I guess we’re doing audax now.
Unlike an “allure libre” brevet, the Audax is less of an appreciation of the communal spirit, and rather a demand for it. In the Audax format, riders ride at a set pace with scheduled refuel and regroup points. If a rider needs a nature break, or experiences a mechanical issue, the group does not stop. The route was pretty, and most roads were low traffic, but the real standout was our Kansas City Audax hosts. At every control we found Keith waving and smiling; delivering good vibes, and great food, even in challenging conditions. Despite forecasts, Saturday’s weather was perfect, with rain only in the last few miles. Sunday was another story. The peloton departed late, waiting for a tardy rider and another that missed the “early start” announcement. The rain was steady and the wind came from every direction but behind. As some riders struggled, the rough weather may have contributed to a pair of unfortunate emotional outbursts. Despite that drama, the group worked well together, especially after lunch. “Rando math” and some pace line configuration experimentation established that we’d need to leave controls much earlier if we wanted to avoid DNFs caused by the prescribed pace, sedate as it may have seemed. As we approached the end, one rider contacted Keith to check on a ride leader who had stayed behind at lunch to help another captain: He was only 10 minutes behind the group. We decided to pull into the service station across from the finish, where we sat in the grass to wait for everyone to finish as a team.
The pace was civil, and the thin clouds spared us from the often brutal heat of Poudre Canyon, but it was always going to rain. At the store in Rustic a sheet of paper taped over the handle read “Soft serve closed for winter”. The sky darkened. Aside from a wet road, ten minutes of rain, and a moment that stung like hail, during which I pulled the bill of my cap low to shield my face, the storm quickly passed. I attribute the lack of precipitation to the talismanic nature of the rain jackets we’d donned in anticipation of a soaking. One hundred kilometer from our last visit, we arrived back at Ted’s Place, the filling station at the entrance to Poudre Canyon. The food situation was grim. The same sad breakfast sandwiches sat waiting, save for the one I’d eaten before the climb. None of the remaining breakfast burritos called to me. Three varieties of hot dog turned silently next to a novel option. I scooped up the two remaining “chicken and waffle” rollers, good for two hundred calories apiece. Paired with a hot dog bun they would fuel me to our next stop easily. Jenn, not a fan of a sweet and salty breakfast combination, declared the maple syrup topped concoction “disgusting” Departing Ted’s, it was clear that we should enjoy the journey north as we’d battle the typical headwind, if not worse, south from Rawhide, and we did. Mercifully, the storm had largely subsided by the time we finished up dinner, or whatever that was, in Wellington. At the 7-11 in Platteville the crowd was this year’s usual collection of weirdos. I can’t be sure what happened in this town. There appears to have been no meaningful change in the surrounding area. I can’t articulate how, but the characters that frequent the service station have taken a turn towards the bizarre. A light tailwind propelled us the final one hundred kilometers back to Louisville. Jenn and I headed home for light dinner, midnight being a bit late for big meal.
Another staple of the RMCC brevet early season calendar. One of the first truly warm days of spring, and everyone was out enjoying it. The ride up to Glenhaven is a mixed bag, US34 has too much traffic, but a wide shoulder. After the turn off at Drake things quiet down considerably. It’s nice to think we could continue up through Estes Park, but the better way to do Estes is from the south. A nice day out on the bike in any case.
Our traditional season opener, delayed to this weekend, always hosts a few new faces. While it was certainly a busy weekend in Poudre Canyon, after the turn off, the climb up to Stove Prairie was quiet, as was the descent. Upon inspection, my rear wheel did not survive. I guess I'm building a wheel before the Glenhaven 300k
It didn't look promising. Precipitation fell continuously Friday, blanketing every unpaved plot in Fort Collins in fluffy white snow. A 6am "slip test" made us feel better about it, the icy bridges did not The route itself, like its ancestor the "Armageddon Amble", eschews pleasantries in service of its goal of finding old military installations. Unfortunately this presents less as sight seeing, and more a tour of Eastern Colorado's most debris strewn highways. By the southernmost point, things had turned around. We picked up the pace, aided by a light tailwind for the return north along more familiar, and much quieter, roads. By the time we arrived back in Fort Collins only puddles remained, and the prairie dogs were eagerly gobbling the green spring grass.
When the rain wasn’t falling from the sky, it was thrown up by the masses of mudguard-less riders. The damp hung in the air, blew across the peaks and swept through the trees. The fog would stick around until late afternoon. I think I changed gloves twenty times. We’d ridden part of the route on a sunny day earlier in the month, so the contrast was interesting if not exactly pleasant. This is the only French brevet I’ve ridden aside from PBP. I expected better food along the route, though the club did serve a three course meal with drinks upon arrival. We scarfed that down and rode the five miles to catch the train to Carpentras under clear skies.
Arrived on the train, rather far south of Bolléne, an industrial town along the motorway. Rode to the hotel in sleet and gale force gusts. 200km brevet starts at 6am.
This one is for @bikesaviours and @communitycycles After 62 hours and 548 miles, Jenn’s shifting failed. The rear derailleur’s unserviceable parallelogram spring had snapped. This left Jenn with 2 gears, as she still had the derailleur to pull tension for front shifting. But if she shifted the cassette down, she wouldn’t be able to upshift. PBP is non-stop hills, and muscle memory is strong. The first “fix” was a couple bands of old tube. While I rigged the derailleur, Jenn called a shop in Fougeres, 40mi away. A few miles later we switched to an elastic cord salvaged from Jenn’s bag, tied to a brake boss. When we arrived at the shop all they had was a SRAM 1x derailleur, which the mechanic thought he could get working even though it didn’t have the take up for a double. It was a no-go. She could have the big chainring or the small, but not both. We’d been there for an hour, and needed to get rolling. The broken derailleur went back on. Having seen the elastic cord solution, the mechanic dug around and found some sturdy rubber bands that I attached with a zip tie. That gave Jenn 9 of 11 rear gears, which she rode another 215 miles, to the the end of Paris Brest Paris. Nicely done Jenn
Paris Brest Paris is, bittersweetly, over. Finished in 85h05m with a couple nights of pretty good sleep, and more than 2 hours dealing with a freak mechanical. Post on that coming later.
