the 100-mile ride. They mirrored my mental landscape. One hundred miles? Fifty had beaten me up pretty
badly; the van was certain to claim me. What had possessed me to put myself in this situation anyway?
By 8 a.m., following a quick, anxious breakfast, we were on the road. "Make short stops, and lots of them,"
counseled Bob. In order to keep up our stamina, we were instructed to drink water and snack often. My lunch bag contained
several bananas. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, M&M's, cookies and granola bars. If only I had been hungry! It seemed
a crime to gobble up sweets in the name of strategy rather than guilty pleasure.
Our route followed a smoothly paved road from the mountains of the national park west all the way to the
Tasman Sea. Most of it followed a gradually deepening gorge carved by the Buller River. I realized the path went steadily,
gently downhill. Also, we had a tail wind, a gift of nature cyclists value more than gold. For 40 miles I coasted down the
road like Lance Armstrong.
Maybe, just maybe, I was going to make it. Once I crossed a bridge over the gorge, onto a twisting lame
framed by a bower of huge interlocking fern branches, my nervousness turned to euphoria. Every once in a while I caught glimpses
of the gorge and its churning rapids. The weather and the scenery were perfect for cycling. By the time I stopped at a rest
area to eat, I had put nearly 60 miles behind me in five hours without any signs of weariness. "Ferns, glades, rushing water
-- most beautiful a ride I've ever seen," I scribbled in my notebook.
Another rider, also a novice "centurian," showed up. "How do you feel?" I asked. "Good!" she said with
wonder in her voice. "I'm surprised at myself."
"Me too," I said.
The remaining five hours took their roll. Creeping fatigue slowed my pace but did nothing to diminish
my elation. "I'm a Pac-Man eating up miles!" I wrote giddily during a pause just outside the coastal village of Westport,
our destination." From the crest [go to AddClips3]
