Oh Boy, look at these Fenders!
New Adventures of the blue Gitane in America
Yes, the blue
Gitane has now left the green pastures of Oxfordshire for what was then (February) the
white pastures of New Jersey. But prior to leaving, in true Hollywood star fashion, she(*)
went for a full revamp of the wardrobe, including among other minor details a new top
tube, anti-corrosion treatment and new paint although keeping her glorious metal blue
colour of origin. I reckon having a bit wondered whether it would not be the perfect
occasion to match the Oxon CTC Club jersey by having her resprayed in Pink and Purple, but
eventually concluded that it may be pushing Club loyalty a little bit far… And I do
have an excuse: it would have seriously affected her 'vintage' characteristics.
Over two feet of snow on the ground did not provide the best terrain for a first ride in
North America on the first week-end after arrival, but time was nevertheless put to good
use to sort out essential duties in the right order – and by Sunday night membership
applications for both the Central Jersey Bicycling Club (CJBC) and Randonneurs USA (RUSA)
were on their way.First US purchases were as you would expect a pair of cycling shoes, and
a helmet – the latter required by local law and all cycling clubs. A short 10 or 15
miles tour over the hills above Springfield in late February offered all the cold rain
needed for appropriately christening the maiden voyage, and also confirmed that I should
rather start to look for a decent map. And so the 2003 season eventually started, a season
expected to be rich in noticeable events including some well-renowned ride in France in
August between Paris and Brittany then back.
But prior to that, qualification was needed… I was lucky enough for having a full
qualifying series starting from Princeton, one hour drive from home, an incredible
privilege in America where randonneurs frequently have to fly to the start of their
events! But with the qualifying 200k already there at the end of March, I’d better go
out and train.
The next weekend I cycled to the start of the CJBC calendered ride, and found nobody. The
weekend after, the scene was repeated. Eventually on the third attempt, as I started to
wonder whether there are not ghost cycling clubs as there are ghost towns, I met a dozen
of people or so. They promptly explained me the ethos of US club riding: rain cancels the
ride. Fair enough, but even vague forecasts of a droplet or two does the job as well; cold
weather has the same effect, but so has hot weather. And eventually, the leader would
generally not turn up if nobody called! Ah, and what are these bits of metal around your
wheels? FENDERS??? Shock horror, why the hell do you carry all this weight???
You will hence understand that by the time the 200k started my mileage was as low as it
could decently be, even though I had enjoyed some solo rides in the hills bordering the
Raritan River plain – the very same hills from which General Washington used to
observe movements of the British troops, but I charitably won’t be reminding you with
such painful memories for any longer!
The 200k, at the end of March, was described by the organiser as ‘very hilly’
(8,300 feet), and particularly including a killer climb, Adamic Hill, from the top of
which the oldest Dutch windmill to be found in the USA can be admired. A good crowd of
about 50 people took part, including people having travelled from as far as Georgia. Very
different types of bikes and riding abilities could be seen, giving the event the familiar
feeling of an Audax UK ride. I rode quite strongly the first half, pretty much to my
surprise given the lack of training, and had gained quite a bit of time when reaching the
control in Frenchtown on the Delaware River; it proved to be rather useful, because the
next section was indeed seriously hilly, even though I am not sure Adamic Hill would even
qualify as an ‘undulation’ by the standards in use by some of the most renowned
Audax UK organisers! Just as I started to feel the heat of the climbs and the efforts of
the morning, rain came, gentle at first and then torrential. It was good fun to descend
along the Delaware River under pouring rain back to Frenchtown for the control, where I
attracted a few envious eyes when getting a dry jersey, short and socks out of this large
pannier and changed immediately. Not enough for triggering a debate about the merits of
mudguards (sorry: fenders that is) and panniers, but enough for leaving some people a bit
thoughtful… The last leg was less pleasant, as rain had by now settled for cold,
traffic was heavy and the stomach started to play foolish 25 miles from the finish. Which
I eventually reached, sick but home if not precisely dry.
One week later, I turned up on a CJBC ride which promised a good distance (50 miles) and
some few hills. Actually it turned out that the ride leader is also a member of RUSA, who
rode the 200 and was due to ride the 300, hence had designed his club ride so that it
covers a good bit of the 300k route.
Uncharacteristically four of us set off in the rain, despite me being the only one
equipped with… fenders; which was all right, apart for a minor detail. This good old
Gitane is okay even when mixing up with riders on racing bikes, as long as they are not
too serious. But believe me, when you happen to be out together with three well-trained
guys on racing machines, one of them just out for a quick spin before his regular race the
day after, you start to realise that this extra weight and 35mm tires do have some impact
on speed… I was lucky enough for that the leader had no problem with waiting for me
to catch up, but spent the morning chasing this elusive trio endlessly disappearing into
the distance, putting me to shame particularly up hill… Well, looks like this B+ pace
is not quite for me then…
The 300k was due the week after. Two days before the event we had five inches of
snow… At the start, forty or so shivering riders set off in icy rain, which was going
to remain with us for three hours up to the first control. And then, magically the sky
cleared and the route went upwards, through the hills of North-Western New Jersey across
wonderful forests, lakes and farms. By then my chainrings had decided they were worn out
beyond use (fair enough after about 30,000km heavy duty all year round in the UK), to a
point where the smaller ring wouldn’t let me climb anything steeper than 5% or so.
All this walking hence made for a very relaxed 300, if a bit on the slow side. A bit of
excitement came as the organiser mentioned casually on the cue sheet (that’s
routesheet to you and me), just below an instruction: ‘a black bear was spotted
here’. You see, the sort of precision which makes for a lively night stage when you
hit it at 2am on a moonless night; and the knowledge that these animals can reach 35mph
does not help much really. Well, at least so far, all I can say is that as good patriots,
New Jersey black bears seem to have enforced a rigorous boycott of French imported
meat…
With the season now well on the rails I started CJBC’s annual Farmlands flat tour,
offering a variety of distances up to 100 miles, each entrant being given a cue sheet and
a water bottle. This being America, when they do something they do it… big. The
organisation team was a bit disappointed this year as only 900 riders turned up! Last year
they had 1200… And 100 volunteers altogether helping to make the event a success. The
route being flat on the century, I spent the morning again chasing riders on racing bikes,
and ended up pulverising my personal best on the distance – not that the figure is
any glorious though.
It was a worthwhile training before the 400k mid May, which sent us from Princeton across
the Pine Barrens into a picturesque forested area, before coming back to Princeton for a
loop to Frenchtown on the Delaware and back. Despite the route being as flat as a pancake,
it was fairly scenic and hence dozies were kept at bay as the brain, or whatever makes
function of it, had something to concentrate on. I had a good chat at the Frenchtown
control with local cycling hero Sandiway Fong, twice Boston-Montreal-Boston finisher and
former Manchester (Lancashire) resident, who was running the control together with the
organiser Diane Goodwin. When reaching the critical mileage when my body typically starts
to cry for sleep (that’s usually 350km), hills started to appear and kept me in good
spirits. So much so that I could hardly believe the course was actually completed in 21h30
minutes, 5 hours under my first attempt on the distance last year! At the finish, a fellow
New York seasoned randonneur (3 P-B-P under his belt) commented wisely about this
year’s edition: ‘It will be a struggle… As usual!’.
I of course decided to ignore the comment, fully boosted by this so easy 400k. Hence a
month later, numerous rainy days and hardly any more mileage further on, we were back in
Princeton at the start of the 600k. The Gitane got her minute of glory: a rider had a look
at all the bikes gathered, stopped on the Gitane, took a camera out of his jersey and made
a piccie, then put the camera back into the pocket… Hey, I guess Marylin’s
career may have started like this?
The first flat 100 miles went well; then the sun went out and heat appeared, for the first
time this year. That was the moment chosen by the man with the hammer to strike. And the
bastard stroke hard. The 15 flat miles from Washington’s Crossing alongside the
Delaware seemed to last like hours, frequently interrupted by attempts to refresh and cool
down. By the time I reached km 220 in Frenchtown, the control looked like the oasis to the
lost Sahara traveller; a lady rider was lying down in the shade, in a puddle, having asked
someone to pour water on her. Loads of liquid were purchased, as well as some food
consumed, and then I started to feel a little bit better – just a little bit though.
The hill over the Delaware river was climbed huffing and puffing, and was followed by
rolling terrain which promptly led to Quakertown YH at km 250, the control for the night.
I now know that the first organ to stop working under heat and dehydration is the brain.
Because on that day, reaching km 250 after having suffered like hell in the heat, knowing
that there was nowhere to sleep in the 200k to follow, that I don’t do without sleep
beyond 350k, that the next 200k were relentlessly hilly… well it just did not even
touch my mind that stopping for a 3 hours sleeping rest at km 250, before tackling the
hills at night and refreshed, would actually be the only sensible thing to do. So on I
went, and 20 miles later the inevitable happened as the stomach let me know on its usual,
straightforward way, that it was out of question to ride any further.
An interesting, drunken taxi driver who knew the area not any better than me brought the
Gitane and me back to Quakertown YH, where the organiser of the series kindly offered me a
lift in the sag wagon for the day after – privilege of the first to pack! So P-B-P
qualification ended with yours truly doing the navigation work for Diane as she drove up
the course; by the time we were back to the start and finish there were just 29 riders
having completed the route out of 39 starters… An interesting animal, this New Jersey
600… And deepest apologies to Pat, Editor of the glorious magazine, for leaving him
alone to bear the Pink and Purple standard on the lanes of Brittany this summer…
That’s not quite the end yet though. A very enjoyable 200k starting in Manhattan mid
July somewhat softened the disappointment of failing to qualify. Look at that: left home
on the bike in the morning, train to Manhattan, rode the 200k, train back, and back home
on the bike! The company was excellent, as I decided to ride together with the organiser
(promising her I had this time a spare stomach just in case) and a group of interesting
characters. One of said characters being Ukrainian-born Serguei, who calmly commented at
the bottom of a descent which I negotiated with loudly squeaky brakes; ‘Oh yes, I
remember having seen bikes like that back in my home country’. Well, perhaps I should
do something about these pads… After having toured across gloriously scenic forests
and lakes in the border area between northern New Jersey and New York State, we had just
one puncture on the best possible place – the George Washington Bridge, with sunset
on our left and Manhattan on our right, the Hudson River below. It took us more than an
hour for eventually failing to fix the puncture, meaning we had to rely on the
organiser’s mighty powers for the watch to match the brevet card, or more exactly the
other way around. But we decided it was worth a celebratory beer, followed, Oh Boy, by
ultimate glory: a cruising ride down Broadway on Saturday night at 11h30!
When I tell you this Gitane is a star…
Laurent CHAMBARD
Wantage CTC (among a few others clubs_
In my native country ALL touring bicycles are female (one says: une randonneuse).
Which might explain why the species by now has become virtually extinct on the roads of
France?