Philly really is a town of fast riders, like most places. But we lack a good race series/promoter. No epic races, a bunch of crits and expensive Lancaster cow shit covered roads. Ha, don't take this to seriously.
I did the fools classic RIDE. Not a race. Got my cue sheet, checked the weather radar, just chilly and drizzly. Packed the car and went.
I did'nt pack my shovel, but I should of, cause this course makes you dig deep, steep dirt roads, beautiful roads, mud, grime, and a small group of fast enough guys to keeping it hard to make it hurt. I just was'nt ready to dig into my pain. No foot pushing down the pedals like driving a spade into the ground digging someone elses grave. Alas. My chain skipped over the big ring and dropped on a down hill. Paul the bastard did try to encourage my speed, with a nice pacing hand on the back, but to no avail. I was only at mile 40 into the 72 miles to ride. I was dropped.
The group was out of sight, and I was in a beautiful way. I had no idea where I was, but I just rode forward. On. I came to the river, and looked at the intersections road sign, and started to pull out the cue sheet to even see if any of these roads were on the ride.
A mini van pulled in beside me, I gave a friendly wave, "hello, how do you do? How do I get to Holicong school?" My face and body covered with road grime, standing alone in my wet kit, on this quiet road.
she pondered me, and then, "turn left, turn left, turn left. 15 miles."
"Thanks" I said, and with a cute soccer mom smile she drove away.
I liked the word Holicong, a nice word, exotic, child like, dangerous. It just stuck with me.
I made it back, signed out as accounted for, took some grateful beers and drove home to deal with the broken bits and mud covered kit.
a Fools classic day.
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