March 27: The LBJ 100

What do you get when you cross a 65 mile bicycle ride and a guy with no sense of direction? If that guy is Brandon Roesler, you get a 95 mile bike ride, extremely sunburned arms, and two sore knees.

The day started off how I wanted. I woke up at 6:45, made myself some oatmeal, a plain toasted blueberry bagel, and a glass of orange juice (medium pulp) and was on the road by 7:30. My goal was to arrive at the registration tables fifteen minutes before the scheduled 9:00 start time to pick up my packet. The drive was going as smoothly as I could have hoped until, a half hour in, I realized I had forgotten my helmet and riding gloves.

The helmet I could have done without, but there was no way I was going to ride 65 miles without any kind of padding on my delicate hands. I had no other choice but to turn around. I was furious, but I had to do it. Instead of arriving fifteen minutes early, I would be lucky if I arrived fifteen minutes late; which I did.

The parking lot was completely full. I was literally the furthest car from the starting line; not that big of a deal seeing as how I could ride my bike, though. From the looks of it, I didn't miss anything by showing up a little late, either. Practically every car, truck, and SUV had at least one cyclist behind it making adjustments to derailleurs and chains while others were pumping air into tires.

I have never been a bike jersey kind of guy. I draw the flamboyant attire line just after the spandex bike shorts. If you've never ridden a bike with padding in the shorts, you're really missing out. The bright colors of the skin tight jerseys that leave the chest exposed are a little too much for me. I'm perfectly comfortable in a gray cotton tank top. Yeah, my disgusting chest hair is still exposed in all of its glory, but at least I'm not accessorizing it with a pink or bright yellow shirt. As I rode down the line of cars, however, I saw that I was the only one with the concern. Every other cyclist went with the jersey.

Aside from the onslaught of vibrant colored spandex, I found it interesting riding past the other cyclists to the registration tables. There were riders of every shape and size preparing for an adventure that I anticipated being the most out of shape for. There were fat riders (sporting that spandex, of course!), skinny riders, men, women, old people, young people, and even a black guy! There were teams of riders that worked together in the same office and teams of riders from universities.

After signing in at the registration table, I was ready to go. I rode across the starting line with a group of brightly colored jerseys and past an announcer on a microphone wishing us all good luck. The first part of the ride was on a paved road that wound around the barns of the Lyndon B. Johnson ranch before crossing a river and a campsite and stretching into the Texas Hill Country.

I couldn't have asked for better weather. There wasn't a cloud in the big blue sky and it was accompanied with a light breeze. I had debated bringing my sweatshirt along for the first part of the ride, but I'm grateful that I chose not to. The extra weight would have really been a pain in the ass (get it?) on the back end of the ride.

For the most part, I was with other riders and when we approached an LBJ 100 sign with an arrow, all of the riders turned. No one continued past the turn so I assumed that the 30, 45, and 65 mile routes were all supposed to turn at the sign. An hour later when I was congratulated for finishing the 30 mile and pointed in the direction of the parking lot by a park ranger, I knew something wasn't right.

Apparently, I wasn't supposed to turn. There wasn't any indication that the 45 and 65 mile riders were supposed to continue past the sign. The park ranger suggested that I go around the 30 again and it would, in essence, be the equivalent of riding my planned 65 mile ride. But that isn't how I do things. When I say I want to do something, I want to do it the way it was meant to be done. The ranger thought I was crazy for wanting to continue past the sign and take on the 65 mile ride as if it were my first venture, but that's what I wanted and that's what I did!

Not only was I late to the starting line, but now I was starting the trek an hour and a half after everyone else on the same route. I came in dead last. It wasn't a race, but it was funny to tell the workers at each rest stop that I didn't pass any other riders and that they could close shop.

On the 30 mile ride, I was passing riders left and right. I was always within 100 yards of another cyclist. On the 65 mile ride, however, I was the only sign of human activity. I would literally go miles before a car would pass me in either direction. The countryside was grand and awe-inspiring and the cows were great, but if I didn't have my American Pastoral audio book, the boredom would have gotten the best of me and made my ride much more strenuous!

Six and a half hours after I started, I was sitting at a table under a canopy enjoying a hot dog and celebrating the completion of my almost-century ride. The ride wasn't nearly as difficult as I had imagined it to be. There were a few hills, but nothing like what I had anticipated. If you had told me yesterday that I was going to be riding 95 miles, I would not have believed it. I was anxious about the idea of riding 65 miles without any training, but 95 miles would have been out of the question.

Now I can rest my tired legs and go to bed early. The true test will come tomorrow when I get to work a twelve hour shift where I will undoubtedly be in the worst section of the restaurant due to a recent customer complaint. How will my legs hold up? How will my sunburned arms react to the inevitable splash of queso and grilled onions? These are questions that will have to wait for answers in another blog entry.





Listening to The Beach Boys.