I follow Mr. F. Bomb up Turkey Track Road, jumping on his rear wheel after bouncing out of slower traffic that boxes me in. We climb at a steady clip, reaching the top to find two side-by-side riders with a bungee cord dangling between them.
“What the fuck is that?” Bomb asks.
We soon learn. As the two riders roll out of a small dip, there is the sound of an engine starting. It turns out that one of the bikes is motorized and quickly vaults to the lead, stretching the elastic umbilical as the second rider is towed up a small incline. The engine cuts off as the road levels.
Bomb is incredulous. “What happens if the bungee snaps and hits another cyclist?” he asks as he pulls even with the pair. There is only silence in response.
“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Bomb shouts as he rises from the saddle and sprints away.
Welcome to the Hilly Hundred, where just about anything is possible. You need travel no farther than the starting line to find participants acting in the most irrational manner. Fresh from the Hilly’s safety clinic, their brains go limp as they stand with their bikes, shoulder-to-shoulder across the road, blocking oncoming cyclists eager to begin.
There’s plenty of other stupidity. Take the guy pedaling through Morgan-Monroe State Forest, hugging the white line in the oncoming lane while photographing his buddy on the other side of the road, all the while ignoring repeated calls of “On your left!” from behind him. When he finally gives ground to the now-angered cyclists, he acts as if they are at fault for wanting to pass, then criticizes them for going faster than he is.
In her first Hilly Hundred, Liz finds stupidity waiting at the top of Mount Tabor, the most challenging hill of the weekend. Within spitting distance of the turn at the top of the hill, the rider laboring on her right suddenly grunts and falls her direction. In a single motion she unclips and catches him before he takes them both down, but there is no remounting on the hill at that grade. She walks the rest of the way up, dejected that someone else could ruin her triumph of pedaling to the top of Tabor.
The number of people who come to the Hilly unprepared for the hills — any hill — remains unfathomable. When there’s an uphill, there are people walking. This year they spread out across the lanes wider than usual. One lady doesn’t get more than half a dozen pedal strokes up one of the less-challenging climbs when she stops in the middle of the road, making no effort to guide her bike to the edge or to warn the riders behind that she is stopping.
It’s all what Lt. Daniel Kaffee in A Few Good Men calls the “galactically stupid.”
There are plenty of good stories from the Hilly. There are thoughtful people who “cause safety,” as the promoters encourage. There are kindnesses shown. They alone are reason enough to ride the Hilly again.
Yet this year, it’s the head-shaking disbelief that sticks with me. Mr. Bomb was right. Stupid, indeed.
52.04 miles — Hilly Hundred (Day Two)
