Ships Log: 100 Not Out – It’s Business Time
Ah yes. Century rides. The beloved benchmark of masochists everywhere. With the “Big Day” creeping closer like a slow-motion landslide, I decided it was time to psychologically yank off the plaster and hit triple digits. A strategic manoeuvre, partly to bank some goodwill with the family for next Thursday, and partly to prove to myself that I wouldn’t dissolve into a pile of flapjack crumbs at mile 94.
The plan: two elegant loops orbiting my home like a confused lunar satellite. This also allowed for a mid-morning rendezvous with a glazing firm (I know, glamour), and a late-afternoon haircut appointment that would act as a soft threat to get me home on time. Nothing says “motivational pacing strategy” like the promise of not arriving to the barbers looking like you’ve just been dug out of a hedge.
The weather? “Light winds,” said the forecast. Naturally, that translated into a persistent headwind from all compass points, including—somehow—the ground.
I wisely drank my coffee before leaving this time (small victories), and set out equipped with the last of the peanut butter flapjacks (as dry as the humour in this blog) and a Nutella sandwich, halved, because I am nothing if not a professional in portion control.
Familiar roads lulled me into a false sense of pacing competence and I predictably set off a little too enthusiastically. A quick roadside stop was required to coax my Wahoo into functionality after it suffered a minor existential crisis caused by not being turned on at home. Turns out the Wahoo, when not given a head start, refuses to upload routes properly and instead prefers to gaslight you by insisting you’re on lap two while you’re still trying to remember if you locked the front door.
Lesson: always sync before you leave, lest your navigation device begin spouting lies and sending you in philosophical loops.
I reached the Cow Shed café at the 50-mile mark with the serene confidence of a man who planned this ride down to the last crumb. However, in a display of nutritional hubris, I opted for cake and coffee instead of something resembling sustenance. Reader, I paid for that error. The middle third of the ride was powered primarily by regret and frosting.
At mile 75, I had scheduled a hill—because why not combine physical suffering with emotional fragility? Fortunately, it went fine. By now, the temperature was actually pleasant (only took until 3pm), and I was finally riding with the smug assurance of a man who has one half of a Nutella sandwich left and knows exactly when to deploy it.
Said sandwich arrived at mile 85 like cavalry on a sugar high. Glorious. A lesson in fuelling was learned, mostly: flapjacks are fine, but a Nutella sandwich at the right time might be my new religion.
Hydration was nailed today. Two 800ml bottles and a halfway refill, plus my own SIS mix like a seasoned pro. No mistakes there, which almost makes up for the rest of the day’s shenanigans.
The final stretch was due to take me through a section I actively loathe, so I improvised, doubled back, and opted for familiarity over loathing. A final flourish of logistical genius.
I even had time to rehydrate at home before heading to the haircut like a man who definitely didn’t just ride 101 miles and cry inside at mile 62.
Stats:
101 miles
3,700 ft elevation
2 Nutella sandwich halves
1 confused GPS device
Next up: a hillier, shorter jaunt in two weeks. Then? The final approach. Business, it would appear, is very much time.
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