Half a Hilly Hundred, one heckuva long, bike-riding experience

Broken bones. Fractured faces. Road rash. \nThese were the fears that kept me from sleeping soundly last Saturday night, the night before I participated in my first Hilly Hundred. I heard all the horror stories earlier in the day from a few longtime Hilly riders. \n"I was raw meat," one 14-year Hilly veteran told me of the year he ended up in the emergency room, drugged up on pain medication after a nasty spill. "I had to call a friend from Indianapolis to pick me up and take me home." \nWho knew a leisurely bike ride could end so badly?\nI decided to join the flock of more than 5,000 bicyclists for the two-day bicycle tour of the hills of southern Indiana on a whim -- for a chance to uncover what makes people bonkers for bicycles. I wanted to try something new, challenging, maybe even fun. Sunday's 50-mile ride promised all that.\nEarly Sunday morning, with the sun peeking over the horizon on my left and the moon still high and bright on my right, I slung my leg over the frame of my rented mountain bike, strapped on a helmet for one of the few times in my life and pedaled. And pedaled. And pedaled. \nHere's how it went (up and) down:\nMiles 1-10 -- At last! My ride begins. This is thrilling. This is a little scary. I have never ridden a bike farther than 10 to 15 miles. I have never ridden up hills so notorious someone decided to give them a name. I better take it easy. I better take it slow. I better take it all in. But I'm so cold. It'll be 70 degrees in a couple hours, but right now I'm a Popsicle on wheels. My legs are convulsing uncontrollably. My hands are numb. The cold is especially breathtaking on the downhills.\nIn front and back of me I'm surrounded by hardcore cyclists clad in long-sleeved jerseys, leg warmers, gloves and windbreakers. They're snug in hundreds of dollars' worth of nylon. Bicyclists love nylon -- even their socks are nylon. I'm wearing a polyester soccer jersey. It was free. My socks are cotton.\n"You must have a warm personality," one cyclist on a tandem bike says to me as he passes. Very funny. I'd give him the finger if I could move my hands.\nMiles 11-20 -- I'm starting to feel good about this ride. I'm starting to feel comfortable. I stopped at the first rest stop a mile back and made myself a peanut butter and jelly bagel. Nothing picks me up like a peanut butter and jelly bagel. I'm still reflecting on one of the first small hills I conquered. As I rose to its summit, the sunlight momentarily blinded me and a golden countryside revealed itself below. It was like a King Midas had passed through ahead of me. I can almost feel the tips of my fingers.\nI have a choice to make: continue straight and go on the 40-mile route or keep right and stay on the 50-mile route. Left. Right. Left. Right. Screw it. I'm doing 50. Bean Blossom Hill, here I come!\nThere are the hills. Then there are The Hills. Now, I'm approaching one of The Hills. I crank from second gear to first and my chain gets jammed. I pull over to fix it. Not a good way to start my first Hill. I try to ride steady. I pass some people that are walking their bikes uphill. I am secretly pleased with myself. Bean Blossom Hill, while momentarily zapping my legs of strength, is black and smooth. You could roll an egg down this road without it cracking. I reach the top and take a breather. I can see my heart beating through my shirt. More than 30 miles to go.\nMiles 21-30 -- People are passing me every few minutes. They fly by on their titanium-alloy-composite-feather road bikes with their chins down to their handlebars and the air sliding off their backs. Men three times my age cruise past with ease. Amazing. I guess there is more to retirement than bingo nights and the evening news. The Hilly is not a race. The Hilly is not a race. I repeat it in my head. Still, I wish this mountain bike came with a little jet propulsion.\nI get to State Road 37, and the police have the traffic blocked off both ways for the cyclists to cut through. I stream past four lanes of highway without even looking both ways. A cheap thrill, but a thrill nonetheless.\nThe lunch stop is a welcome sight. The main course is fried chicken. Not exactly a light entrée, but I guess it's a Hilly tradition. Time to rest and re-energize for the homestretch.\nMiles 31-40 -- I'm starting to feel it. My quads hate me, and the bike seat and my backside are not getting along.\nI attempt to ride up Tabor Hill, the meanest, baddest hill of the weekend. I'm pushing, I'm prodding, I'm practically sitting on my handlebars. I get maybe 15 yards before I hop off and start walking. Even walking takes some effort.\nI try to focus on my surroundings. The dense forests with the sloping ravines, the autumn colors of the leaves, the blueness of the sky, the banded woolly bear caterpillars. That's right, the banded woolly bear caterpillars. Black on the ends, brown in the middle, fuzzy all over -- the caterpillars slink across the road inch by inch. They probably have no idea how long it will take them to get across the road or what they were getting into when they decided to make the journey in the first place. Why did the banded woolly caterpillar cross the road? Why did the naive journalist think a 50-mile bike ride through the southern Indiana countryside sounded intriguing? \nI am a banded woolly bear caterpillar.\nMiles 41-50 -- The last 10 miles are the toughest. They are flat, straight and boring. I have nothing to distract me from the ache of my legs except the name tags on the backs of passing cyclists. Oh, he's from Tennessee. That's a drive -- or a really long bike ride. Look, a lady from Oregon. Wow, she's like a grandmother with the legs of a 20-year-old. Then a strange thing happens. I come across a familiar building. The realization hits me like awaking from a dream: I am back where I started almost six hours and 50 miles ago. \nA woolly caterpillar no more, I stretch my Tiger Moth wings and fly to bed with the rolling terrain of southern Indiana on my mind.