Actually Philly didn’t extend to much more than the airport and the Avis parking lot leading to the highway system heading for Montgomery County and Blue Bell. Its green and hilly and there are more trees here than Oregon ever dreamed of. Mind you they are a bit smaller, but then so are the potholes in the turnpikes and rural roads. It also happens to be hot, which is bearable. What is not is the suffocating humidity which is as nasty and gross as the people that man the TSA posts at the Philly International airport. Traveling as I do I have seen some real losers in the public sector since 911 but these miscreants take the big prize. Surly, abusive and ever forgetful of others station’s in life let alone where their pay and benefits come from. In five minutes I see them ruin the day of one hispanic woman with four almost identical aged children and one octogenarian gentleman. TSA Philly station operates on bullying the confused with ever rising voices. Appalling, Is all that comes to mind. The city of brotherly love is grossly misnamed if ones impressions are taken from these people… and surely thousands of travelers entering the country from other, less rude and scruffy cultures are no less appalled than I.
But enough of that for now as leaving those environs and entering the leafy suburbs and corn and soya filled fields of Montgomery County it would be difficult not to be charmed or to carry those peoples poison with you for overlong. I am here to ride the third of the Lance Armstrong Foundation Challenges plus help with our roses at the survivors finish line. I am fully enthused and ready to flatten out the 100 green shaded roller coaster miles tout de suite. I check in with the Texas gals, Sally and Becky to make sure the roses are on hand and keeping cool. Building the bike from its assortment of parts in the hard case is second nature now and in short order we are hammering west to take a peek at the prescribed course. Beautiful stone houses with slate roofs are connected to huge vegetable gardens by acres of lawn, beds of brilliant and tall Canna Lilies and here and there the diminished glint of summer dry streams. Everywhere there is a canopy of trees and seldom does a vista open to allow for a view of more than just across this valley and up onto the slopes leading to the next.
Barns dot fields and church spires poke out above Maple, Oak and Hickory while field corn looks withered and parched as it awaits the next rains. This is a quaint, water colored landscape for me far more used to the west’s bold strokes of more harsh coloring. It feels good (if sticky). It looks wonderful and best of all it sounds absurdly, incredibly fabulous. At dead stop or reckless pace the air vibrates and ululates with the sounds of a billion insects. The Crickets and Cicadas absent in the west make hay here in the cloying warmth and jungle like light filtering through broadleaves. It is a most wonderful sound… and all of a sudden it is of nostalgia and much missed. The country roads I speed along are narrow, curvy and undulating. For the most part their surface is miraculously smooth and makes for a comfortable ride… if there is such a thing. The sweat pours off in torrents and a hint of leg cramps is ever present. This humidity is going to prove tough to cope with! I call it a day after an out bound thirty miles or so and head back to my digs knowing this course is far tougher than those in Portland and San Jose. I never would have believed it when flying out here. It turns out that the rolling lands of PA are going to be a far harsher test of me than many a major climb in the west.
Ms.Garmin and I nip back to Philly’s 30th St Station to pick up my eldest, Gavin who has Amtrack’ed down from Albany and his summer job on Lake George in order to spend the weekend with me ( and unknown to him ) to spend the day matching up survivors and yellow roses in the blazing heat, all the while ringing a cow bell and shouting himself hoarse as cancer survivors cross the line to receive a rose. Prior to that however he sits up until 1 AM de-thorning and sleeving them along with the Texans, a couple of lobster quesadillas and a beer. Its up at 6 AM for all of us. Gavin is off to load roses into Sally’s truck and in doing so he bumps right into Lance Armstrong himself as he emerges from his cottage complete with bike. He strikes up a brief conversation with Gavin who is stunned at the familiarity of and proximity to a sports hero/legend. I am sure he is not as derisory about cycling and all things spandex to Lance as he is to me! For me its off to the starting gate via the back door to join an estimated 5000 people who in the acts of running and riding various distances are raising $3,000,000 today.
It is a multicolored circus in the parking lots of the community college. Big bikes, little bikes. The usual “poseur” bikes and the primitive, complete with rusty chains, wobbly wheels and really big seats. There are a lot of skinny people hidden from site by those who are not so skinny. A real cross section of Pennsylvania and farther afield, present here with single purpose and sharp focus. United by a disease, its variants and a man who willingly and knowledgeably leads the charge towards ultimate victory over it. There is always a general restlessness in the assembly at these events not to mention the odd unfortunate who forgets they are clipped in and goes down like a sack of spuds before thousands. One more broken collar bone! Both Lance and Doug Uhlman keep speeches to a polite minimum, the national anthem is observed and we are all then magnanimous enough to give Lance a good head start complete with police outriders. He’s going to need both the start and the cops to preserve himself from the enthusiastic hoards hot on his wheels.
In the minutes prior to taking off I strike up a conversation with Jay Horning of Lancaster, PA. A fit looking critter and owner of www.galllaminating.com he assures me that dropping a few pounds since a less than stellar outing here last year will stand him in good stead…I feel a critical eye being cast over my somewhat larger frame. It takes a few minutes to shuffle through the start area and its wobblers and hit the open road heading west past Normandy Farms. For as far as the eye can see there are cyclists fore and aft. Jay and I are quickly warmed up and moving through the throngs at an increasing clip and pretty soon we are into the more serious cycling country, as in the area of my exploratory foray yesterday. I watch Jay on his Giant taking on the grades and note with some concern the power in his calf muscles that make the bike just explode forward uphill… no matter the grade. The kind of muscles that have knots in them, those that my footballing teens, having done a million squats always brag about while casting aspersions upon my own.
Already I know that today is not my day on the bike as I have no answer for these accelerations. By mile 30 I believe I have sweated every last ounce of whatever a body holds that can be transferred into energy and I can sense Jay having to hang back a little to keep collecting me on his rear wheel. I don’t like that at all. Mind you, he is moving at a good speed and it is the pair of us doing the passing. The frustrating thing here is this is really nothing more than my normal pace and while the roads undulating macadam ribbons are unrelenting and therefore offers little time for a steady tempo they should not be tiring me at this point. Cramping thigh muscles are going to make all the decisions on this day and within minutes of them just about tearing me off the bike some youngster weighing all of a buck thirty comes up from behind all full of banter and BS and offers to help increase the pace, Jay is looking back over his shoulder for me as simultaneously the sign for the 70 mile route is right there in my face. It is the smart, if not the proud call. As the 100 milers disappear up another hill I peel off to the left and strike out on a much less populated road. Those that originally opted for the 70 miler are no where near here yet. The police officers holding traffic back at intersections have time to greet me and they laugh when I suggest it would be quite all right to halt me and favor the cars and tractors while I take a breather. They don’t.
As I get cracking I can hear and see the helicopter that is hovering over Lance’s route and even as I head away it is obvious where he is, albeit down beneath the leafy canopy, and readily apparent that he is moving quickly, almost eerily so across the terrain. Settling in for a quick 70 I still have to temporarily back off the cramping thighs on even the more modest grades. People wave as I pass and I really enjoy the sights and sounds of this green world they inhabit. There are lazy cows and corn silos, there are red barns and there are stone barns while in the heat of the day that is building, tar bubbles are forming on the road and make delightful popping sounds beneath my tires, they do however also make fast corners a little slick! Fully immersed in the ride and with maybe seven miles to go I am happy at about 23 mph on a relatively flat stretch when I hear the quick blip of a siren and alongside comes a Pennsylvania trooper on a Harley followed by a small SUV which is in turn followed by none other than the maestro himself. So just how crushing is this? Lance has put thirty miles on me on a hot and humid day while in recent memory I have heard him publicly state that he is only at a 30% fitness level relative to his Tour days. Picking up my pace is laughably ineffective as he continues to pull away with his entourage and gets back to the barn probably a good mile ahead of me. So the scoreboard reads; Lance 100 miles/4 hours. Mark 70 miles/4 hours. Pretty stark!
Its downhill to the finish line, the yellow balloons, the cowbells, the cheering volunteers (some 800 help with this event) and family members with cameras poised awaiting the sweat stained, saddle sore and justifiably satisfied. Sally and Becky are there along with friends Kathy Davis and John Mavrakis … from the studio that produces all those greeting cards you love to send. Also there is Gavin, looking quite unfazed by the heat and his days forced labor. He has his cowbell and his yellow volunteer T shirt and is bragging that he has been giving out the most roses. Little wonder as he inserted himself at the head of all the “rose runners”. In my casting about for cold water he dishes out much grief about my taking the 70 vs the 100 mile route and later as we wander towards the beer tent he tells me of his experiences on the survivor finish line and he says he had no idea that there would be a day when he could feel so many emotional “chills” in observing the reactions of survivors as their accomplishments and the implications of such come home to them. Just as we depart for refreshment I see Jay from Lancaster grinning his way across the line in a cool 6 hours for the full 100. Nice effort Jay!
We return back to the line and Gavin gets back to work. He has set Sally and Becky up along with their buckets of yellow roses under a canopy to give some respite from the blazing sun. It is hard to contain Sally in the shade however and she is an ever vocal, bell ringing presence congratulating survivors … slowly broiling in the sun. Sally is herself a ten year survivor and Becky, a lifelong and long suffering pal is there to make sure she takes care of herself. Fat chance! When not out passing roses they are turning rose buds into bucket loads of petals to shower the latecomers with. While the course is officially closed at 4.30 so that volunteers and police officers can go home and (the super efficient and impressively organized) Medallist Sports can pack everything up and get it heading towards the last ‘08 stop in Austin TX on October 26th, there are people whose efforts are so great and represent so much that they will not quit. Sag wagons are supposed to collect the stragglers from off the course and unload them just short of the finish so that they can yet ride across the line. There are those and likely always will be, who will not get in a sag. They are going the distance. This means that Sally and Becky are out there from 7.30 AM until 9.30 PM when finally all were done and and the last survivor safely in. Sally Reed refuses to let any survivor come home without a reception committee! Of course the crowds have gone and the cameras and press are absent at these late moments. None the less this is when the most emotional moments play out, the rose petals fly and the very essence of what the LAF is to people who fight/have fought for their lives is seen in clear focus. It can not fail to touch and change anyone fortunate enough to be present in those waning moments of a long, hot day. (to be cont. )