I got ready to do my "longest in my life one day bike ride"---I thought I'd better try it before it was too late. I was in good shape. 1989. I was going to ride from Ann Arbor to Petoskey, MI. I put a rack and 1978 orange nylon Bike Nashbar pannier on my Pro Miyata (1983! on topic!) with all original Dura Ace Aero group. Matching orange nylon handlebar bag on black metal rack for extra water and food. So I got up at 5 a.m. on a Sat and took off in the dark. It was way humid, late summer. On the edge of town a bungie cord that I had on the rack for some reason came loose and got in the spokes and wrapped up the rear derailler and bent it badly. I'd never hurt that bike before that day---in maybe 100 races. I stopped and undid everything on the sidewalk and got ready to turn around and go back and install a new rear der when a truck slowed up alongside me. I looked up to say "I'm OK" and I got a faceful of Mace spray. I didn't know what it was. Two pieces of human-slime just stared at me. I walked toward them as they did it and spit at them without blinking and they drove off. I thought it might be acid or the end of me in some way. I remember I wasn't going to give them any satisfaction. I just stared back and spit and shouted an expletive. Then it started burning and burning. I used my waterbottles to rinse as fast as I could. Then I saw the truck came back the other way. I gave em two middle fingers and that's it. It started wearing off and I rode home and abandoned that day's big idea.
#2 Worst Ride was when I moved from Mich. to Boulder and got ready to go on my first ride with two Pro's I knew there (Detroit transplants). I was an up'n'comer romping up thru the Cat 3's and felt like I was ready for anything. My first ride with the Pro's! Wow! I was so happy and looking forward to so much racing. It was hot summer weather and I'd been driving a couple days straight to get to town from Mich. in time to watch the Coors Classic. We got ready and took off swooping down the bikepath traversing the NCAR hill. There was a couple switchbacks in the trail as it crossed a creek bridge. My front sewup rolled. I slid down and hit the chainlink fence guarding the bridge and fell under it and down into the rocky ravine and creek. I broke the front half of the bike clean off. I was bloody and gashed, but "fine." I got up and we limped back to their house. My first sweet race bike was history---a Nishiki International 1982. I took a lot of gauze to get plugged up. That night we watched a Denver stage. I recall standing by the finish line fence and a fancy couple in white getting all pushy to get a better view. I said "Excuse me" and they shoved into me anyway. Then they looked down and their tennis whites were covered in blood from my various leaks. That was funny. It took me awhile to regain total plunging switchback confidence after that---and too bad coz I'd been a natural but that was a fair setback. What happened was the summer sun softened the sewup glue on my wheels on the roofrack. I also had applied a "Michigan crit dose" which is minimal for the mountains. Doh! From then on I used a half a tube of glue on each wheel---quarter on a rim, quarter on a tire. One whole tube per set.
So my two worst rides never even happened. How about that. That hadn't occured to me til now. I've had a bunch of bonk-rides but those are educational and humorous. OK, they're PURE EVIL, too. Man, I hate being out 50 miles and babbling on no-blood-sugar and having to have someone come out and rescue me: riding at 5mph max effort straining (for all I'm worth) to get to some meeting point.
My worst one of those makes for #3 Worst Ride---but I met a nice guy who bonked also. That's weird. We were the only two to just DIE at the farthest point of an insane 50-mile training-race ride out of Ann Arbor, 1990. It's funny to introduce yourself to someone when neither of you can pronounce words. My girlfriend came and rescued us both. The Big Humor indicator on that ride was a classic: I'm in the race pack jamming along when suddenly I start noticing that the 15 is too hard and the 16 too easy. I laugh! Trapped! --With no-gear to go. I drifted back thru the group and bade farewell to the gang...then found the other guy starting to babble off the back as well. In short order we were both straining to go 8mph.
To me that's always the sign that I'm not in shape and that I'm doomed on a ride: when one gear is too hard and the next easiest is too easy for a given pace. I have to slow down. Yep! --
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Jeff Potter
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