5000 Miles

I first began logging my cycling miles back in 2002 when David was hiking the Appalachian Trail. That trail is 2,175 long--running from Springer Mountain, Georgia, to Katadin Mountain, Maine. Most through-hikers try to complete the trek in about six months heading north from late April to early October (before the first fall snow closes the last wilderness section in Maine). It's an amazing athletic accomplishment. To complete it, one must average hiking twelve miles a day--though rain or shine, heat or cold, every single day--carrying 30 to 60 pounds on one's back. It's the hiking equivalent of the Tour de France.

During David's trip, Sue and I were his home support team, sending occasional boxes of dried food to various post offices along his route. In an effort to keep up with him vicariously, we decided to hike or bike as far each week as he did. . . . And so began our habit of logging our biking miles.

That first year I was able to finish the AT trail in September and went on to record about 3,000 miles for the period from May through December. In subsequent years I have usually set a very informal goal of attempting to ride 5,000 miles during the calendar year--and have only actually achieved that goal once! Riding 5,000 miles a year is basically the tipping point that separates the men from the boys among cycling enthusiasts. It doesn't sound like much when compared with hiking the Appalachian Trail, but life is not just cycling and a year is not just filled with pleasant sunny days. To hit 5,000 miles one has to ride 100 miles a week for 50 weeks of the year (granting two weeks off for vacation). My typical ride is 32 miles, so that makes it three rides a week. Pretty manageable -- until you start to add in weeks of bad weather, weeks of illness, weeks of other activities (kayak trips, visits to family, etc.).

Here, for example, is the summary of my biking log for 2008 so far:

Jan -- 287.4 -- 10 rides
Feb -- 218.1 -- 8 rides
Mar -- 377.1 -- 12 rides
Apr -- 247.8 -- 8 rides
May -- 339.8 -- 11 rides
Jun -- 566.3 -- 21 rides
Jul -- 550.8 -- 17 rides
Aug -- 607.8 -- 19 rides
Sep -- 481.6 -- 13 rides
Oct -- 426.2 -- 14 rides
Nov -- 428.6 -- 15 rides

Total as of 11/28/08 = 4,531.5 miles

The shortest ride I bothered to record was 7.2 miles, one of several where I used my mountain bike to pedal back to the car after a river float with Sue. Only four rides were longer than a "metric century"--100 kilometers or 62.5 miles. Twenty rides were "time trials"--rides on my normal 31.5 mile route at a pace fast enough to be worthy of recording in my log (i.e., 16 mph or better).

I now face one of the coldest months of the year, and I still have 470 miles to go if I am to reach 5000.

Will I make it?

Cycling Time Trial

OK. So I'm not Lance Armstrong, and the picture of him time-trialing is a bit pretentious. But I do ride my own time trial course in Hand Cove with some regularity. I ride 31.5 miles, which is about the same distance as some of the longer time trials at the Tour de France, but the average speed of the pros exceeds 30 mph while my record pace around here is 18.5 mph. Having confesed that, I am moved to added that my time-trial course is pretty hilly, and I'd be very surprised if the pros could do it faster than 25 mph. Anyway, I rode the course yesterday at a good clip. While I wasn't close to a record, my speed of 17.1 mph was probably somewhere in my top twenty.

I'm lucky to have a really nice road to ride with two lanes of wide blacktop. Indeed for a good part of the ride there is a paved shoulder that is as wide as many big-city bike lanes. To make things even better, there is rarely any simultaneous two-way traffic on the road, so I can "take the lane" in full confidence that in most circumstances passing cars will be able to give me a wide berth. Better still, I ride these roads so often that all of the locals are used to seeing me and know exactly what to do when approaching and passing a cyclist.

So the Hand Cove area has delightful rural roads for cycling with plenty of scenic beauty. Now I do confess that I can think of somewhat better rides: Push Mountain Road across the lake traverses the Ozark National Forest, with lovely mountainous vistas and equally deserted roads; the whole area around Trout Lake in northern Wisconsin is flat, scenic, sparsely populated, and blessed with beautiful lake views; Oak Mountain State Park near Birmingham has a great climb to the top of the mountain, a lovely view, and some splendid mountain bike trails; the Virginia Creeper trail near Abington, VA, has 30 miles of old railroad tracks that climb with multiple river crossings to the top of Whitetop Mountain; Lakeshore Drive bike trail in Chicago can't be beaten for city biking, though the Potomac River trails in DC run a close second. Yes, this country is blessed with great cycling areas, but I'm certainly not going to complain about Hand Cove. When I ride with friends in Mountain Home or venture onto the streets of Jonesboro, I discover anew how lucky I am.

My 17.1 mph time trial yesterday was, as I said, good, but not a personal record. That record (18.5 mph) was important enough to me that I'm going to fill out this entry by reprinting my comments about it on 6/26/08:

A day off the bike yesterday did me a world of good. This morning I felt fit and well-rested when I started my ride. More to the point, it was cloudy and relatively cool. With truly hot weather ready to begin any day now, I figured this was one of my last opportunities for a time trial until fall. In addition, I wanted to see whether my substitute shifter would interfere with a speedy ride.

Usually what happens on a time trial is that I start off at a good clip and check my time and average speed at various points along the way. At the Fire Station I was already up to about 17 mph, and by the store my time was about 16 minutes with an average speed that had only dropped to about 16 mph. I don't have perfect recall of past rides, but I knew those were respectable times.

The first real check-point comes at highway 412. Past experience tells me that anything under a half-hour for those first 8.3 miles is a very good ride (16.6 mph). Imagine my surprise as I rolled along those 4 miles toward the intersection and found that my average speed was nearly 18 mph and increasing. I think I hit 18.1 or 18.2 at the turn-about. I recognized that that was one of my fastest times ever!

Of course, it's one thing to keep up a good pace for the first 25% of a time trial, and it's significantly more difficult to keep up that pace for the remainder of the ride. However, the section from 412 to Woods Point is mostly downhill. It's a fun, fast section and I enjoyed trying to keep my average speed creeping higher. I felt confident that if I could get my average up to 18.5 at Woods Point, I'd have a good chance at a top-5 ride. So I kept the pedals churning all the way down the hill and up the slight rise before the final descent to the landing. One more push and then I had to hit the brakes hard before launching myself into the lake.

OK, I now cheat a little on my time trials by taking a water break by the lake. As I enjoyed the view, I tried to remember whether or not, at 18.8 mph, I was on a record pace. I wasn't sure, but I knew it didn't really matter. There have been other good rides where I burned up the first half of the course, only to flag sadly toward the end. Furthermore, the third section of the time trial is the slowest, heading steadily uphill with the only saving grace being that the hardest hill comes first.

I watched my average speed drop as I ground up Woods Point Hill. Still, I was encouraged that it had only dropped to 18.0 at Dan's house. If I could keep it above 18 until reaching the grocery store, I'd have a shot at a great ride. To my surprise I had even gained a bit of time in that slightly uphill section.

So I knew I had eight miles of gentle rollers from the store to the highway and back to the store during which I might just be able to get my average up a few tenths before the last dismal drudgery of the lead-up to Cemetery Hill. I passed the store for the final time with my average in the 18.4 to 18.5 range.

In the past I have always found that my average for the entire ride will usually be the same as it is when I pass the store for the last time. But that was true for rides where I was averaging 15 or 16 or even 17 mph. Obviously, the higher the speed, the less reliable such an indicator would be. I could still bonk and I was beginning to feel some strain in my knee.

I decided to start spinning higher rpm's to take some weight off my knee while still keeping my speed up. I handled the first two climbs as usual -- which means that Fire Station Hill was a bitch, especially since I always greet it with the sinking recognition that Cemetery Hill will be even harder.

On a normal ride I take those two hills in my easiest gear and find that gear none-too-easy. This time I shifted down into the next harder gear and crested the cemetery without quite passing out. My average was 18.5, dropping to 18.4 just over the top of the hill. So now I had to push big gears in the final two miles, catching up with and passing a car towing a boat just as I clipped the finish line at John Lewis Road. Total time for 31.5 miles -- 1 hour, 41 minutes, and 46 seconds. Average speed -- just over 18.5.

While driving back home, I couldn't quite remember whether my previous record was 18.2 or 18.8. Fortunately, I found our old calendars. My previous best effort was 1:44.06 (18.2 mph). . . . So I am frankly amazed. It has been more than a year since I have managed a really fast
ride (in the mid-17's). I had reconciled myself to the inevitable fact of aging.

Ha! Not yet! Take that Calendar Record Book!

Kayaking to the Bluffs

Sometimes the best adventures are also the most routine. My normal kayaking cruise heads across the lake to the Bluffs, follows the bluff line, and then returns back to our bay. During a recent early morning paddle, the fog was just rising from the lake. The sun low in the east, back-lighting it nicely. A slight breeze from the northwest was pushing under the fog and lifting it into dozens of tiny whirlwinds, miniature tornadoes, a lesson in the physics of tornado formation.

Crossing back from the Bluffs, I saw two strange objects in the distance. Ducks? Migrating pelicans (which sometimes do stop during the fall)? No, through my binoculars I could see two deer about half-way across the lake, swimming from the island toward the Bluffs. I paddled over to investigate, and when they saw me, they turned back toward the island. I followed slowly, not wanting to cause them to drown in a panic. When they got close to shore, I sped up until I was just behind the flank of one. They lumbered up onto the shore and vanished in what remains of the mostly flooded island. I paddled slowly to the far end of the island and saw two more deer (perhaps the same two) swimming swiftly toward shore. Upon seeing me they retreated back to the relative safety of the wooded island. Then I went a bit farther and saw a big buck, which was well across the bay and continued on its way, indifferent to my presence.

MS150 -- Day 2

The bed at the Mather Lodge, which had seemed as hard as an oak floor on the first night, was blissfully soft on the second. I awoke fairly well rested and only a little worn from the previous day's effort. After an eggs and pancakes breakfast (free, like nearly all the meals during the weekend), I lined up with the other riders for the start.

Once again, a four-mile warm-up preceded the winding descent of the mountain. I had thought that I was just nervous the first time down, but this time it was clear something was wrong with my bike. The hill was steep enough so that one easily exceeded 30 mph, but it was twisty enough to make hard braking necessary well before the many sharp corners. When I tried to control my speed with my front brake, I immediately encountered a violent shimmy in the whole steering system. I had to scrub a lot of speed to avoid a high-speed crash. (Later, I discovered that my front wheel was slightly out-of-true.)

At the bottom I watched the lead group escape into the distance without regret. I was just happy to be upright instead of lying on the pavement dealing with road rash. Indeed, the second group proved to be very hospitable. It devoured the course at a steady 20 mph. We cruised past the first break area at mile 11, but stopped at the second. My new plan was to keep my breaks short, so my acquaintance Steven joined me in cruising down the road ahead of the peloton. We chatted and kept away without really trying for a few miles before the group caught us just as a locomotive also came abreast of us. We easily hooked onto the train (of the peloton) and continued on to the lunch break at mile 47.6.

I packed away several small servings of pasta and filled my bottle. While eating I heard talk of a short, terrible hill ahead, Cove Mountain. I'll always remember IT! There were predictions that many in the group would end up hiking up the hill. I listened with some skepticism, confident that it couldn't be much harder than Cemetery Hill in Hand Cove, which pitches up to a nasty 11.4% for six-tenths of a mile. Once again, I set off alone, preferring to pedal lightly until the heavy diners caught up with me. Just as I was setting off, however, I noticed two fellows cruising along in front of me so I sped up to join them. Soon, we had established a three-man pace line at a brisk pace of better than 20 mph. We cruised past one pair of riders who didn't bother latching on. Then we passed a fairly plump fellow who did hook on until we dropped him a few miles further on. Finally, we stopped at the next-to-last rest station--mile 62.

Once again, I loaded up with Accelerade and set off alone. One fellow caught up and passed me, but I kept him in sight. Finally, we turned a corner and and headed sharply up Cove Mountain. He was leading me by about 400 yards, but I thought I might catch him on the hill. (I confess I'm a bit vain about my climbing ability.) He made it up the hill without having to walk, but he had clearly struggled. That gave me added incentive as well as cause for apprehension because (after 67 miles of riding, or 143 miles if you count the prior day too) I was really suffering -- just on the verge of cramps in both legs -- thighs, hamstrings, calves, stomach -- you name it. I had no choice but to dial back on speed. My only goal now was to avoid putting a foot down on that damned hill and to somehow finish the ride. Just where the pitch reached its worst angle, some kind soul had written a series of inspirational messages in chalk on the asphalt: DIG DEEP! PUSH HARDER! COURAGE! . . . Somehow I made it.

Sweating and suffering, I pushed through another couple of miles to the base of Petit Jean Mountain. The road was empty in front of me. Behind me, one lonely rider, dressed in white, was struggling to catch me. I felt sure he would do it since my bike was barely moving as I tried to avoid the onset of cramps. But he must have been suffering just as much as I was since he gradually dropped from view behind me. The ascent of Petit Jean Mountain isn't steep or steady. Instead, it is a series of short rises separated by false flat sections. It goes on for miles. I tried to summon a bit of energy by imagining rather more cheering than I was likely to be getting when I crossed the finish line. Eventually I did cross it, and I couldn't have been happier if there really had been a crowd going wild. It was just so GOOD to have made it!

Later I learned that out of roughly 150 riders, I was the lucky 13th across the line.


ENDNOTE: I later used Topozone software to examine the pitch on Cove Mountain. In its steeper section it cants up at a grade of 13.5%! Of course, Cove Mountain is trivial by the standards of professional bike racing. Tomorrow, they'll be riding up the Angliru in Spain's Vuelta at the end of 130 miles of racing. The average grade of the Angliru is about 13.5% over 18 kilometers! Some sections of more than a kilometer are at more than 20%! So horrible is that mountain that the last time it was used in the race Scottish rider David Millar (who had crashed twice in the rain that day and nearly been run over by a team car) pedaled to the finish line and refused to cross it. Instead, he ripped off his start number and laid it on the line in protest.

Petit Jean MS 150 -- Day One

Sue and I are just back from a nice weekend at the Mather Lodge atop Petit Jean Mountain. We had gone there so that I could challenge myself a bit by participating in the MS150 charity bicycle ride. I don't do many long rides (32 miles is typical) so I truly wondered whether I could survive two back-to-back days of 75-mile rides--each of which ended with the long climb back up to the top of Petit Jean Mountain.

I knew the first day would be OK. The main challenge was to control my competitive instincts. All charity rides actually end up being informal races, and I knew that if I tried to stay with the fastest riders all day, I might jeopardize my chances of even being able to start the second day. On the other hand . . . no guts, no glory. Four miles into the ride there was a fast and very scary descent of Petit Jean Mountain. My knuckles turned white, my stomach churned, and my rims heated up from riding the brakes, but I made it down and was still only a few hundred yards behind the first group of elite-racer wannabees. I cranked my speed into my personal red zone and clawed my way to the tail of the group, where I clung like a limpet for a few good miles.

Then that group of about thirty riders split with about fifteen riders going off the front. I sprinted around the slower bunch in front of me and tried once again to struggle up to the leaders. I gained some ground for awhile, but then my thighs started to burn up. I had just about resolved to give up and ride at my own pace when I saw two solid riders (a man and a woman) creeping up behind me. As they went around me, I sneaked into their slipstream and allowed them to pull me back up to the lead group. Shameful, I know, but that's bike racing. At least I thanked the guy who had pulled his two -- possibly unwelcome -- followers back into the race.

I stayed with the lead group for the first 40 miles, blazing along at over 20 mph the whole way. Some zipped straight past the lunch stop; the rest of us decided to pig out. When we got back on our bikes, there were about ten of us, and I found myself in the first real pace line of my "racing career." A pace line is a single-file group of riders. The lead rider breaks the wind and has to do about 20% more work than everyone else. Thus, if the lead rider goes at 23 mph (as was the case in this group), everyone else gets to rest up -- to some degree. While I was able to hang onto this group and did so until after I took my first "pull" at the front, I thought that I was burning through too much of my energy, even in the shelter of the group.

I dropped off the back and was immediately happy that I had done so. The problem with a pace line is that, to achieve the full aerodynamic benefit, your front tire needs to stay within a foot or so of the next person's rear tire. If your attention drifts for a moment and those two tires touch, the rear rider is going to hit the deck hard and probably bring down everyone behind. It's a nervous business and, on reflection, more than a little unsafe, but it's hard to pass up the benefits of riding in the group and it's nearly impossible to keep someone from drafting behind you anyway.

When in a pace line, all one does is watch the wheel in front. Once I was off by myself, I got to enjoy the view, which was really quite lovely. For about two miles the road passed along the shore of Nimrod Lake; elsewhere there were ever-changing views of the surrounding mountains. The whole route was rural, with very few cars. Just my kind of riding.

Eventually, I met up with a fellow named Steven and we cruised along, chatting pleasantly, for much of the rest of the ride. The final climb up Petit Jean Mountain was -- by Ozarks standards -- pretty easy, but it was long, and it came at the end of a 75-mile ride so I was very pleased to see the finish line. People cheered and clapped. I waved to the photographers. (Yes, the MS society has such an abundance of volunteers that there were even volunteer photographers.) I got off my bike and began to scarf down the free food and free beer. I took a pass on the free wine and cigar, but (with Sue's encouragement) I did avail myself of a free massage.

Then I began worrying about Day Two.

Lake Norfork

Below is some basic information taken from the web. There is also a good article on the lake in Wikipedia:

"About Norfork Lake

Norfork Lake, a popular tourist attraction in North Central Arkansas, is also one of the major recreation centers for this area. Norfork is home to one of the largest Federal trout hatcheries east of the Rockies, and is renowned for its rainbow trout. Over 550 miles of shoreline surround the lake along with 20 developed parks, which make Norfork popular for boating, hiking, hunting, sight seeing, skin diving, swimming, and water skiing.

Norfork Lake was formed with the construction of the dam which was initiated in 1941 and completed in 1944. Norfork Dam lies on North Fork River, at river mile 4.8, which is 4 miles northeast of Norfork, Arkansas. Completion of the powerhouse and switchyard came in October 1949, while in 1944, commercial generation first began. Estimated cost of the complete Norfork construction project was $28,600,000.


Norfork Lake is one of four multiple-purpose projects constructed in the upper White River Basin for the control of floods and the generation of hydro electric power. As with the other three projects, Norfork also provides excellent recreational opportunities for people of all ages.

Norfork Lake consumes anywhere from 22,000 to 30,700 acres depending on water height, and has a maximum depth of 177 feet above the dam. Tributaries include Norfork River, South Brushy Creek, Big Creek, Pigeon Creek, East Pigeon Creek, and Bennets Creek. Water exiting the dam into the North Fork River, which then flows into the White River. Average elevation at the dam is 590 feet, while fluctuations vary from 6 feet low to 30 feet high.


The 550 miles of shoreline consists of limestone bedrock and gravel. Wildlife abounds in the surrounding area making hunting very popular. The lake provides fishing opportunities for almost all species of game fish, with especially good fishing for black bass and a renowned reputation for largemouth bass. The lake does not have a closed season and never freezes over in the winter.

Length of dam - 2,624 feet
max height above streambed - 216 feet
Cubic yards of concrete in dam - 1,500,000
length of spillway - 568 feet
spillway crest gates (12) - 40x28 feet
Outlet conduits (11) - 4x6 feet
Elevation of top of dam - 590 feet
Elevation of spillway crest - 552
Elevation of top of flood control pool - 580
Elevation of top of conservation pool (Sept. to April) - 550
Elevation of top of conservation pool (April to Sept.) - 554
Surface area acreage at top of flood-control pool - 30,700
Surface area acreage at top of conservation pool - 22,000
Storage capacity at flood conrol - 732,000 acre feet
Storage capacity at power drawdown and dead - 1,251,000
Storage capacity of total lake - 1,983,000
Shoreline at flood-control pool - 510 miles
Shoreline at conservation pool - 380 miles

2 generators installed, each generating a max of 35,000 kilowatts
Room for 2 more generators

Construction of dam started in spring of 1941 and was completed 3 years later. Construction of the powerhouse and switchyard was completed in October 1949. Commercial generation began in 1944. Total cost - $28,600,000."