled back along the scenic river road, doing another 10 miles before parting ways at Aroma Park, just outside of Kankakee, home of former Governor George Ryan.

From Chicago, Kankakee is 55 miles as-the-crow-drives. I had budgeted 60 miles of my 150 for the day. When I hit town I was at 95. Given that my tailwind would soon be a headwind, I knew there would be hell to pay for my earlier indiscretions.

Regardless, I have sworn to eat only quality vittles on these trips from now on, so I set about finding a proper eatery. Two good looking diners downtown were closed. I just couldn’t abide the hot dog stand that served no fries. The DQ served only iced cream. Pizza by the slice, closed. Another fantastic looking home cooking joint, closed. Another location of the fri-less hotdog franchise.

I was getting dizzy, tired and crabby when I happened upon JR’s Chicken. The girl was mildly rude, the sides small and I wished I’d noticed the buffet before I’d ordered carry out, but the fried chicken was truly stellar.

Fully sated I began trekking northwest along the river, to my next destination: Kankakee River State Park. Once there I jumped between the crushed limestone trail and park roads, checking out various campgrounds. Quite a nice park. After a few miles the 10 mile trail became paved and I followed it to its terminus.

Reviewing my trip, I see that there is also a KRSP just across the Indiana border. Damn. It would have been pretty cool to hit them both, but I was already in over my head.

Next up was my attempt to connect with the Wauponsee Glacial Trail. The IDOT map showed it as ‘proposed’ reaching the Kankakee River, as do the Will county maps. I now know it extends further south than the ‘existing trail’ is shown, but I was unable to locate it and ended up taking route 53 through Wilmington to my next and most exiting destination: Midewin National Tallgrass Prairie.

Midewin is the former site of the Joliet Arsenal, 19,000 acres of land fenced off during WW II, the land to keep the general public away from the production of TNT. To give you an idea, an explosion in 1942 killed 40 workers and broke out windows in downtown Aurora— 30 miles away.

I arrived at the park headquarters only to find it closed, but with enough employee presence as to prevent my typical fence hopping. I backtracked to South Arsenal Rd. and headed east, encountering one locked gate after another. Finally, I rolled up on locked gate with two dudes on mountain bikes on the inside looking out. At a debriefing, I learned that the south section of the park was no longer open to the public. They helped me slip my bike under the fence and we rode a bit chatting about the park.

To be clear, there isn’t much prairie at the Tallgrass Prairie. Much of it is leased as farm land, there’s some industrial development, a landfill, numerous small cemeteries and the munitions plants and bunkers. None the less it is an amazing place and I took numerous photos of the aging structures and weed choked roads during my unfortunately brief ride across it.

It was now about 8:45pm, sunset and I had 145 miles on my legs. It was time to get serious. I wrote out a detailed route, donned the reflective vest, fired up my five lights and hit the unsigned road.

Some months back my friend Shawn Greene gave me a few Songs: Ohia recordings. It took a few listenings before I got into them, but I had the song “The Farewell Transmission” repeating in my mind all day, its lyrics becoming increasingly personal:

The real truth about it is
my kind of life's no better off
If I've got the maps or if I'm lost…

I didn’t start out from where I thought, so I guess I wasn’t on my route to begin with. No matter, I remained on a northeast course, left-right turning until I found my streets. Road construction forced me to quickly abandon the route (I’d learned to heed the road closed signs.) Fireworks shot up to the left and right, like coded signals between parties miles apart.

I took a short spin on the Old Plank Road Trail, which I had intended to follow in its entirety before overextending my mileage forced me on a more direct course. I’ve done portions of the OPRT in the past; it’s wide, paved the full length and the cross streets signed. It passes through some nice wetlands and suffers only the occasional road crossing. It was nice to get away from the numerous oncoming idiots who felt the need to illuminate me with their high-beams.

The real truth about it is
there ain't no end to the desert I'll cross
I've really known that all along…

I exited the trail and rolled up on a series of Lincoln highway strip malls. By some miracle, one of those Republican Gubernatorial Candidate franchise iced-cream shops was open late, where I purchased another food item I’d been seeking: a malt. Outrageously priced at $5, it was pretty damn good.

My good fortune continued finding the next street in our series, Wolf Rd. at the first intersection. 108^th was another casualty of road construction so worked my way up Wolf to the vast, pitch black forest preserves of Palos, where I hit a pothole so hard the mirror flew off my visor. (I found it in the road before it—and/or I— was crushed by the next speeding motorist.)

Mama
here comes midnight
with the dead moon in its jaws..

171 is the most direct route from the Joliet area, but I opted to pass few nasty stretches of lousy pavement and bad sightlines. The real obstacle, however, is the interchange with the 294 toll-way, Where several lanes of 70 mph traffic cross each other.

I’ve been on some pretty hairy roads in my time, even riding illegally on the interstate, but this exchange is hands down thee most dangerous place I have ever ridden a bicycle.

Fortunately there exists an alternative, albeit a somewhat tricky trespass: Jedle's Pass.

1) Get yourself onto the I&M Canal Trail near Willow Springs.
2) Follow it north until the turn around at the overpass of La Grange Rd. (US 45)
3) Cross the train tracks to your right (northeast) and cut through the trailer park.
4) Ride northeast on Testa Dr., which is a loop through the trailer park.
5) Exit the park 79th St. which runs parallel to 171/Archer.

From here I it was smooth sailing into the city, where I stopped in Garfield Ridge to satisfy one last craving: couple of carne asada tacos.

202 miles for the day, 19 hours out, 15 in the saddle.


T.C.

See all the Ride Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tcorourke/sets/72157600783052907/

See the general route here

Confessions of an Unredeemed Distance Addict

Well, my all-night hijinx appear to have caught up with me in the most bitter of all ironies—the summertime cold. I laid about this past weekend, sleeping and eating, hoping to stave it off, but to no avail. Yesterday was the worst, I feel now as if I am on the mend.

It was first time in 9 consecutive weekends of riding, I went nowhere. Since the 200 KM brevet, I have logged a minimum of 90 and maximum 484 miles (four days) each weekend, totaling 1958 miles. Since Easter, I have averaged 163 miles each week and 202 in the last 9 weeks—the bulk in single outings, the rest in riding to them. None of this includes my 50+ miles of weekday commuting, errands, etc.

Without my weekly excursion, my legs feel listless. I pour over maps, making plans for every weekend through December. I fantasize about quitting my job, selling my house, giving away my possessions and just… riding.

Cold or no, I must wander this weekend.

I have become a mileage junkie.

T.C.

Wetlands Research Project

I decided to take a weekend off.

Yes. A chance to heal up some of the chronic aches that annoy me until mile 50 and the true pains that flare up at mile 200. ‘You will not lose your form in a single week’ I told myself. The round-trip to the company outing at Ravinia Sunday night (06/17) would be 50 miles, more than enough. Yes indeed.

I half believed it all, until I packed a thermos full of coffee. After that, I just hoped the wine and Brazilian music would lull me into a drowsiness that would thwart my crazy plan.

But first was an overdue visit to the Womac/Furlong residence to meet new arrival Hazel.

The Fiestas Puertorriqueñas is in full effect, so I thought I would stoke the fire with some Jibaritos from Borinquen on California Av. in Humboldt Park.

En route, I rolled through some glass at the end of my block and instinctively knew I’d caught a flat, my rear tire is being quite low on tread with my recent surge in mileage. A few blocks later my suspicions were confirmed as the bike sagged around a corner, but I managed to limp along to the restaurant before I needed to stop. I had the duel misfortune of being unable to find the offending shard and breaking the nut off spare tube #1. Hence I started my adventure with only one spare tube —punctured— and a %50 chance of a repeat flat.

I arrived at Karen & Kevin’s with a fried feast: steak, pork and ham Jibaritos; buckets of Arroz Amarillo; Mofongo; Tostones; and cans of Guava juice. Hazel, 2 ½ weeks, hung out in the sling, when Kevin wasn’t performing the “football hold” with her. Karen nursed and dug in the garden.

The only bright side of my second flat was the smug sense of an excellent “bike intuition.” This time around I could find neither the cause of the deflation or even the puncture itself. Kevin gave me loaner tube and I was on my way.

I was running rather late on account of these punctures and abandoned my plan to ride up on the winding North Branch Trail, opting for a speedier and more direct route. I cut over to Pulaski/Crawford to Grosse Point to Ridge and Old Green Bay. I spied a tunnel at Willow Rd. and crossed to the east side of the Union Pacific tracks just in time for the lamest parts of the Green Bay Trail. Someday I will note where all of the suck sections are.

I arrived at Ravinia with 22 miles and coincidentally ran into Mike and Dave. We laughed a bit and discussed the last brevet. Then I moved on to the work picnic, chatting and drinking, noshing, and eying with contempt the significant others of my numerous workplace crushes.

By 11pm I was back on the road, flying past the mile long queue of expressway bound cars on Lake Cook Rd., carefully avoiding the occasional sudden, frustrated U-turns. I was just as relieved not to be corralled on the Metra with the drunken mass of train newbies. If ever there was a time and place for a bike…

I crossed U.S. 41 and opted to avoid the Skokie Valley Bikeway, instead snaking up a series of lesser-streets to Half Day Rd.—what I thought was the southern terminus of the Lake County section of the Des Plaines River Trail. (The trail has been extended south to at least Lake Cook Rd. and I have switched to a more recent map.) Tonight’s goal would be to ride the entirety of this crushed-limestone trail.

After a few miles west on Half Day, I jumped on an east-west sidepath near the river and immediately stopped at two odd structures (scroll down to page 6). Both were log cabin style, lodge like and accessible only from the trail and boarded up tight. The downside of solo traveling is being unable to breach such buildings as this should never be done alone.

34 miles and I was northbound on the trail. I’ve been here twice before, but never reaching the northern terminus. It’s quite pleasant as 85% of the Des Plains is forest preserves, largely due to the river’s shallowness and large flood plain making it unusable for industry. It crisscrosses the river in long, uninterrupted runs thanks to numerous underpasses. My only complaint is the tiny size of the signs posted at the many forks, the ½” lettering requiring a stop at every juncture.

I followed the trail, lights on, winding sharply through dark woods and cutting across cold foggy meadows filled by a thousand fireflies. Some of the bridge underpasses are so low you duck in fear. Loose gravel fills the water-worn grooves on the sloping sections, sending you into a slushy fishtail right when you’re riding the fastest. Despite the dampness, the bike and I were soon covered in a fine white grit.

At one crossing, I spied what was once the world’s largest wooden rollercoaster. You would think I’d be used to this by now, but stumbling across the landmarks of my childhood while cycling thrills me to the core. As a kid, the trip to “Great America” seemed an endless, mind numbing drive. Although I know better the distances involved and an hour of travel is now bearable, the years I spent traversing the suburbs via backseat have left their mark.

It was getting late, but I made minimal stops and kept pressing north. At 2:15 am and mile 66, I reached the trails end at Sterling Lake, less than a mile from Wisconsin. I unwittingly came within feet of tagging the boarder when Russell Rd. curved north, but since following the winding trail is further than riding to the border direct, I have no regrets about not crossing the threshold. Mission accomplished.

Now I needed to make some time. I shot southward on a series of Irish named streets to the east of the river: Kilbourne, Delaney/Delany, O’Plaine, St. Marys.

On stretches near the trail, I started noticing signs prohibiting riding of bicycles 3 or more abreast, one following each innocuous “Share the Road.” It amazes me that a municipality can post a sign chastising cyclists for rude behavior more specific in instruction and in language more stern than the one posted for the dangerous behavior of motorists. Of course, they can’t help the fact that there exists no law dictating a safe passing distance they might cite.

Pulling under a streetlamp I was treated to another odd sight: hundreds of Cicadas, moaning low, crawling and rolling around the pavement. I shot this video, which I cannot figure out how to post here in the blogoshphere. I nearly dropped the camera afterwards while swiping at the bloodthirsty locusts crawling up my legs.

After 6 am and I’m back in the city, repeating the suggested route aloud to keep on course: Canfield to Higgins to Foster to Central to Montrose. I rode all the streets, but somehow in a different order. I think I took California Av. south, getting in just after 7 am.

117 miles for the trip, so you understand why I took the train to work.

T.C.

A Lovely Day for A Bicycle Ride

We last left our hero gloriously having completed 376 miles in less than 38 hours…

I awoke to knocking at the door. 11am. Housekeeping. “Not yet” I managed with some effort. She went away.

I slept about 12 solid hours. I took a long hot shower and moved slowly about the room gathering my things for the next hour. Picked up the greasy wrappers from a less than stellar victory meal. No alcohol sales after 9pm on Sundays, so no hangover.

After a heartfelt goodbye to the Super 8 employees, complete with promises of postcards from Paris, I began my journey… to the Delavan Family Restaurant, where I would have a decent meal (for once.) I opted to read the local-local paper from the preceding Thursday, dominated by the city council meeting concerning the road construction and minute details of the graduating class of 2007. I wouldn’t read the details of the horrific murder-suicide the night before, which had put this sleepy town in national headlines.

1:00 pm and I was on the road to Harvard. I did a careful inventory as I rode: bit of stiffness in my knees and ache in my elbow, some soreness in my hands and feet, but nothing that didn’t work itself out in the 20 miles to the train station.

Checking the schedule, I was dismayed to learn that the next train was 2 ½ hours off. I thought about sitting it out in the tavern or finding a shady spot to read. But the sun was shinning… a light breeze blew from the west… it was just the perfect day…

For a bike ride!

I had been quite concerned about riding 20 miles to the train the day after the 600 KM, but now I must tell you the truth: if I had known just how good I would feel afterwards, I would have saved myself $100 and ridden to the train that evening. Huzzah!

First order of business was procuring a suitable map, which I would find at the first filling station. At the ridiculously large scale of 1 ½” to the mile, it would need to be refolded on the handlebar bag every 20 minutes and could tell a man everything he ever wanted to know about McHenry County. Needless, I used it to wander the county roads, eventually ending up on IL120 and stopping to inspect some Cicadas.

I spun around downtown McHenry, IL a bit, birthplace of my stepmother. From there I jumped on the Prairie Trail, lesser known pathway running from the northern end of the Fox River Trail into Wisconsin and not to be confused with the Prairie Path. This state seems so desperate to name everything after the landscape it totally obliterated.

The last time I rode this section of trail was 2000(?) Back then I did it on a trip to Fox Lake, on a bikes-on-Metra pilot program, when bike access was but a dream.

A short paved section of trail just north of Crystal Lake features some steep rolling hills and sharp corners, riding like a roller coaster.

I got into Elgin and thought about continuing, but the pain in my toes had started to flare up and the dog was expecting me, so I bought some tall boys and boarded the 1^st train home.

74 miles for a lazy summer day.

T.C.

Most Humble Thanks

Before I return you to our regularly scheduled program, "Tomfoolery Towards Paris," I would like to take a moment to express my gratitude to more than a few individuals.

Thanks to all who have e-mailed and called with their support and good natured ribbing. Double thanks to those who have done so via “comments.” I am delighted that so many friends, old and new, near and far, have supported me in my endeavor.

Thanks to Mike at Cal’s for encouragement, advice, goo and keeping me on course in the middle of the night, in rural Wisconsin after 22 hours and 235 miles.

Thanks to Julie & crew (Ben, Ben, Snacks) for sharing hotel costs, the ride up & back, and general support. It was fun hanging with everyone, let us not become strangers!

Thanks to The Great Lakes Randonneurs for organizing a world class brevet series through scenic southern Wisconsin and to all my fellow members for their advice, insights and camaraderie.

Thanks to my riding buddies Lauren, Adrian, Lawyer Jim and Greenfield for accompanying me (or allowing me to accompany them) on rides, be they brevet, midnight rambles or camping excursions.

Finally thanks to all who have watched Daisy Dog in my absence: my roommate Steve; Lawyer Jim; and, most particularly Bob Matter, who has house/dog-sat more times than I can recall— sometimes not even receiving a cold beer or clean towel for his effort. Without their help I could not disappear for days at a stretch to pursue my own warped dream, knowing that the hound is in good hands.

My unlimited Love to you all,

T.C.

P.S. Bad Dog!!

That's SUPER, Randonnuer (but don't let it go to your head)

I kind of forgot exactly which side of Union Station the Van Galder picks up, but I found it with 4 minutes to spare. I loaded my bike into the luggage area, partly for expedience sake and partly hoping not to be charged. It sort of worked, but it’s long story involving driver neglecting to fully close the baggage compartment door until we were outside of Rockford and waiving the $10 bike fee to avoid a paper trial of the blunder, I suspect.

The fare was $25—many times the Metra to Harvard, which zipped passed us as we slowly swam along the traffic of the Interstate. I’ve noticed modern bus lines tend to avoid the downtown areas of all but the biggest cities, stopping instead at odd malls and filling stations on the fringe of town, so I didn’t get to see much of Janesville.

I had stupidly left my Wisconsin Bike Fed map (as well as the CBF map) at home (Rule #1: you can never have too many maps.) I also left the mapquest directions to the motor-lodge on the printer. Regardless, I had plenty of time and it was a loverly day, so I blindly set out on a course parallel to U.S. 14. I decided to make a 5 mile detour to visit Carvers Rock County Park. I didn’t find the “Historic Gravesite” but ended up on some scenic hilly rural roads, where some smart-ass highway workers had worked out the equation pictured right.

After 34 leisurely miles I arrived at the Super-eight. A man stormed out of the office incensed over the high-season rates. Fight the power brother, but I had no alternative but the pay the near $100 per night. I left a note for the organizers at the front desk detailing some road closures, laid about my supercooled room and was asleep by 8pm.

Saturday June 9. Up at 4:45. Showered. Sunscreen and ointments. Registration. Breakfast. Chatted. Stretched. At 6am the 16 or so of us were off.

I paired up with Ken for awhile. “I wonder what the people in these towns do” he wondered aloud as we passed through suburban Edgerton. We speculated on their livelihoods and the local economy. This in mind, I procured some locally produced snack food items at the first checkpoint, Landjagers and strawberry licorice, both rather fresh and excellent.

We caught up with Mike and Dave in New Glarus just long enough to say hello.

In Sauk City I was famished and ate two “hoagies,” rather suspicious looking oval shaped hamburgers from under the heat lamp. This was a major mistake, I felt like puking all through the hills to Baraboo. Finally, I stopped to lie in the grass for a while, in a light sleep even, until Ken caught up.

I rolled into Lodi with the wind at a dead calm and met up with Mike, Dave, Johnny (from Turin,) and Bill. I departed with them dusk was soon upon us. We tripped 186 miles, the halfway point en route to Sun Prairie, where I was quite pleased with myself to have caught up with Jim, Thomas and another rider.

I reapplied the ointment… Ok. I have been less than forward with you until this point, but we must discuss the reality of the leather chamois. It is mandatory that the padding in my shorts be greased in some fashion, to prevent chaffing, so I apply petroleum jelly to them as well as my ‘sit bones’ and other sensitive parts. Hey, if slathering my ass with Vaseline makes me less of a red blooded hetero male, then… uh, well… well it just DOSEN’T ok?

A graduation kegger bonfire beckoned, so sweet the bare shoulder sirens I nearly missed a turn. I rode ahead a bit to trip 200 miles at the 18 hour mark. The same damn bumps jarring the same damn pains on the approach to Edgerton, where the need for warm food reduced us to the MacDonnald’s drive-thru.

Bill was wired on caffeine pills, talking a mile a minute. It was hard to hold it against him, as he had apologized in advance. Mike and Dave (and Ken, somewhere behind us) had all gotten less than 2 hours of sleep the night before, per usual. Myself, I was plodding along wearily, the wrapped haystacks looking like giant pillows. I’d nod off, snap to with a swerve and ride on the adrenaline for a few minutes. We hit the motel, 250 miles in 23.5 hours, an hour-fifteen improvement over the last brevet and another personal best.

The coming of the dawn had helped a bit with the sleepiness, but I decided to abandon my plan to ride straight through, opting for 1 ½ hours of blissful sleep on the conference room couch.

Sunday June 10. The nap made all the difference. I departed with Jim, Thomas and Johnny at 8 am sharp. I didn’t expect to keep up and didn’t, but the roads were pleasant, the weather beautiful and my spirits high.

The route for the last 126 miles traversed entirely new terrain, not far from Kettle Moraine. A few folks had warned me of some hills in the first leg, the largest of which was a steep valley of Sugar River, where I hit 42.7 mph on the descent. The roar of the Cicadas was incredible here, like police sirens, a drum corps and heavy machinery at once.

I ate an omelet sandwich outside the East Troy checkpoint and hit the road fast. Somewhere in the next leg I passed Bill heading back, about 30 miles ahead of me having forgone sleep. He appeared lucid.

At the Whitewater checkpoint, I came across a rider with a broken spoke, tire rubbing the frame. The wheel was a shop loaner and the deep V made the nipples inaccessible. He was a mere 45 miles from the finish, but not planning on going to Paris. “Now I get to go drink beer” he smiled viewing the bright side.

Closer to the halfway point were Johnny, Thomas and Jim on their return. It was all business at the half way mark, the checkpoint in Jefferson. 3 miles back out I encountered Mike and Dave, who had opted for an 8am wake-up call. Some time later I swapped shouts of encouragement with Tom and Alan.

Bluff Rd. was particularly a scenic 8 mile stretch of two lane blacktop, with picturesque farms and Georgian style brick homes. It was here that I broke my longstanding St. Louis to Chicago record of 334 miles in just over 35 hours, tripping a mile over in over an hour less: 335 in <34>

There are numerous variables to consider in comparing the rides. This ride was rather hilly, while that one was almost entirely flat. This was a loop and that was one way with a wind advantage. For this I have trained, for that I just jumped on the bike. Balmy June vs. freezing November. A cat nap vs. no sleep. 30 lb bike vs. 17 lb bike. 27 gears vs. 1 fixed.

Ultimately, I rate the St. Louis ride as vastly more difficult due to simple geometry. A touring bike aims to suspend you in the most comfortable position possible to coax the miles out of your body. Sitting on track bike is the like crouch of a cat pouncing ceaselessly. The fact that I could even attempt an additional 40 miles, was proof enough. The day after St. Louis, I hardly got out of bed. May it stand as my most difficult ride forever and all time.

Back through East Troy, I headed for the hills. I had been riding conservatively all day awaiting them, but they were not as fierce as I had remembered. When I climbed out of the Sugar River Valley I was high as a kite. A warm wind came up behind me, caressing my twitchy legs and adding miles to the speedometer.

My feet were screaming, but I didn’t care; I smelled blood. For the first time in all four brevets, I kicked it into the large chainring. I hung in the drops, head down, sweat steadily streaming from the tip of my nose. 16, 18, 20 mph. OK, OK, OK, was repeatedly spray painted along the shoulder as if the road was crying uncle. I did a 7 mile straightaway in 25 minutes.

7 miles. 4.5 miles. 3.5 miles. Approaching Delavan. I see the giant ocho, there, in the distance. Motherfucking stoplight. I coast into the parking lot and practically into the lobby for my last stamp. 376 miles. Final time: 37 hours and 47 minutes.

I am a Super Randonnuer. I am qualified for P-B-P. I am going to Paris.

T.C.

Additional Photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/tcorourke/sets/72157600368657059/