The Brevet from Hanscom, or How I Did Not Finish my first 600 k

Moving to Boston in the middle of the Brevet season seemed to put a crimp in my hopes for my first SR award. But then I found out about the Boston Brevet Series, and got in touch with some Boston Randonneurs through the New England Randonneurs google group. Maybe I could move (temporary) house and job on Tuesday, go hiking with friends on Saturday and Sunday, and still be ready for a 600 k the following weekend?

Two dry runs convinced me that I would be able to find my way to the start of the Brevet at Hanscom field, about 12 miles from my temporary home, in the dark for the 4am start — my confidence only slightly dimmed by getting lost on the way back home. Then there was the local bike shop that seemed to think that "Please make my rear derailleur work" meant "please sell me as many new components as possible but make sure that the bike is unridable when you give it back to me".

However, there were friendly words on the email group, a half-dozen brevets at shorter distances successfully completed … surely I can do this.

Everything is packed by 9pm the night before. I have food supplies — brie sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, boiled potatoes, clementines — probably far too much. Two two drop bags are assembled: one for the Brattleboro control and another, with overnight gear, for the Sandgate control. I roll into Hanscom at about 3:45, having met Mark, another NER, along the road a couple of miles from the start. One nice thing about riding to the start is that it's hard to forget some vital piece of equipment, like helmet, shoes, or a left pedal! I sign in, unhook one pannier from my rack to become the overnight drop bug, and pull a stuff sack out of the other to be the Brattleboro bag. I'm ready to go.

The tradition on the Boston rides is that everyone rides together in a bunch until it gets light, which is most of the way to the first control in Gardener. Everyone, that is, who can stand the pace. These guys are fast. I had put my rear light into a pluse mode for the ride to the start, and had omitted to turn it to steady. Someone asked me if it was easy to switch it out of pulse: it is really annoying to be riding behind a flashing rear light, let alone a flashing DiNotte. I say yes, but I'd have to stop. The guy says thanks, and I'll help you get back on. I futz with the switch for a few moments, and then start to get going. My friend is up the road from me, but way off the back. I sprint to him, but now my burst of speed is shot, and I suck his wheel for a way, and finally we are back on. This is hard: hells bells, this is worse than a Velo ride! This kind of thing is fun on a 50 mile club ride, but this is a 600 k Brevet, folks.

Still, the group is friendly, I introduce myself to many other riders, some of whom know me from the google group. Of course, although we exchange names, none of us knows what the other looks like. I meet Jake, who rode the Cascade 1000. Emily O'Brien, now famous from the write-up in American Randonneur, was not there, but another Emily was, and she, like me, is attempting her first 600. I talked to Chip, to Paul, and a few others.

The bunch drops me on a particularly abominable piece of asphalt by a gravel pit in Shirley. Partly this was deliberate, because I felt that I was going out much too fast for a long Brevet, and partly it was to give myself more room to maneuver as I tried to avoid the largest craters and sections of ground-down blacktop, not to mention the stream of oncoming gravel trucks.

The cue sheet is interesting, and very detailed. It is 10 pages long, and contains something like 450 cues. Here is a sample:

0.6 39.8 Cross over Rt. 2, joining Rt. 140 South
0.0 39.8 Right to stay on Rt. 2A just before lights, leaving Rt. 140
0.8 40.6 Straight at lights
0.5 41.1 Bear left, staying on Rt. 2A
2.2 43.3 Gardner town line
1.1 44.4 Bear right onto S. Main St., following sign to Rt. 140, leaving Rt. 2A
0.2 44.6 Bear right onto Pearson Blvd. (unmarked)
0.3 44.9 At roundabout, cross under Rt. 2 and take second exit onto Pearson Blvd.
0.3 45.2 Checkpoint at Gardner Plaza on the right

Notice that most of the legs are less than a mile. None of the "go 34.6 miles, turn left on to US 97. Go 10.6 miles, turn left onto Route 142" beloved of Oregon Randonneurs. The truly enormous number of roads in New England is rivaled only by the absolutely terrible state of the pavement, and the route makes the most of both of these features. It also included four stretches of dirt, three of which were really smooth and much better than most of the blacktop. As for the fourth, well, more of that later.

"Town line", by the way, is New-England-speak for township or parish boundary. When I first heard this expression from the lips of a real estate agent twenty-plus years ago, I though that she was talking about a gas line, or a power line. Now I know better!

I leave the Gardner checkpoint in company with two other riders (notice that on this ride there is none of that foreign "contrôle" stuff, and none of those kilometers, either). They soon drop me, but after a while, on a pretty stretch of road alongside the Millers river, I see Jake and another rider coming up behind me and I pause for a couple of pictures.

By the time I had put the camera away they were at the top of the next rise, and I had to work hard to catch them. We chatted for a while, but they left me behind on the next significant hill. This was a pattern: riders on lighter bikes with less gear dropped me on the hills. Maybe they know something?

After a while Glen catches up with me, and we ride together all the way to the next checkpoint, which is in Brattleboro, Vermont, having traversed the SW corner of New Hampshire. Glen is a very experienced randonneur with something like 15 grande randonnées to his credit. His advice was not to ride any of them more than once!

Brattleboro is at mile 91 of the course, which means that I have just over a century on my legs. The checkpoint is in the parking lot of a motel just out of town, which seems a little strange since this is not an overnight stop. However, I realized that the motel room gives the volunteers, who will have to staff the checkpoint all night, a place to hang out and catch some sleep, as well as providing toilets and showers for riders who need them.

Life is good in Brattleboro. I am feeling strong; the weather is perfect: sunny and warm, without being hot. I am more than an hour ahead of my "12 mph" pace going into the contrôle, and even after a relatively generous pause to eat and refuel, I'm still 40 minutes ahead when I pull out. I had asked about the advisability of taking extra water for the next leg, and filled a 1.5 liter bottle which I put in my pannier, in addition to the two 0.6 liter bottles on the bike.

Things didn't stay good for very long. The "next leg" is 66 miles to Sandgate, Vermont, and crosses the Green Mountains at 2040 ft. This doesn't seem like a very high pass, but the 1750 feet of elevation between Brattleboro and the Appalachian Trail involves something like 6000 ft of climbing. Every 500 ft climb is followed by a 400 ft descent; every 900 ft climb is followed by a 700 ft descent. Maybe I should have put the altimeter in my pocket; as it is, the sun grows hotter, the humidity is off the charts, and I find myself engaged in a truly Sisyphean task. My average speed drops to 8 mph, and I break the golden rule of randonneuring: I start thinking beyond the next contrôle. I'm in no immediate trouble: Sandgate doesn't close until almost 9pm, but I know that I need to build up a time cushion now if I'm to get the sleep that I need. I'm also not feeling so good. There is a metallic taste in my mouth, which I know means dehydration; I stop and get some fruit at a farm stand, and then at the Newfane store — less than 12 miserable miles from Brattleboro — for some Fritos. That helps, but takes more time, as I have to wait behind a man who is improving his day by buying a liter of Vodka and three bottles of bloody mary mix. This being Vermont, the Vodka and the mix can be sold in the same store, but they have to be rung up on separate tills in separate credit card transactions. I also buy a slab of what looks like rice crispies glued together with butterscotch, which turns out to be very chewy and very good — I'm glad that I go back to retrieve it when it jumps out of my handlbar bag on a descent.

I can't get my mind off of the situation, the slowness of my pace, the misery of the humidity, and the consequences for the rest of the ride. I know that this is a disastrous mindset, and so I try something new: I connect up my iPod and start listening to a recorded book. I do this sometimes while commuting, but I've never done it before on a Brevet. It works! I grind away on the hills, and loose myself in the Napoleonic Wars and the Treaty of Amiens. In the town of Jamaica, still only 25 miles from Brattleboro, there is a fair; I spy some damp looking kids with inner tubes and find the swimming hole. A quick dip is most refreshing, and I'm soon back on the road, somewhat cooler, and re-immersed in Patrick O'Brien's conception of the early 19th century.

The summit comes at mile 39, followed by a smooth descent into Manchester, Vermont. It's still more than 20 miles to the Sandgate contrôle, but now the miles fly by at a more respectable pace. The air is noticeably dryer, and even though the temperature is actually higher, the air is now refreshing and the sweat evaporates instead of running down my face. At Chiselville covered bridge there is a $1 for proceeding faster than a walking pace, but the local gendarmerie doesn't catch me. There is a gorgeous 3 mile stretch along a good dirt road by the Batten Kill River, and then it's on to Route 313 and briefly into New York State.




Less than 2 miles of good dirt road takes me back into Vermont and … to a puncture. Less than a mile from the contrôle, I'm brought to a wavering stop and find a sliver of flint like needle in my rear tire. Several riders pass me as I extract the flint and put in a new tube. I finally make the contrôle at about 17:45, but I wash the road crud from my hands before I get my card signed, and the official time is 17:55.

There is a lot to be done here. Apart from some eating and drinking, I need to retrieve batteries and a spare inner tube from my drop bag, and get set up for night riding. Despite my earlier dejection, I'm still very much in the game. An 11 mph pace would have me leave this contrôle at 18:20, and still allow a four hour pause here when I return. Moreover, the nest 100 km, to Bennington and back, while not exactly flat, is nothing compared to the crossing of the Appalachians that I've just completed. I should be able to make up some time on this stretch.

The last rider still on the course, Paul, pulls into Sandgate while I'm there, and we leave together, both glad of some company. Despite some light showers, we have a brisk, pleasant and companionable ride for the first 18 miles, where we stop at a small store to use the restroom and set up for night riding. Somewhere about mile 25 it starts raining, and almost before we can get on our jackets, the rain is like standing under a waterspout. What light remained in the sky is extinguished by the storm, and we are riding by the light of my front DiNotte, my Ixon, and Paul's Edelux — the latter puts out 80 lux by itself. All the lights do is illuminate the deluge.

The cue sheet says "Left on Country Road 102, leaving Rt 7: not well marked; don't miss this turn." We miss the turn. We go back down Rt 7, looking for breaks in the fog line. We find one, but we can't figure out if it's a road or a driveway. We turn on to it, figuring that if it's a driveway, we can ask at the house for Country Road 102. There is so much mud and water coming down that it may as well be a river; we are unable to decide if the "road" is dirt or asphalt. Bright lightening shows us a house, and we decide to ask for directions: yes, that's two men asking for directions, so you will appreciate the situation. Before we can get more than half way up the driveway, a woman flits out of the house, along a breezeway, and into the garage. The garage door opens, and she beckons us inside.

It turns out that Country Road 102 is a hundred feet back down the road, but now the lightning is flashing all around us in earnest, and we decide that the only prudent course is to accept the homeowner's offer and stay in the garage. She helpfully tells us that there is a shorter way to the Price Chopper in Brattleboro than the one that we have on our cue sheets. She sets up lawn chairs for us and leaves us to contemplate the storm. We are fretting about the lost time when an enormous bolt of lightning and simultaneous clap of thunder shakes the ground, seemingly right under our feet: thoughts of leaving any time soon are instantly banished. I take advantage of the lawn chair and put on wool socks with Goretex socks over them; nothing is going to keep my feet dry, but they may as well be warm. We are only 6 miles from the next contrôle, but it may as well be on the moon considering our ability to reach it.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the lightening storm moves away, although the rain seems as heavy as ever. We turn onto Road 102, but route finding is difficult. Our three headlights do nothing more than light up the sheets of rain. Fortunately every few seconds lightning strikes on the horizon brightly illuminate the whole panorama. We have trouble bearing right onto Murphy road, and waste more time with Paul's GPS before finally getting directions from a passing motorist. When we finally ford the Price Chopper parking lot and find our way into the store, it is 21:30. A store clerk invites us to bring our bikes into the lobby, but the deli counter and pizza station are closed. The store is over-air-conditioned to the point of being freezing; two other randonneurs are sitting zombie-like on the floor with their backs against the wall. One more is sitting at a table, and tells us that the contrôle workers are in a van in the parking lot. We wade around the parking lot for a while — it's much warmer outside than in the store, so this isn't so bad — and get our cards signed. I grab a banana and a Payday bar from the van, which look better than what I can find in the store. I sit in the deli area, go through my pannier, put on every last article of clothing, and munch. Paul buys a blanket and decides to abandon; he will stay here for a while, and then ride home, whithout returning to Sandgate.

At some point the rain eases off, and the other three Randonneurs make to leave. I would like to go with them, but still need to use the restroom and put my equipment back on my bike. I leave a little after 10pm, which is about 45 minutes later than my 11 mph schedule allows, but still not impossible. Route finding is tricky: visibility is poor, there are 12 cues for the first four miles, and I'm quite surprised when I eventually find Rt 9 and the van from the checkpoint stops next to me to tell me that I am on course. Shortly afterwards, I pass the house where we had taken refuge not so long before, but now the rain has stopped, and I'm moving along quite briskly, warming up and beginning to enjoy the night, even though I'm now riding solo as the last man on the course.

Five miles later I'm surprised to see lights coming up behind me. It's Dave and Emily, who I expected to be far ahead of me. I ask them how I had managed to pass them, and they explain that when they were forced to take refuge from the lightning, they both fell asleep. We ride in company for a while, which is very pleasant; then I drop back and suck Emily's wheel for a while. I look apprehensively at the lightning on the horizon, which has never stopped, and Emily points out that there is no wind, so it can't be coming out way.

About five minutes later we are buffeted by a wind gust that threatens to blow us off the road, and the first spots of rain hit us. We pass some sort of picnic area, but it seems to offer little promise of shelter. Then we come to what looks like a fire station, and Dave and I look around the back for shelter, but find none. Across the street there is a closed store with a covered front porch, which I point out to Dave, but now we have lost Emily. We call out, but the crash of thunder and the pounding rain drown out any response. Then we see a light through the trees — that must be Emily, I sprint across the road for the porch, calling to Dave and Emily to follow; Dave gets half way there, but Emily is not coming with us; she is calling for Dave to go back, which he does.

Ensconced in the front of the store, I sit up against the wall and survey the situation. Across the road, I can see some kind of lit glass structure; I think that it might be a bus shelter. Then another lightning strike kills the power in the store porch, the bus shelter, and indeed in the whole neighborhood. I'm dry, out of the wind and relatively warm; I don't see much point in wandering about in the lightning looking for Dave and Emily, who after all know where I am.

There are three things one has to do on a Brevet: ride, eat and sleep. I can't ride — I may be stupid, but I'm not that stupid — so I eat, and then I lay down on the rubber pad that operates the automatic doors to the store, and sleep.

When I wake up it's about 00:45, and the rain has stopped. I ride back across the street, and check out the glass structure. It turns out to be a car wash with folding glass doors. A perfect shelter! Presumably Emily thought so too, but there was now no sign of either her or Dave. I set off towards Sandgate; there are only about 12 miles to go.

The rain doesn't resume in earnest until I am about to turn off of Route 313 onto the dirt road, but the dirt is good and it's still rideable despite the water pouring down. My digestive system isn't working too well; if I make any sustained effort, I quickly feel sick. So I ride easily, glad that I have been here only a few hours before, although in the darkness the crash of rocks coming down Chunks Brook, which must be in full flood, makes this normally peaceful lane sound like the underworld. I push on up the lane; I pass a house that I don't recall, and think that maybe I have gone too far. I consider 'phoning the contrôle, but I remember that to get a cell 'phone signal I would have to retreat to the paved road. Eventually I find John's driveway; water is now coursing down it like stream in flood and I wade up it, pushing my bike the last steep half mile.

John signs me in at 02:04. What would I like? Food? Sleep? I say "shower"; I grab my drop bag and he shows me to a bathroom. Half an hour later I've forced a bowl of pasta down and drunk a pint of water, and John finds me a bed. When do I want to be woken? Apparently, he doesn't think that I'm out of the game yet. But I tell him that I plan to sleep in: I'm not going to try for the next contrôle before the cutoff, which is at 10:56. I think that I would have to be back on the road by 04:00, maybe 04:30. That doesn't seem feasible; I need sleep, and perhaps more importantly, I need time to eat and digest my food. To my surprise, John says that he can arrange to have me sagged out in the rental van that Tracey used to bring in the drop bags and other gear. This is too easy.

I wake in the night; my bladder is calling. It's still dark; I have no way of knowing the time. I feel surprisingly good. I go downstairs; the kitchen clock read 04:35. I tell John, who is in the kitchen, that I'm thinking of continuing. Maybe I can leave by 05:00 — almost 6 hours to retrace those 62 miles over the Appalachians. On legs that have already ridden more than 230 miles. Maybe. Possibly.

John goes out and confers with Tracey, and comes back with two pieces of information. One is that my bike is already in the van; from here I can get a ride back, but if I fail to make the cut at Brattleboro, I'm on my own: there is no guarantee of a ride back, and even if the contrôle workers do have room for me, it won't be until very late in the day. The second is that more thunderstorms are forecast later in the day, chasing the route back to Boston. I make the fateful decision to go back to bed and abandon the ride.

Three hours later, stomach full of french toast, sitting the back of the van with Harry, who is also sagging out, and feeling quite comfortable, I'm still turning over the decision to abandon. Nothing is really wrong with me or my bike, beyond a little nausea after forcing down food, and I'm certainly not the first randonneur to have that problem. Emily and Dave, at breakfast, were planning to ride back to Hanscom even though there were not expecting to make the time cut at Brattleboro. Yes, I could just take some more time. If more lightening came up, I could if necessary take refuge in a motel somewhere along Route 2 in Massachusetts and finish the ride on Monday morning. But instead I took the easy way out, because it was offered.

Still, it was a good ride. 238 miles completed, 18:11 hours saddle time, and about 23 hours elapsed time, counting from when I left home. 12875 feet of climbing, according to my altimeter. Not a bad day on a bike. Certainly a lot more than I had though possible two years ago.