Grand Fondo is an Italian term that means Great Ride or Big Ride which is weird to me because Fondo in Italian apparently means Fund.
I could spend all sorts of time explaining to you what a Gran Fondo is but I think I will instead offer the following link which has a nice little article on Grand Fondos, all be it in very tiny print.
The description is more the European version but you will get the idea.
http://www.biciveneto.it/granfondo.html
In June I participated in a Grand Fondo that was organized around the Nature Valley Grand Prix which is a bicycle festival that occurs in and around the Twin Cities each summer. The Grand Prix is an opportunity for cycling enthusiast to be a spectator during several professional races that go on over a week’s time as well as participate in various events that are coordinated with the races.
As part of the
Nature Valley festivities, a Grand Fondo was organized in Menomonie
Wisconsin, the location of the Saturday race.
Anyone who wanted to could register to ride either the 65 mile Woman’s race course or the 85 mile Men’s race course prior to the Professionals getting out and racing for the day.
I registered for the 85 mile course and the following is what I experienced during Mio Daprima Gran Fondo! My First Big Ride!
I was too cheap to rent a hotel stay for Friday night so my alarm was set for 4:00 a.m. I paid extra penance for being a tight wad by waking up at a casual 3:30 to greet the day. I rolled off the bed and wandered into the bathroom finding a sign taped to the mirror which avowed “You Are Going To Do Great Today! I am So Proud of You!” Heidi left this little goodie for me to find in the middle of the night because she knows I am a bit nervous about the adventures the day will surely bring.
I am pretty much ready to go as I carefully packed the night before because I knew I would not want to do anything but rub my eyes, throw my contacts in and start for Menomonie. I grab like 4 bananas and a bagel and head out the door.
Ninety minutes and too many bananas later I arrive at the parking area without incident. I have my choice in parking spaces as there are maybe a dozen cars in the entire lot. I walk over to the registration table and am immediately greeted by every single person behind the table.
I am obviously a bit early and it becomes clear the registration/check-in process hasn’t even started yet. “Would you mind being our guinea pig?” a woman behind the table asks me. I am glad to accept the offer and I act like the model rider/registrant while she explains to several other people the necessary process for checking in each of the day’s riders.
I am asked to read the waiver, check the information they have on me and then sign. The waiver has a field labeled “Riding Age.” The field has my riding age listed as 46. Just as I am opening my mouth to vehemently point out I am only a mere 45 I notice the field next to it, “Actual Age.” O.K. they got that one right. “What on earth is the purpose of “Riding Age,” I ask myself as I sign the waiver. I am MONTHS away from 46!
I wander back to my vehicle and the mountain biker takes over in me. There is a perfectly good building with a locker room designated for riders to change but I climb into the uncomfortable changing room called the front seat of my car, “hang junk” and get into my bike gear. If the mountain biker of 10 years ago would have taken over, I would have just dropped trow in the parking lot and flipped off all who paid attention but the “bad boy” wannabe attitude has tamed over the years.
I now eat my fourth banana of the morning, slam down a dry bagel and mix up a chocolate flavored protein shake called “Muscle Milk.” I do this because at my tender age of way many months less than 46 I still have a notion of doing “curls for the girls” some day.
By now, the parking lot has gotten quite full and there has been a flurry of activity going on around me. In the mean time, I take a look at the map they gave me of the route which on the back contains turn-by-turn instructions on it. I flip the map over only to find about 400 turn-by-turn instructions. I would spend so much time reading the instructions that I would never get any riding done. I march back to the registration table and ask “Excuse me; I am shooting for last place today, how well is the trail marked?” I am satisfied with the answer.
I am also comforted by the fact that when I registered for the ride a few months back, they asked me what group I wanted to ride with.
The groups were defined by average speed and it was an easy choice for me, 12 – 14 MPH – exactly the speed I had been averaging all year in my training efforts.
I would be with a group and not all on my own in
Menomonie, Wisconsin’s greater Wildlife Wilderness Area.
While walking back to my car I have a flash of Adult Panic Anxiety Syndrome. How embarrassing will it be if I am the only one here registered for the 12 – 14 MPH group? A small chill runs around inside of me knowing I am about to be the brunt of the laughter of the entire group as I line up last. I can see the vision now. Someone walks up behind me and staples a sign to my back that reads “The End.” Then I realize, I have wandered off into some strange fantasy world and it is time to get back to reality and get ready to ride.
A less than quality announcement system is used to gather the riders together to prepare for embarkation (I learned the word embarkation on a cruise I took last winter!). Apparently we have some professional bike racers joining us this morning and they are being introduced. I can’t hear anything over the P.A. System nor can I see over the top of the crowd of riders. These professional dudes must be kind of short – like hoarse racing jockey’s maybe…
Our Kumbaya moment is now over and it is time to line up. First group – “Will the 22 – 20 MPH riders please get in line” I am not exaggerating when I say at least half of the 350 riders lined up. My anxiety level spikes but calms back down. Next – “Will the 20 – 18 MPH riders please get in line.” Again, another half of the remaining riders are lined up. And, with a final blow of reality, “Will the 18 – 16 MPH riders get in line.” The remaining riders lined up. I was standing all alone and now quite confident there was not to be a 12 – 14 MPH “Group.”
Adult Panic Anxiety Syndrome threatens to send me back to the car where I will get in the front seat, change clothes and drive home. Instead, I lie like a rug and get in line with the 18 – 16 MPH group. I just sort of act casual, like I am taking my time lining up.
Ready! Set! Go! We are off and riding.
I do not remember a lot about the first 20 miles with the exception of the following (it was too darn early to be remembering things anyway. I never did well in my 8:00 classes).
The main group of riders drop me like a bad habit within the first 5 miles of the ride and I am pretty much on my own. I eventually catch up with the only rider I can still see ahead of me on the first big climb. She looks behind and says “Go around me, I am slow on the climbs.” I am thinking “lady, you are talking to the person in last place”
She introduces herself as Sue. Sue is a voluptuous woman whom I am guessing is in her late fifties. She sports powerful hips and thighs, is on the shorter side, fully grayed and is a tenacious road rider. She told me she has been riding for charity events for 25 years, primarily riding a week long event each year for Habitat for Humanity. As she told me many times, “I am not a fast rider but I finish the ride”. I find her to be a very pleasant person.
Sue and I have been left behind by the rest of the crowd and have nothing but the road ahead of us. When we get to the flats, she drops me way behind and then when a climb comes up, I catch up to her, we chat a little bit more and then she leaves me in the dust on the next flat.
At one point Sue and I are riding past a corn field and she comments about how short the corn was. Until now, I haven’t thought much about the corn or it’s height until she mentions that it is pretty much where a person relieves themselves during these bike rides. She makes a comment that she is going to have to go anyway and I think to myself, nothing personal but that is just too much information and I really don’t want to see that.
I tell her I am riding RAGBRAI this year and she hopes for me that the corn is taller in
Iowa.
I now find myself thinking about the height of the corn in
Iowa for the first time in my life.
I am excited to ride RAGBRAI but I must admit, I am hoping it will include a reasonable place to poop.
At this point in my life, a corn field is not a reasonable place.
The 20 mile mark includes rest stop one which is a pleasant site to see although also a premonition of what is yet to come. Sue and I have become lifetime riding friends by now and reach the first rest stop together. When we get there, they are frantically packing everything up while asking us what we need so they can get moving to the next stop. I can see this is not a good thing.
I am also consciously aware of a couple of vehicles, a grey van and a red pickup truck that have been following me at a very slow speed as I ride the course. Sometimes it is the van and other times the truck. At the rest stop Sue informs me that these are the sweeper vehicles and they are required to stay behind the last of the riders – meaning us.
I predict the rest stop situation was going to become problematic. They were on the move regularly to accommodate the whole group and waiting for me was putting them behind schedule. Eventually I would fall far enough behind that the stops would be closed and gone by the time I got to them.
A little anxiety is now setting in. Sue wanted to hang out and rest for a while and I was getting nervous about the next rest stop. I decided to bid farewell and take off ahead of her. Besides, then I can leave the sweeper team behind with her and have some time to myself on the road.
I now start to obsess a little bit. What will I eat? How will I get water? How much will it suck that someone is following me in vehicles for the next 65 miles? Can I even finish the course? Can I finish the course before the pros start? When will they tell me I have to clear the course so the pro riders can race? Why did I even do this?
Fortunately, reality quickly sets in. I have four water bottles full of water. I brought enough of my own food to last me for 100 miles. I can just ignore the truck when it is behind me. I don’t have to finish the course. If they make me get off the course, they make me get off the course. It is time to calm down and have some fun. At least have fun until… KOH!
The next thing I remember is the letters KOH. When you are riding a course that is about to be used in a professional bike race and you come across the letters KOH painted on the street you are about to climb a really, really big hill. I am talking about a kick your butt type of a climb.
KOH stands for King of the Hill and it is one of several competitions that occur during a bike race. The middle of the 85 mile course had the most difficult climbs in it and therefore the KOH climbing.
KOH climb number one is brutal. My bike computer shows 10% and 12% grades during the climb and it just goes on for what seems to be an eternity. I stop four times to catch my breath. No walking though. If I stop, I start right back where I stop and finish the climb. That’s the deal.
The second rest stop is at the top of the second KOH climb. I am cranking up this mega hill as best I can when a mini van comes from the opposite way, slows down and starts talking to me (not the mini van itself but the person in it). “We had to close down the rest stop and move to the next one. Do you want a banana or some water?” My fear has now been realized. I ask them to fill my water bottles but it turns out they could not reach the bananas. No loss, I couldn’t eat another banana today anyway.
I finish the climb, imagine an image of bikers resting at the now deserted rest stop and I carry on with KOH climb number 3. Overall, I am pleased with how I ride the 3 KOH climbs and I am relieved they are over with.
I am touring along on my merry way when the gray van pulls aside and waives me over. The gentleman driving the van leans out the window and says “There is a big black bear standing in the middle of the road about a mile up. We think he is heading over to the trout stream up there but right now he is just hanging out in the road.” I declare with confidence and authority, “OK…”
You have heard of people with fears. Some people are afraid of heights, some of fire, some of door knobs, etc… I have Ursaphobia. You guessed it, the fear of bears! Great! I think to myself, when I get to the bear, I will just ride around him. If he looks hungry, I will chuck a Cliff bar his way. That should keep him busy (the bear will probably tear my eye balls out just for suggesting he eat a Cliff bar….). “Hey could someone txt the bear and tell him I am coming?”
The next 5 miles goes by in a blur because I am seeing a bear in every shadow that is cast in the woods on both sides of me. Fortunately, the bear must have made it down to his favorite fishing hole because I never saw a thing.
I am probably somewhere around mile 50 and the bear kerfuffle draws to a close. The rest stops are now long gone. Sue, I learned from the driver in the grey van, elected to get a ride around the bear and the KOH climbs and is once again ahead of me. I now have my own personal sweeper following me in a big red truck. Because the rest stops moved on without me, he has collected my own personal stash of apples and spring water in case I am in need and he has a large map of the course to keep me on track. I am embarrassed by this much attention but I take the time to introduce myself. My personal attendants name is Paul.
I travel to mile 55 and I catch up to Sue. I now need to make a decision. I can take a right and ride the 65 mile course or I can go straight ahead and do the full 85 miles. I talk to Sue and she is heading off to the 65 mile route. I talk to Paul and ask him if he minds if I go ahead with the course. He is really cool about it. Tells me to do what I came to do and he will follow. I try to release him from his duties but he assures me he has to sweep the whole course anyway.
So, I once again bid farewell to Sue and I head off to the last 30 miles of my ride. I am the last person on the course. It is hot as heck outside. I have a personal attendant carrying food, water and a map for me. It is a border line ridiculous set of circumstances which were only going to get even weirder.
By now, the Pros have begun the race. I am starting to see spectators set up alongside the road. They are lounging in their chairs, having a few beers and waiting for the racers. I get several remarks as I go by. Most of them are supportive. “Way to go!” Keep at it!” Things like that but my favorite comes from a woman parked in a lawn chair at the end of her driveway. “Hey!” she yells “You’re in first place!”
I am wearing my Texas Longhorns bike jersey.
Even in rural
Wisconsin there are Texas Longhorns fans.
One woman gets out of her lawn chair and starts yelling about the Longhorns and flashing the Longhorns hand sign.
Another man yells out “
Texas? You are a long way from home!”
I can tell the pros are getting closer to me because I start passing team cars and repair vehicles that are parked along side the road. Even they show support by calling out to me and encouraging me to keep on riding.
I am now coming up to the feeding station for the pro riders. There is a group of people there getting ready to pass out food and water to the pros as they ride by. A little guy about 12 years old sees me coming up the road and just assumes I am to be fed. He races to the side of the road, grabs a water bottle and hands it out to me as I ride by.
I stop my bike and thank the little guy for the water and then an adult comes up to me and says “Hey, do you know what we are supposed to be doing? No one really gave us any instructions.” I relate to the group how I have seen it done on TV in the Tour de France. I ride on, feeling good about the job I have done as feed station administrator.
The course crosses several major highways along the route and the police were now preparing to block these highways off for the professional riders to ride on through without incident.
Then I came riding along with Paul in tow. Up ahead I see the police officers leaning up against their cars waiting. They see me coming. Just like the feed stand, they make an assumption, hop in their cars and block traffic for Paul and me to cross the road.
First I was fed like the pros, now I have had traffic stopped for me like the pros. I’m not typically one to revel in attention but something tells me I could get used to this kind of pampering.
I keep looking behind me, figuring at any moment I am going to be swallowed by the professional riders and I want to be sure I am out of there way when the time comes.
Suddenly, a small car races up behind me with a man hanging out of it so far I think he is going to hit my bike. He yells at me “Hey, the pros are coming in hot; you might want to get off the course!” I acknowledge this and immediately get off the road. Within seconds a flash of six riders blow by me so fast that I feel a slight breeze.
I look behind me; there are no other riders. Hmmm, I am sure there is more coming but for now, I will keep riding.
I am in the last 8 miles of the ride and my legs are wobbling around like they are made of rubber. I feel like Gumby. Even the smallest of climbs makes me miserable. I keep turning the cranks and keep looking over my shoulder for the remaining riders. Then, I get a big surprise. I am huffing and puffing. I am in pain. I am looking down at the road while I concentrate on moving my pedals and what do I see… KOH! I can’t believe it. A KOH this close to the end of the ride! I am thinking of filing a formal complaint!
I am cranking my way up the hill when I see the strangest of things. Up on a ravine there is a pickup truck with the tailgate open backed up against a telephone pole. On the tailgate is a step ladder which is leaning up against the telephone pole. In fact, the ladder has been chained to the pole. On the top step of the ladder is a man standing up and leaning against the pole with a camera that includes one of the largest lenses I have ever seen.
I realize I am looking at this because the camera man is trying to get my attention. I turn around and see the main group of riders coming towards the climb. Once again, Paul and I pull off the road and we wait.
The main group roars past me as I stand about midway up the last of the KOH climbs. It is pretty thrilling to experience the pace at which a professional racer can climb up a hill like this.
The riders pass me by and I slowly but surely made my way though the last few miles of the ride. According to the computer on my bike I rode eighty-seven miles total with over 5000 vertical feet of climbing. I am completely exhausted as I ride into town.
I take a minute to offer a huge thank you to Paul and to say good bye. He shakes my hand and tells me he is proud of me.
I get back to the parking lot and it is back down to the same 12 cars as when I got there. A couple of tumbleweeds blow across the lot as I am loading my bike up. Everyone is gone.
I finish loading up, change out of my bike clothes and start on my way home while pondering the events of Mio Dapprima Gran Fondo.
