As in previous years, I had a great excuse to miss the Madness. I was scheduled to be at a professional meeting that was to last until noon, Saturday, June 2^nd, the day the ride was scheduled. Additionally, I had the entire broke hip/pelvis thing working for me. My doctor had told me that I could ride the trainer after 8 weeks; however, I had strict orders to stay off of the road for 12 weeks. This off course was the same doctor that broke a vertebrae while mountain biking and was riding several weeks later. How serious could he be with his orders to me? While not the most compliant patient regarding doctor’s orders, I did manage to avoid group rides for 12 weeks following my accident. This meant that for the 2 weeks prior to Three Mountain Madness, I had been doing some small group rides with folks I was comfortable riding with. Now I was contemplating lining up with over 650 other masochists and attempting a 95 mile ride to Painville.

As in previous years, I eschewed my professional obligations and left my meeting early so that I could fly in late Friday evening, get up early Saturday morning only to suffer miserably the rest of the day. And suffer miserably, I did. This year the suffering was a bit more intense than in previous years. Not only was the lack of training a problem, but this year, similar to 2006, Harry Wilson and Ricky Atkins had added more miles, more hills and more misery to their diabolic little creation which they now affectionately referred to as Three Mountain Madness. It seems they had scoured the country side and found every damn hill in Surry and Stokes counties and had managed to incorporate them into their little suffer-fest. While the added scenery was indeed beautiful, I did not see much of it. Most of the time my gaze was focused on the road directly in front of me as the miles of bucolic vistas rolled past.

In order to try and stay out of trouble, my plan was to line up early at the front of the group and go out with the lead pack. In addition to loosing fitness during my convalescence, I had apparently suffered some memory loss. I had forgotten how poor of a rider I was and how good the riders were in the lead group. As we left the Armstrong Civic Center, riders began to swarm to the front of the pack sending me further and further towards the back. I watched a few of the leaders as they made their way back to the front of the pack. Watching them, I realized there was an art to moving to the front of the Peloton and staying in the front. Unfortunately, I was just painting by numbers and trying to stay between the lines… the white lines of the pavement that is. I did manage to find my way back to the front of the Peloton after a game of chicken with a rusted out 1972 Ford Pinto traveling way too fast for its engineering specifications. The driver obviously valued his classic auto more than I valued my Trek Madone, or as the driver might have referred to me – the Mad One, and let me pass. After this little game of redneck chicken, I somehow managed to stay near the front of the group and out of trouble until we started up Sauratown Mountain. Once we hit the initial slopes of the mountain I discovered that my bike was a 21 speed and not a 20 speed as I had been led to believe when I purchased it. Yes, this bike came with a reverse, because that is the only way I could explain why so many people were passing me as they moved up the mountain and I didn’t. My lack of training was beginning to pay off. At this rate, there was no way I was going to make the time limits. I would be forced to abandon the ride early and would not have to face Pilot. There would be no return to Brokehip Mountain.

I eventually mustered enough strength to get to the top. My motivation to finish the climb came when I realized my wife would soon be passing me and would once again secure the coveted family polka dotted jersey. I had lost it once several years previously, and my fragile male ego (yea, I know fragile and male are redundant when discussing ego) could not take that again. I managed to make it to the top, circle around and start the journey over to Hanging Rock. On Moore’s Spring Road, a friend rode past me and told me to get on. It took everything I had to stay on his wheel. When we reached Hanging Rock, he dropped me, and once again I struggled to the top of the mountain fearful of loosing the family polka dotted jersey.

As we rode through Danbury, I was passed by what could only be described as a human cycling blimp. And once again I witnessed engineering specifications being pushed to their limits. This time is was the engineering specifications of carbon and lycra. Could carbon hold such a load and could lycra be stretched to such a degree? The answer was yes, and I was devastated. Not by the answer to the question, but by the fact that I was being dropped by someone with such a large surface area of skin. I would much prefer to have lost the polka dotted jersey to my wife than be passed by someone on a bike who was guaranteed lifelong employment at Goodyear. How the hell had I let Harry talk me into attempting this Madness? In addition to the physical suffering, I now had to endure mental and emotional suffering, and I wasn’t even half way through his damn little sadistic fiesta. As we started the climb out of Danbury, I decided that the human dirigible was not going to stay in front of me, and I proceeded to ride past him and eventually caught up with my friend. We formed a group of about 10 riders and set up a rotating paceline and headed towards Pilot. I was hoping everyone in the group was insane enough to be doing the 95 mile route. Much to my chagrins, all but three of us turned for the 75 mile route.

The two riders with whom I was left knew one another and chatted until the next rest stop. As I listened to them prattle away, I heard them extol the virtues of the ride. Listening to their discussion, one might be led to believe that Three Mountain Madness was the greatest thing since sliced bread. At this point in the ride, I was pretty sure that the only thing this ride was better than was water-boarding at Guantanamo. And speaking of water, I was out of fluids, along with fuel and motivation, and needed to stop. One of my companions suggested we make it a quick stop; I suggested a permanent stop. Once we were back on the road heading towards Pilot, I noticed that the we was just me. My two companions eventually reached me as we made our way to the base of Pilot. As we started the climb, fears of my wife and the Goodyear Guy surfaced and I accelerated past my new found friends. Unfortunately, my new found fitness did not last long, and one of them rode past me like I was standing still. I settled into my own personal hell and continued up Pilot. My spirits were somewhat revived as I passed a number of riders cramped up and lying in agony on the side of the road. It is amazing how other’s suffering can provide such positive motivation. And to think, just three and a half months earlier I was lying on the side of the same roadway in agony. Hopefully, I too was able to enlighten someone’s day back then. I made it to the top and then began my descent. Not surprisingly, I was moving slower going down the mountain than climbing it. In fact, as I approached the turn where I had crashed, I was tempted to get off and walk my bike down. I had been out for over 5 hours and decided that it may take another 5 hours to walk the bike down so I decided to ride it down, albeit very slowly. Once I reached the bottom, I headed out of the park, this time without being strapped to an ambulance gurney, and headed to Pilot Mountain for the finish.

As I rolled into the finish, I noticed that Harry and Ricky had made one other addition to the ride. Unlike the additional miles and hills they had added earlier in the ride, this one was a welcomed and pleasant addition. As I rolled across the finish line, I was immediately handed a cold towel from a hot woman.

Now show me where they do that at a gay dude ranch out west.