I hesitated to stop for my first photo -- I was barely a mile from home -- but the thrashed light post, almost certainly the result of an out-of-control motorist, demanded my attention: just another reminder of how dangerous cars really are (for bicycles, and for everyone else, too).

At 9 am, and 5 miles in, three of us had gathered at the coffee shop; two were running late.  We didn't wait long, and once rolling, we held a fast and tight-knit formation.  

The route started on mostly open highways, including the new FM 110.  Riding new pavement safe from traffic is a rare opportunity that we relished in the bright morning.

... but the revelry of the moment was, for me, a bit resigned by the reality that after the holidays, cars and trucks may make parts of the route too hazardous to enjoy regularly: miles of the road are elevated with concrete medians, and worse, high-speed highway-styled exits.  The whole stretch is about 6 miles from the stoplight at Highway 80 to the stoplight at Interstate 35; my cynical prediction is any gains in traffic today will be offset as soon as the new "highway bypass" is bisected by the nearly sure-to-come suburban connectors, gas stations, and truck ways.  

My cynicism was short-lived and self-contained; it really was a good day to be out.  After crossing the interstate, we meandered a bit through Kyle and on to a convenience store stop.  I was at 28 miles, but thought wise to fuel up, especially since we had been having some spirited attacks out on the open road; I stashed a fried peach pie in my bags, expecting the next few miles to be of a similar spirit.

We started easy enough on our way out of Kyle, but it wasn't long before we were pedaling faster than the wind and digging into the pedals, even on the downs.  Once we passed Five Mile Dam and crossed the Blanco, I made an attack (starting on the steep ramp sprinting out of the river valley).  The first attack stretched us thin, but didn't make a break; a rider came around front, taking my pace for a minute, maybe two.  At pace, the sprint back to town is less than twenty minutes, so, as the road rolled back upslope, I attacked again, this time earning a clear division: two riders on my tail and two sloughing off the back.  We held the break until the city limits, then eased. There was no time for any pictures. 

It seemed the energy was high (at least mine was), and we followed the original route through Spring Lake, with a direct course up into Hill Country.  With a bit of joviality and a hint of a challenge, we made our way for Oak Ridge, one of the steepest descents in town, leading to a short loop and the only way back -- a straight haul back up the hill (at more than a 10% grade).  Me, riding my oldest frame (a 2006 Lemond) with rim brakes, found myself at the back going down, but I was still flying.  One of the younger fellows was flying too, but a little too close to the sun; he locked his brakes, luckily shedding a bit of speed, before tumbling off the curb and into the grass.  And just when my focus had nearly settled, a second of our pack seemed to follow, straight into the curb, off into the grass.  Thankfully both riders were mostly unscathed; however, while one bike was rideable, the other had a tire torn beyond repair.  His ride was over; the rest of us carried on, but as we moseyed through San Marcos, they each went their own way, off towards home, leaving me to my ride.

It was nearly noon and I'd only logged 45 miles, leaving nearly 55 miles to go.  The wind was kicking up a bit from the south, and it felt right to just push headfirst into the gusts; it was by virtue, then, that I ended up on the curvy retreat of York Creek Road, which offered a favorable wind-block as I weaved my way towards Seguin. 

A few more twists and turns past York Creek and the route saw me at the top of Huber Road.  Despite the daunting hill just at the start, the rest of the way to Seguin is as flat as it gets in the region, and the road is good, too.

I cranked hard into the wind until I reached Seguin city limits, the airport, and a T-junction; the wind sock confirmed a near steady southerly breeze poised to push me all the way back home.  

I held a strong pace over the entire prairie, until I nearly broke at the big hill.  I was desperately trying to estimate (and then maintain) my future pace, needing to cover nearly 20 miles and hoping for just 90 minutes; still, I made time to stop for a brief exchange with the locals.  They didn't seem the friendliest, but then again, it was hard to read their expression.

There was only one last picture I bothered to try -- it was a composition I'd tried before, but it has never panned out.  The vantage is from one of the last hills on the route, looking north towards San Marcos.  The powerplant, in the (relative) foreground is still 3 or even 4 miles away.  And home is somewhere in the picture, far off, 10 miles or more -- somewhere near the blue water tower and the high school (just east of straight ahead from the road); it's no surprise to me that my camera struggles here -- but where the camera struggles, this same vantage point also reassures me of the wonder of the bicycle: that I can simply go from here to over there, beyond the horizon and back again, at my leisure.

A couple of strong-looking pelotons were headed southbound; I plodded along north, having left home with time to spare.  A cyclist appeared in my mirror and, curious to see if I might know who it was or if they were headed to the same group ride, I eased up a bit.  He caught me, and passed me confidently without much of an exchange; I let him get a little ways ahead then matched his pace.  We weren't slow, but not fast either; after we both slowed for a red light, I passed smoothly, leaving a chance for him to catch the draft -- he never grabbed the wheel and I never saw him again.

I reached Buda with time enough for a few minutes break, but started to get suspicious when I didn't see much activity by 7:58.  The shopkeeper arrived right on time to open, and a minute later a lone cyclist -- one I'd met before -- pedaled up.  It wasn't raining per se, but it was wet already and the foggy-cloudiness threatened worse.  We decided to go for it.

We backtracked a bit, south and down through Kyle; the quick plan was to head out to a new bypass road -- CR110 -- to get a loop in before it officially opens to traffic.  We cranked up the effort almost immediately, each taking our turn at the front rather seriously.  My day's goal had always been a good challenge -- originally, I thought chasing a pack would offer that challenge; instead, I was motivated to keep up "group paces" even with just the two of us.  Drizzles came and went, but they didn't slow us down; we tolerated the spray from each other's tires: a small price for respite from the wind.

We stayed on CR110, even after crossing Highway 80 (and leaving behind the closed section for a one with open traffic).  I was nearing 50 miles for the morning and we were just a couple of miles from home; I was grateful for the "group" to be riding, which made it easy to push on as we turned down the 'usual weekly loop', down Old Bastrop and York Creek.  (I should be grateful too, that my 'usual loop' is a 'destination' for other riding clubs!)  With the usual loop done, I was at 65 miles and the century seemed within reach.  We were cutting close to home again, but I was confident as we turned away, further north towards San Marcos and on still, towards Kyle.

We nearly retraced my morning route, up Post Road, to Stagecoach Trail, across the Blanco River and then on behind 5-Mile Dam.  That was the end of the road for my riding partner, leaving me with about 20 miles to ride alone.  I stopped off for a soda and a chocolate-filled hand-pie, then turned a ways toward home.  The route started by double-backing on Stagecoach.  The sun had come out at last: the roads were drying and despite it being nearly noon, traffic was still light. 

After a few miles on the backroad, I cut east through the neighborhoods to connect with Yarrington, and once again, the new (finished yet still closed) CR110.  I tried to maintain a strong pace, but when I heard cars at the Harris Hill Raceway, I paused to appreciate the view of the track from the highway. 

Three of us made our way to Wimberley, taking the usual route via Fulton Ranch Road; the ride was spirited but friendly, and we reach 20 miles without a care.  We followed the Blanco River, then climbed out of the valley to Wayside; one of our trio turned towards home, towards other commitments, so two of us continued to Fischer and on to Cranes Mill Road.

The road is one possible crossing of the drainage divide between the Blanco and the Guadalupe Rivers -- it's not very busy, and that's probably because it gains a bit more elevation than the adjacent State Highway route.  The hills are steep but the road is fairly short, and before long we were coasting the hills of FM306 at nearly 20 miles-per-hour.  We made it to Canyon Lake at about mile 47; it seemed we might have kept pushing on except for the sudden onset of a flat tire.  The cause of the puncture was obvious: I swapped in my spare tube and inflated the tire to 'good enough' pressures.  

After the flat, we stopped another 5 miles down the road for refreshments in Sattler; it's a critical stop, as the ten miles after are some of the best in central Texas.  With a bucket of soda and a fried pie, we started down River Road: the colors assured us that Fall was steadily marching towards Winter. 

We stopped at the Chain-Gang Bicycle Shop in New Braunfels; in addition to the new tube, I added a few PSI to the tire to shore things up: the Lemond garnered a hint of attention, but the goal was still a fast century.  We left town by Common Street waiting up, if a bit uncharacteristically, for traffic in downtown; ultimately, it was just a few miles through Gruene and back out to the open roads.  We made our final stop at mile 75.

With a morning spent in the hills, the wind has seemed mostly inconsequential, but as we left the Hill Country, east across Interstate 35, the wind proved to be the main obstacle.  It wasn't completely overwhelming, but it did make 15 mph feel like a fair pace; it was a steady pace, at the very least.  We arrived home just before 1, which considering the flat tire, was on par with previous efforts. 

I have been very impressed with the Lemond.  It was built to be a quick commuter -- an urban build, never too far from home, and for short rides: two hours at most (or so I thought).  Though the skinny tires and unpadded seat are uncomfortable on a good day, the package is light enough for the hills and forgiving even on a full day in the saddle.

I unwrapped a Clif Bar as I snapped the quick (and blurry) photo; I saddled up and rolled on with the bar in hand, taking small bites as I approached the turn on to 1101.  My heart rate rose a bit higher than I wanted as traffic encouraged my pace -- it was only a few miles to cross westward under I-35, and then I could once again relax.  Just before Gruene I stopped to top off my water -- I was just 33 miles into the day, but had managed to polish off about 50 ounces of water; I dropped two salt tabs into the bottle and gave it a shake. 

Gruene was still sleepy, but some folks were out and about, walking and jogging through the plaza.  I kept rolling steadily, and as I turned onto River Road, I passed a spread of cyclists headed back towards New Braunfels; they were keen to finish their ride -- I wasn't even half way.   Luckily, down in the valley beside the Guadalupe River the shadows lingered long into the morning.  

It was nearing 10am as I reached Sattler with 47 miles behind me; I skipped the c-store, and started up the hills, passed the Gorge and onward towards Canyon Lake. 

I knew the Lake was at historic lows -- the drought this summer has been quite newsworthy -- so I stopped to take a picture.  I didn't think much about my photo until much later, when I wondered if I had any other Lake photos; as it turned out, I rode a similar loop just last year, and as luck would have it, took a similar picture from almost the same vantage.  More surprising to me than the water level was the difference in my photos: I think my camera has had a rough year!

I passed the 50-mile mark and kept on spinning -- I skipped the stores in Canyon Lake too, counting on a 'big' stop in Wimberley some 20 miles further ahead; I figured I was making the most of the warm morning, before the day turned really hot.  I headed past Canyon High School, and down Mail Route Road -- a quiet backroad where I found a shady spot to pull over and down another Clif Bar, mixing in some Welch's Fruit Snacks and some bigger sips of salted water.  Then, as I carried on down the road, I decided to take a shortcut through John Knox Ranch, cutting a few miles off and giving myself a chance for a second round of repeat photography: this time of the Slime Bridge; I had visited this bridge in just May of this year; at that time, the bridge was no longer slimy, but the water threatened to take back the bridge at any time: now, the water was nearly a full foot below the pavement.  Some may wish to argue here about the usual differences between Spring and late Summer, but in years past I considered the route to be impassable, no matter the season...

I was glad to have taken the shortcut, as it was quite productive, but now my route was too short.  I took another detour down Sachtleben Road, an interesting public right-of-way through otherwise private ranchland and open pasture; thankfully, I didn't see any cattle on the loose, only a passing ranch resident who offered up an exaggerated wave, as if to say "you're welcome back any time".  

I reached Wimberley feeling strong but knew I needed a proper break and plenty of fluids.  I finished both bottles, bringing my estimate to around 100 ounces for the 70 miles I'd ridden.  I washed down some gummy worms with another 44 ounces on the patio, then filled up both bottles for the road, adding another two salt tabs.  There was a traffic jam on the square downtown (almost predictable), but it didn't slow me down -- I was out of the city and onto Flite Acres Road towards the Blanco River without delay. 

Officially, I had joined the Livestrong Challenge route, but there were no riders; they were long gone and far ahead.  The only sign of the ride I could find was the water station at the top of the "Manmaker" hill climb; there was even still ice on the ground, so I knew I wasn't far behind, but was glad they were passed -- I was content just riding my own ride. 

The ten miles to Sattler offer a bit of a hustle along the mostly flat riverside; the route gains just around 150 feet over the ten-mile course, though there are some small rollers along the way.  To tally up some extra miles, and to check myself against the hills, I crossed over Canyon Gorge and then up to the top of the Canyon Lake Dam -- 200 vertical feet above Sattler (or, around 1,000 feet above Galveston).  Both the Gorge and Dam climbs maintain slopes well over 10% grade.

I was nearly 50 miles into the ride and it was just 7:30am; the morning's thick humidity had somewhat slowed the sun's heat, but it seemed the wispy cloud cover wouldn't last long.  A simple out and back route would get me to the goal, so I turned around, riding down the face of the dam, back over Canyon Gorge and pressing hard down River Road, taking advantage of what remained of the 'cool' (82°F) morning.  Some of the campers were waking up at last, though the bars, grills, and Gruene were still dark.  At least the service station at 306 and Old Hunter Road had opened, giving me a chance to replace the 50oz of water I had downed, and to tack-on a 44oz soda on the spot.

The temperature was only showing 85° after the break, but the clouds were vanishing.  It was around 9am and it was just 30 miles of prairies with a tailwind bias. I upped the pace and matched with steady sips from my water, focuing on out-running the rising heat.  I made it home by 10:40 -- about 18 mph -- having had another 50oz of water and a handful of cookies: though the weather reports were less, my my GPS recorded 100°F: the pavement gets hot fast. 

After breakfast if was off into the pack.  Although it was busy, the crowd was still thin enough to hold a steady pace while making clean passes.  Glidden was under ten miles from the start, and so, regardless of their hospitality, I passed the town up, set on taking my first break at Jefferson, at around 33 miles for the day.

Somewhere around mile 15 I was passed by a small group running paces; they were only rolling 17 or 18 miles per hour, which was a struggle on the small inclines with all my gear in tow, but the small struggles were worth the blessing of the pace line on the flats, into the wind.  By the time we reached Jefferson, what had started as just 3 plus me had grown to a rolling line 6 strong -- it was early enough that vendors were still setting up for the morning, and only the greasiest foods were ready.  I rolled on, as I hoped the next stop -- the official mid-point and meeting stop -- would be better prepared.

I slowed up as I set out, hoping to stretch my water and my legs; the pace line had taken its toll.  At one point, I noticed a crop duster doing a pre-flight run up; I gave myself some patience, to take a short break and to wait in hopes the plane would take off over the road, but it never moved.  By the time I was ready to go again, another rider had sidled up aside me -- he left when I did, and matched my pace; we started a conversation.  He was a new rider, and had barely ridden a ride longer than 40 miles in preparation; I gave him the benefit of the doubt, at least, until he started asking about Day 7's mileage and to estimate his pacing -- it was still only early in Day 3)!  I paused to explore the corn and left the amateur and his ride in the hands of fate.

I knew from my planning that Rippey wouldn't have much for permanent services, but was counting on the RAGBRAI crew to assure a well organized rest station.  It was still early (though plenty of riders were already up ahead); the volunteers at the first aid station couldn't say where the water taps were.  I grabbed two cookies, trading a few dollars to the local library, then desperately looked for water.  At last, I spotted a fire hydrant fitted with a single hand valve; it was quirky to operate, but a line formed behind me all the same.

I was betting on around 30 or more miles to the next stop, but set off with a single full water bottle: it was a risk I could afford to take on RAGBRAI. It wasn't far outside of town when I -- pushing my heavy bike -- caught up with traffic, again; just as with any other overweight vehicle, passing required care.  I let some faster riders around, first, and then after the last, pedaled to grab his draft: we were holding 18 miles per hour.  He checked behind a few times, perhaps a bit displeased to have my truck on his tail, but then with time it was clear -- he was pulling me (and probably could've dropped me at moment's notice, if he had wanted to).  I offered to take my turn, pulling in front while holding the pace steady even as my bags and body caught the brunt of the wind.  I watched the odometer tick off a mile, then waved to say, "I'm done".  We swapped places and he pulled me another mile.

Just as I was about to give up chasing wheels, I spotted the small arrow marking the Karras Loop, an official detour from the main route that would bring the day's mileage to 100; I followed a few others around the corner.  It was headfirst into the wind, and try as I might, I couldn't catch a draft.  I sipped from my lonely bottle as I felt the sun beating down.  Halfway around the loop, I was thankful to see a water stop; the downside, as multiple of us discovered, was that the route had been mismarked, and we had ridden backwards (and would also come up short for the century).  The markers had been fixed shortly after our initial passage of course, and the loop was composed of two way traffic; I stopped to capture one last misplaced marker -- a marker guiding me, and those with me, to make a right turn to return to the main route; the marker served as a testament to the story, with the later rider's being guided ontothe loop -- towards me -- from the correct direction.

I was still low on water, and though I could have probably survived to the next town, I allowed myself to stop at the "Farm Party", which was offering free Gatorade and free cookies -- there were nearly ten varieties of cookies, but I settled for one caramel toffee chip and one double chocolate, filled my bottle and pressed on, feeling quite refreshed.  It was still nearly 30 miles to go, though I was just counting down to Luther, around mile 85.

Of course, there wasn't much to find in Luther, and aside from a massive BBQ joint (with massively inflated prices), I couldn't even find water!  I dejectedly gave my bottle a shake, and hearing a still heavy slosh (thanks again to the good-willed farmers along the road), I decided it was just as easy to rush a bit further down the road to Ames, rather than settle in for lunch.  The last few miles turned out to be more of a slog, but I eventually reached Jack Trice Stadium, was able to stop for a quick picture, then rode on, until I pushed the odometer over 100.  There was still more riding to do for the day -- for the daily chores -- but otherwise, the Century was in the bag.

Around mile 10, the pavement became loose chipseal and open-wire bridges, and by mile 15, the map was leading me down 'county roads' with oversized gravel (rocks, really) laid over 10+% gradients.  If I didn't stay smooth on the pedals, the knobs on my tires would kick on the rocks, robbing me of momentum and my balance.  I finally lost the rear wheel -- completely sideways -- trying to twist the bike while powering up a 20% switchback; I walked a tenth of a mile, letting the slope relax before bothering to remount.

I made a wrong turn around mile 20, and earned myself an extra hill (and a descent, to be fair); the relationship between map and my odometer had changed again, threatening confusion and, potentially, more mistakes -- I took my time remapping the cues to my actual mileage.  Not much further along, somewhere around mile 25, and I passed the village of Sunset, trading the unincorporated county lands for those of the National Forest.  It wasn't totally remote, although the homesteads were spread far enough apart to have their privacy (except where a small assembly of homes would share a small clearing amongst the trees).  The tree canopy fully shaded the road, and hid the sun from view, which was a welcome break from the Texas sun that I was more accustomed.  

The forest roads, unsurprisingly, took the opportunity to bare their teeth.  At mile 39, I felt a splash on the back of my calf.  The ground was dry and my bottles showed no leaks; I spun the rear wheel, and saw the tell-tale splotches of still-wet tire sealant.  It looked as though it might seal on its own, but I dug into my bags for the proper plug kit.  I didn't bother to add air, as the tire still felt alright.  I wasn't in a hurry per se, as there were still hours of daylight, but my progress was slower than expected: 8 miles per hour.  I kept revising my goals and wondered where my ride would end.

White Rock Mountain (operated by the Forest Service) was a two-night minimum.  Beyond that, there was a private venue and another USFS campground, but one with no potable water!  I looked further, to Oark and Kingston, which had what I wanted (food and water), but wouldn't be open until morning.  I figured that their hours might actually suit my pace, I would just need to ride all night.  At the turn for White Rock (which was still further off-route), I took inventory: 3 of 5 bottles remained, as well as most of the Clif Bars and gummies.  I skipped the campground and started the descent from the mountain.  

I made it a mile before another intersection begged I check the map -- one of the turns was marked with a Road Closed sign, and I knew the closed road was supposed to be my way forward.  I checked for ways around, but the extra mileage would stretch my rations.  I was at 53 miles, and could easily backtrack without any strain. Although the last thing I wanted was to climb back up to White Rock Mountain, it was the most prudent option.

I would still enjoy the ride back in the dark (diverted, but not defeated).  It was 9 pm and my napkin math said I'd finish a century and be back in town by 3a (Thursday morning); I worried I was maybe too generous, as I'd likely be slower on the downs with just a headlight.  At first I was slower on the ups too, constantly scanning the ditch for movement; I couldn't see much other than an occasional pair of eyes, but I could hear the liveliness of the early night -- squawks, chirps, and hoots formed a cacophonous choir.  

After a while, I let go of the darkness encroaching from the sides and focused instead on the narrow light ahead of me.  With a destination now clear and measurable, I slowly increased my intensity, especially where I could 'attack' on the hills.  I knew I couldn't possibly regain any lost time, but I intended to keep the pace, at the least.  

It was a bit of relief when at last I returned to Sunset; the worst of the roads were behind and now (from my time spent with the map), I knew a solid fraction of the miles were downhill from the highest ridge all the way back to the valley's water below (and then after, just a handful of those steep, but short, 'foothills' into town).  I actually felt a bit chilled -- the night was growing colder, and the living opera was reduced now to a persistent but less raucous hum.  I stopped to pull on my pack coat.

The last 20 miles or so passed with a sense of grace.  Back on pavement, I let the bike roll faster on the downs and carried that momentum up any rollers that stood in the way.  I knew where I was going, of course, but little else.  I considered a motel, but thought it too wasteful -- full price for half a night!  Besides, I had compelling work to do, a journal to write!  The correct answer was Waffle House, where for the price of a cup of coffee, I was welcome to stay and to write, along with free admission to a showing of "The Late Night Crowd" (or should it be the "Early Morning" crowd).  

... ... ...

So, I didn't finish the great mountain loop, and I probably won't get another chance.  But I did ride to White Rock Mountain and back, in a day, with all of my gear; more pressingly, this tour isn't over -- today I'll ride the 20 or so miles north to Bentonville, enjoying the pleasantry of a public parkway in stark contrast to the difficulty of the mountains.  I should stop for a pastry, or perhaps a proper doughnut.  Oh, and I'll probably take a nap too - a very bicycle-tourist thing to do -- once the sun is up and the local park is "open", anyway.

Thursday, May 24 -- A Metric Century

I left just before sunrise.  I'd been warming the Waffle House stool for nearly three hours, having my fair share of coffee, but otherwise productively scribbling notes to describe the 100 miles I'd ridden since assembling my bike in the parking lot of the Fayetteville Bus Terminal -- I had been rolling by 1pm, but it was nearly 3am when I secured the stool.  I reset the odometer to give a fresh feel to the day; the simple trick of the mind didn't fool my legs, which were stiff and heavy, and I swear, just a bit creaky.  I started towards Bentonville on the Razorback Greenway, a single trail interconnecting the close-knit cities of northern Arkansas.

The first point of interest was Lake Fayetteville.  Though an artificial reservoir, it had a natural charm, in large part thanks to the meandering trail design -- the curves were enough to keep you wanting to turn the corner, but the sightlines were still wide, to accommodate the higher speed of bicycle traffic.

I looped the lake then continued on.  I briefly floated the idea of heading through Bentonville and onto Eureka Springs.  Convinced of this plan, I began skipping over some of the sights on the Razorback, pushing past Springdale and skirting Rogers.  It was only 48 miles from Bentonville to Eureka Springs, but somewhere I had underestimated the distance before I'd reach Bentonville proper.  I watched my odometer count up each mile, knowing that as it did, my chances of reaching Eureka were slipping away.

Rereading the maps would take a full stop.  Various interstate commerce plazas were near enough to the trail, but as I navigated down the busy road towards the McDonald's, just a few tenths of a mile, the dedicated cycling infrastructure vanished.  The cars still outnumber the bikes and pedestrians in northwest Arkansas, as in most of the United States, but here, the traffic away from the trails felt particularly fast and dense -- at times like a deafening, impassible stampede.  I finally reached the restaurant, with traffic making me feel both anxious and slow; I finally relaxed a bit when I realized we were still on the Breakfast Menu.  I ordered a biscuit and opened the map again with renewed patience.

The new plan was towards a more restful day: a visit to the Meteor Cafe for a coffee and some free air for the tires, followed up with a trip to the Library.  Meteor was fun for the coffee (as a cyclist) and certainly provides the local riding scene a sort of communal gathering space aside from the more active roads and trails.  The Bentonville Library was less enjoyable, but because of my own lost passwords and locked accounts, and not the facilities themselves -- my data backups would have to be put on hold.  From the library, Slaughter Pen, and a list of other in-town single track mountain trails tempted me, but in the end, I thought best to keep my heavy rig on pavement, plotting a new route circling back south towards Rogers, and closer to the Prairie Creek campground.  

I had reset my odometer at the library, and had lost any semblance of how many miles I'd ridden, or whether it should count as one ride or two.  In any case, after a paltry 5 miles on the trail in the warming afternoon, the shaded patio at Natural State Brewing was alluring -- fresh iced water, chargers, and some carbohydrates, with a clear view of the trails against a lakeside backdrop.  I zeroed in on my route to camp, east through Rogers.

My first stop -- orienteering -- was to ride to the Railyard, and its subsidiary Railyard Bike Park.  I studied the corners and watched riders clearing the jumps and gaps with ease, leaving the ground one direction and tweaking mid-air to bring their bikes down smoothly into the transitions.  I hesitated, reading the signs warning of the risks; I circled around the course, carefully checking the beginner line for any 'mandatory' airs or drops: I didn't see any.  I pedaled back to the top and rolled gently onto the beginner line and let the weight of my touring bike pull me into the berms and over the rollers.  Weariness couldn't weigh on my smile.

Apparently there was also a short lake trail -- Lake Atalanta -- nearby, and it seemed easy enough to just tack on to the day's ride.  I didn't think much of the elevation until I was braking for control, but it was too little too late to turn around.  I found the lake and started around it. 

Being Northwest Arkansas, and just below the Railyard, it was no surprise to find beginner's mountain bike trails carved into the rocky bluffs holding the reservoir.  I dared tackle one, and with the confidence gained, dared to ride a second.  I quit while I still had all of my rack bolts, then set to climb back up to downtown.

It occurred to me to look local for dinner, but I really was craving simple and salty.  It was a few blocks up from downtown, but Braum's was able to get me a large fry in under ten minutes.  I ate quickly, but it was still 5 miles up and over several ridges to reach camp, but at least it was still bright out.

The sun was up but the camp hosts were long gone by the time I pulled in.  I followed the signs to the camp I'd reserved earlier in the day.  By some excruciating misfortune, site #99 was at the bottom of the campground.  I setup camp longing to lay down, but since a shower was available, I was compelled to return back up the hill, again, in order to wash up.  I peeled the cotton shirt off my back, the same shirt I had put on Tuesday afternoon; it was Thursday night -- nearly 50 hours.  That my cycling kits -- bibs and jerseys packed away in my bags -- were as of yet unsoiled helped raise my spirits, promising that the next day would be just as strong -- that the spandex would save me.

I fell asleep with the sun up, but didn't stay asleep long.  I awoke to muscle cramps so forceful as to cause spasms, each spasm causing more cramps.  My hands pushed, pinched and clawed at my legs for relief; my breathing was erratic and uncontrollable, too, letting out moans and crys that I struggled to muffle lest I disturb the other campers.  I rolled into various positions until at last, flat on my back, I was able to mollify my overstressed muscles.

Friday, May 26 -- A Century to Eureka Springs

It was after sunrise; I'd slept in.  My legs panged with sharp pains, acting as reminders of last night's spasms and warning against the day's ambitions.  Because I was still sore from getting turned around at White Rock, I thought again of Eureka Springs, a mere 50 miles away -- the perfect out and back.  Either way, my day started with breaking camp, more slowly than usual, too, in order to gently stretch various tight muscles.  

I was out of camp by 8, and in just 5 miles, largely downhill, I was out front of the midwestern convenience store, Casey's; sipping coffee while sitting on the curb reminded me of RAGBRAI's of my past -- and of the one being held in another month. 

The map I was following started in Bentonville, while I was in Rogers.  I made up my own route to get back on route and was pleasantly surprised with my choice of Old Line Road -- as the name implies, it followed close to the rail and utility lines, but much of its would-be traffic was across the tracks, racing on the relatively newer Highway 62.  At mile 10, I reached Avoca and a quaint town park.  I appreciated the shade, and would have wanted to stay longer, but my lazy morning meant a tight schedule for the day.  That, and, I was up against a section of gravel and climbs on Pea Ridge.  

The climb was slow but comfortable.  I used low gears and consistent cadence to keep the tension on my legs to a minimum; it was an effective strategy, so long as I ignored the clock.  The roll down from the ridge would have been a chance to make up some time, but the sharp gravel tore into the sidewall of the rear tire.  I tried a simple plug, and thought it might seal, given some pressure and cycling.  

I made it off the ridge and back onto pavement.  The ride got quieter, all except for the rhythmic sound of a tire plug striking the frame -- an audible reminder of the precarity of my tire.  It was still leaking, too, though slowly; it had managed to hold air for the last few miles.  But when I saw a small clearing, I thought to top the pressure up again: this, in fact, broke the valve stem.  I gave up on the "tubeless" tire system, setting about removing the rear wheel and installing a tube.  I didn't even think to check the clock, instead just pushing on down the road.

It was only a few more miles to Seligman, and a classic small-time truck stop complete with a full service kitchen and wall full of comfortable, clean booths.  I'd only done 30 miles, and it was already well after noon, but a plate of fried chicken and potato wedges looked too good to pass.  As I set to work on my plate, a local fella set out to start a conversation.  It was mostly the usual, where'd you start, how long you been out, then on to another predictable exchange:

"Where you going?"

"This way", as I gestured towards the open map on the table.

"Oh, Butler Holl'r, you'll need 10-ply tires down in there."

I seriously contemplated turning back, but then considered that the kindly gentleman had also suggested I take the high-speed, high-traffic highway as an alternative -- I saddled up, read the map, and followed the cues as directed; it was supposedly just another gravel road, anyway...

Farm Road 2285 did indeed plunge down to Butler Creek in a thrilling, but all too short descent.  Then the road turned to gravel that looked hardly different from the river bed beside it.  In places the road crossed the river bed directly -- it was the river bed.  While the road would be rough on any 4-wheeler, the bike weaved through the worst of it, giving the section just enough technic to be properly engaging.  When the gravel ended I was 40 miles into the day, just 10 miles from Eureka Springs.

The ten miles were rolling with pleasant grades that inspired coasting.  The lush green mountain views were splintered by one lane bridges over river bottoms, including a notable crossing of the White River.  I arrived at Eureka Springs from its Old Downtown.  I resisted the temptations of a second lunch, and even more surprisingly, skipped dessert too.  But I felt odd just turning around at the city limits, so I pushed through the traffic and up the hill to the junction with the major highways; at 50.6 miles, I turned around.

I descended through downtown with hardly a pedal stroke, then retraced what I thought were familiar turns.  I missed the gravel road -- instead of simply continuing straight onto it, I followed the pavement around a sharp left and up a steep hill.  It was naturally at the top of the hill that I gave myself the chance to check the map and realize my mistake.  

After getting back on course, retracing Butler Creek was uphill to Seligman.  The road hugged the creek close enough as to not often fight against the hills; it would be impassable during high or low water, but the weather had been dry.  The gravel was, again, more of a game than anything else, rewarding care and attention with a smooth ride.  The final climb out of the holl'r, though paved, was steep and unforgiving, and made worse by the hot afternoon sun bearing down hard.

I was actually excited to patronize the truck stop again, but then I checked my inventory.  I had two Clif bars, a package of gummy rings, and several empty bottles.  I topped up on water in a swift trip to the soda machine then returned everything to the bike.  In a last minute decision, I headed back inside to check the ice cream case, where they had an irresistible mudslide ice cream sandwich.

With only 30 miles back to Rogers, I was starting to feel confident, but as I was averaging just 8 miles per hour, reality suggested it would be nearly 4 more hours of sitting on the bike seat.  I pushed forward, thinking back to the torn tire and the gravel that tore it, still lying in the miles ahead, up and over Pea Ridge.  

I was slower on the climb, by all accounts, more methodical in my line choices and more reserved in my inputs to the pedals, and so through to the tires.  It was another successful strategy, bringing me across the ridge and back down again to the flat race along Old Line Road.  All that was left was to grab dinner before camp.  I'd eaten well on the ride, so opted to restrain myself to a medium combo at Burger King.  It was another quick dinner, with 5 more miles to camp and a fast setting sun.

I needed my lights again to finish the ride, but only for a few miles.  I was sore and stiff but otherwise feeling good.  There's something obvious about going easy (or being physiologically forced to go easy) and its relation to endurance.  Many sports emphasize momentary power, and often only over limited time frames; only a handful of sports truly consider an individual's maximum sustained power over hours and even days.  Cycling is among the best of such endurance exercises.

The climb out of John Knox was the first to put my gearing to the test; the gradient peaked somewhere around 11 or 12%, and I had naturally thumbed down to my second lowest gear.  Hypothetically, if I followed through with raising my gearing, there'd be no lower gears to bail out too, so I stuck it out, standing on the pedals and rocking heavily side-to-side, just to see how it felt; bigger gears are not always faster.  But once out of the river valley, I was back on rolling back-country roads peppered with a fair share of shade.  Even as I started rationing water, I enjoyed the roll west along Mail Route and then back east again, following Fischer Store to another crossing of the Blanco (by a high bridge). 

By 100 kilometers (a little more than 62 miles), I was back in Wimberley for a much needed service stop.  Since I was alone, and my pace was slow (from equal parts, heat and the stiff-riding bike), I thought a comfortable stop -- maybe with a hint of air conditioning -- was in order; the Dairy Queen was a bit busy for a late lunch hour, but they had a large shake and a fountain soda ready for me in a hurry.  The stop clocked in at 30 minutes -- just for ice cream -- but at least I was feeling refreshed; I took the time to reapply a faint layer of sunscreen, which I'd managed to pack fastidiously in the 'feed bag' hanging from my handlebar.

I stopped again, just 5 miles later, in part because it's difficult to carry much speed through the crossing of the Blanco along Fulton Ranch Road, as the pavement is near weathered and worn completely away, from a combination of the baking sun, seasonal flood flows, and overweight traffic; the motivation to try, of course, comes from the 8%-grade ramps on either side of the 'bridge'.  I chose to go slowly, instead, and stopped to capture another still of the day, and easing my gears down a bit (but not so low as to ruin my gearing experiment).  

From the river, the "big one" -- the Manmaker -- was just ahead, always waiting.  The ascent on Fulton Ranch has, in the past, been enough to steer me the long way 'round -- through Canyon Lake and down by New Braunfels.  But today, this was part of the experiment: I needed to know if I was strong enough to swap my 42-tooth chainring for a 46, a big step up.   I deftly covered the mile to the base of the hill-climb and set the transmission to third gear, with a gain ratio of 1.50 and nearly 41'' of rollout for each pair of left and right pedal strokes -- I set out to prove not only that I could handle a 46-tooth chainring (with a 42-tooth cog), but possibly more.  The slow droll of my pedaling afforded an opportunity to admire the geology while defying the very rise in the road, and of course, ample time to reflect deeply on my gearing. 

After the big ascent of Fulton Ranch, the road transitions to mostly short rolling climbs, and generally descends until near its terminus, where it briefly but comfortably climbs back up to the 'highway' that is Ranch Road 12.  Though the blue-bonnets had mostly lost their vividness, bright red and yellow wildflowers had taken their place, soaking in the late spring sun as time marches towards the stifling summer weather.  

I rode 9 laps at the Veloway -- a little more than 27 miles.  It was both peaceful and intense; strangers offered an intrinsic motivation to maintain a smooth pace.   No one was racing, but folks of similar strength were certainly keeping an eye on their relative placement; you only want to pass if you're sure you can make and hold a gap, and once you make the break, you're committed to the new pace.  I passed a good number of folks on my laps, but there were at least a handful of faster riders whom I gave the right-of-way.   

Most of the course is well-graded, varying only 50 feet across a typical mile; there is one section that draws complaint, though it is only a tenth of a mile, it climbs around 16 feet peaking at a punchy 16% grade.  The northerly wind certainly helped me earn my personal best on the section.  The segment name is perhaps an 'in' reference -- expressing a fear that city or park officials would acquiesce to the complaints, rerouting or regrading the pitch.  Along the lines of my earlier thoughts, such an incline should not be satisfactory for a utilitarian connection, though for its strictly recreational space, I think the challenge is welcome.    

I didn't make it far before I needed to take a picture -- a large sign stood in the shoulder, brightly announcing the weekend's upcoming collegiate bicycle race, sponsored by Texas State University's Cycling Team.  For a few hours at least, the racers will have first priority of the right-of-way.  I rode passed the turn-off for the race course, and pushed straight south to York Creek and rode 'til its end, the junction of Francis Harris: the right turn, south, had been impassable for months because of bridge construction -- it was an easy decision to test the new pavement (even if only a few tenths of a mile).  

The newly reopened road lead to a crest on 1101, offering a long, steady descent down passed the municipal waste facilities, and on to Kohlenberg Road and passed the new Continental (Tires) facility; traffic came in waves on the two-lane roads, but rarely from the same direction at the same time -- most of the cars (and trucks) were giving plenty of space.  I basked in the cloudy, cool morning; I'd be at Canyon Lake in no time!  I skipped through Gruene, and mile-marker 20, before slowing for another picture.  

I briefly contemplated my escape route, if the train were to derail, and determined there were none; I rode on, under the hundreds of tons rolling above.  I was nearly to the reprieve of River Road, where I was determined to take my time, to keep my heart steady, and to enjoy the views. 

To my very pleasant surprise, River Road had changed -- and in a good way;  The Roads Department was still out working, but miles of the way had been freshly surfaced.  I refused to break my steady (and slow) rhythm, settling instead for a picture on the roll.  

I pushed on to Sattler, from where the hills would begin.  None of them are particularly long, certainly not mountains, but every hill seems to pitch to 10% around here!  First is the ridge that defines Canyon Gorge (the dam's spillway), then the excruciating climb to the top of the dam.  I was at 36 miles and at least 30 from home; the Blanco River wasn't much of a detour and it would add some excellent hill climbs, honest.  

The day was always forecast to be overcast, and the thick cloud cover was welcome, but the  drizzles were not.  I pushed hard up the hills, but had to ease off on the downs as the pavement gradually became wetted -- I grappled with thoughts of turning short, of being home in just a couple hours, but gambled the weather were turn favorable again.  At mile 50, I was on the upper slopes of the Blanco Valley (and probably only 30 miles from home), when I tacked on another detour: Days' End and Valley View Drive -- a more authentic trip down to the water's edge and out of the valley, further north. 

I'd had an oatmeal bar and a few fruit snacks, but nothing substantial, and, although the temps were cool, I was soon to be needing more water.  At this point, I had accidentally set myself up to ride a century, and I was feeling good.  Dripping Springs is sizable enough to have options, and it was just a few more miles, up and over Mount Gainor! 

McDonald's wasn't my first choice, but Dripping Donuts was, unfortunately, closed for the day.  Nonetheless, the fries were salty and I left with Powerade in my bottles.  I had 75 miles behind me, and at least 40 more to get home, most of those through Hill Country.  

The first hour went by uneventfully -- I was just trying to warm up.  The temperature was cool, but comfortable, at least until the route dipped to the lowest reaches of York Creek.  I made it to the railyards, where two trains (one longer freight train and one of Amtrak's passenger liners) were stopping traffic.  The trains only took about 6 minutes to pass (probably 2-3 mile long trains), but it meant I would likely be late to the coffee shop!

There was hope that the group would set off southeast -- towards me -- but when I reached the coffee shop and hadn't seen them, I knew they had probably turned down Redwood.  I was 6 minutes behind -- the same 6 minutes the train had set me back; catching them required pushing hard.  I peaked my heart rate at 183 (on a mostly downhill section), holding speeds around 30mph for nearly 30 minutes -- I was glad to see their taillights in the distance, knowing I could ease up and latch on to the draft.  

From where I caught the group (about 25 miles, and an 1:30 minutes, by my clock), Kingsbury was only another 12 miles ahead -- we made it in just over half an hour.  We had a bit of a tailwind, but it was mostly just powering up over and the hills (the road route, mostly along FM 3353 reaches both some of the lowest elevations on the ride, and springs upward, to some of the highest elevations on the route).  The climbs weren't slow, and the descents were topping 30, nearing almost 40 mph.  

From Kingsbury, we took a chance on a longer route west -- it was more miles, but in theory, it had fewer hills and would hopefully benefit from a turn in the wind.  It was mostly flat, and we held a steady pace, rotating the pull every 10 or so minutes.  The temperature was starting to rise, but it was tolerable and most of the segment had broad tree canopy; atleast, it was shady, until the last few miles northbound on Huber.  After about an hour of thumping along, we took a stand in the shade along Friedens Church Road; at just 3 hours and 20 minutes, I was 55 miles into the day -- the century seemed like a sure thing.

We may have been a little overconfident.  It was 18 miles back to the starting point (one of our troupe needed to head home); we held our average pace (18 mph) into the wind, but all of us (I think) were feeling the strain -- heart rates were running 'hot'.   I was personally feeling ahead of schedule (and worn down), so made the decision to make a "full stop" for lunch -- sandwiches, cookies, sugary sodas, and lemonade for the water bottles -- there were still 28 miles to goal.  

After lunch (and it was a long lunch: 30 minutes), we doubled back towards the York Creek loop -- it's convenient, and the loop itself is nearly 8 miles around.  The tailwind helped push the average pace a bit (and I mostly sat in a draft, which helped even more); despite the advantages (the wind and a pull), my heart rate was still elevated -- it was probably the heat.  My heart rate monitor died, then, just before mile 90; another friend had to head home, and I was on my own for the last bit home.  

The road to Kingsbury, also known as 3353, is known for its hills, despite being miles to the east of the Balcones Escarpment.  You can see the first of the major hills nearly a mile before you reach nearly 10% grade; farther off in the distance, Highway 130 carries 80mph traffic at a much more pleasant grade.  Ultimately, 3353 goes under 130, but only to reset your climbing progress.  It's about 7 such hills to Kingsbury.

The sun seemed to be intensifying, but the clouds refused to give way -- the temperatures lingered in the mid '50's.  The grasses of the river valley ranches reflected a brighter shade of green; the brightness of the river itself was nearly too much for the camera.  I was about a third of the way to the century.

I followed the back roads of Prairie Lea for a quick turn-around and crossed the San Marcos River a second time; the river side campground was abuzz, but there was no traffic on the road. 

It is, admittedly, easy to underestimate the local topography.  Of course the major arterials are run along the flattest ridges!  The Blackland Prairies offer some excellent climbing, enough to rival the Hill Country at times, if you go looking in the right places; the roads can be just as curvy, too, and there's no shortage of wildlife.

About two thirds of the way into the century, and I was relieved to see the utility lines ahead, stretching across a vast, flat plain.  The clouds had redoubled, and the open winds brought new chills.

I looped around in the prairies a bit longer, wrapping behind the airport -- I managed to catch a small plane overhead in the pattern, but only had time for one blurry snap.  Once past the airport, and turned north towards home, the sky broke at last.  

Within 15 minutes, I was riding the wide shoulder of Old Bastrop Highway.  Despite appearances, the road can be very quiet -- that remains true, at least until these last few fields become a part of the nearby suburbs, just barely visible on the horizon.  The old highway route is only a few continuous miles anyway (as it's long been absorbed and dissected by Interstate 35).  Past the new developments, the 'usual route' takes a left turn, east onto York Creek.  Following the creek, the road is curvy and quite -- and the trees are well watered, too.

From York Creek, Huber is just a turn around the corner, providing a nearly straight shot south to Seguin.  The road itself is of two conditions.  The first, coming from San Marcos, is a rough and cracked pavement, occasionally regressing to chip-seal of varying ages, and loosely knitted together with a generous spaghetti of tar -- this first section also has hills (one of which is affectionately tagged as Huberis Hill).  But, then, after conquering these first few miles, the second stretch of Huber's pavement is the smoothest in the entire region, not to mention straight and mostly flat.  I rolled along until that pavement ended, then turned around and just kept rolling right along (with the tailwind).

After the 'time trialing' on Huber, I turned towards the Hill Country and the well-traveled River Road; I stopped to snack on some fruit snacks and sip some water -- there were still a few miles in the prairies to cover.  I stitched together a series of backroads, including Dauer Ranch Road, ultimately to slip behind the New Braunfels Airport: I spied a few small planes flying in the pattern.  The roads were quiet, but that may not last: the homes on Dauer are new within the last year -- the rural is now ex-urban, and soon to be fully sub-urban.  These suburbs appear from nowhere in just months all along the Interstate 35 corridor; crossing the interstate is harrowing in most places, but many of the new interchanges, such as at Kohlenberg and Conrads, are underutilized (for now).  

West of I-35 (and after passing through another small suburb), the route crosses the Union Pacific rails, sneaks onto "Old" Hunter Road, and emerges at a popular destination: Gruene.  While it's no place for time trials, it is one of my favorite parts of the route: bicycles, along with pedestrians, joggers, strollers, and lollygaggers all have priority over the cars in Gruene; on particularly busy days, there will be law enforcement officers directing traffic -- there were no officers today, so I suppose it was a slow day for the village.  

Of course, River Road is the crown jewel in most routes nearing the Guadalupe River.  The entirety of the road -- ten miles with no cross-traffic -- isn't all riverside, and much of the roadside is heavily commercialized (campgrounds, cabins, and a few restaurants around), but the valley is heavily sheltered from the worst of the winds, the trees offer shade even at noon, and the speed limit varies from just 20 to a high of 30 mph.  I rode out to Sattler, and turned around without a pause.  I never intended to push straight through, but I simply didn't feel a need for the stop -- I finally broke the pace after doubling back to the start of River Road (after the 'Ice House' climb, and out of the valley).  I quickly ate both of the granola bars I packed, and finished my first water bottle: 72 miles down, and just 28 more to a century.

I beat the traffic through Gruene for the second time (uphill, no less), then slipped away back the way I'd come -- Old Hunter Road.  It's not a long stretch, but it's pleasant all the same: the kind of place you'd like to live (as long you're okay with the neighbors keeping a 5-foot tall bird in the backyard).  From there, I slipped onto the 'new' Hunter Road (State Farm to Market, or FM, 1101).  The state road is busy, but the chip-seal surface is by far worse than the track -- it's rough enough to rob you of momentum, even with a tailwind!  The turn off, onto Watson Road didn't offer much relief -- just more ruts -- but it wasn't long and I was back onto York Creek and Old Bastrop -- back where I had started.  

Hugo ends near the high point of the ride, and the route is largely a descent back towards New Braunfels -- but you might not feel that way, as there are a few good rolling ascents on Purgatory and 306 as you head into Sattler.  By then it was 30 miles and 2 hours into the day, but having been careful not to push too hard on the climbs, I was still feeling fresh enough to push onto Gruene, 12 miles ahead.  I was unhurried along the Guadalupe River, enjoying the views of the hills, sipping on full bottles of water, and scrounging my pockets for plentiful snacks.    

At mile 45 was the turn off to Naeglins, but I turned instead north back towards San Marcos; it was near enough the same miles without going downtown, and besides, I was still well supplied and feeling good -- I figured I had another hour, maybe two before I'd be forced to stop.  I added a few miles via York Creek, passed within a few miles of home (in case I really needed to bail), but then pushed on into San Marcos, where I headed straight for the regional burger chain, P. Terry's; the local stand has really nice patio from which to have a burger (while admiring your bicycle, of course).  I admittedly wanted a more artistic photo of my lunch (of a type which I don't often stop for), but it was a bit of a miracle I waited long enough before eating to get even one picture.

Finishing up lunch, the odometer had rung up 72 miles with home just about 8 miles away.  From the burger stand, there happened to be an excellent ride along Old Stagecoach Road, north towards Kyle -- the road is narrow, twisty, and with rough pavement, keeping traffic to a slow murmur; I went as far Center Street before figuring I'd need to turn around.  Lunch, still feeling a bit heavy in my belly, seemed to slow me down a bit extra (not to add mention of the day's long fatigue setting in).

At mile 90, I realized I was still a bit too close to home; I twisted the route around in my head, to add a few more miles by climbing to the top of N LBJ Drive (a particularly steep route in San Marcos) and then across the Craddock bike lane -- a particularly visible sign of the contentious but growing bicycle infrastructure around town.  It's notable too, that from Craddock, to Bishop, to Hunter Road, and along McCarty, the route is almost entirely either signed for bicyclists' use or provided a lane-width shoulder to navigate.  I finish the last of my water and pull home at just over 100 miles.  The hills were challenging, and the touring bike heavy, but nonetheless, it was a great day out on the bike, and besides, the Century a Month challenge was never meant to be a race.