It was totally terrible. I suppose I feel obligated to say that, about "The Terrible Two", a ride which lived up to its reputation in all respects. For me, it was too much of a stretch, though I'd done all I could. A longshot but very much worth the effort. This is not a tale of "Blind Ambition", but one of optimism in the face of near-certain failure. But so many others have tasted a day such as this that I feel only a little shame.

Picture the scene: it is just before dawn at a High School to the west of Santa Rosa, CA, the Saturday closest to the summer solstice. A hundred and eighty two cyclists are gathering around awaiting Bill Oetinger's thoughts for the day. Tandem-teams are conspicuous only by their rarity; but looking around, there are familiar faces from other rides in the California double century series. There are a few of the coveted T-shirts proclaiming finishers of past Terrible Twos. People comfort themselves with their survival strategies for the hours ahead: "Start slow and taper off" chuckles one rider; "Calistoga [50-mile mark] by dusk" is my retort.

A voice can be heard counting down the minutes till sunrise, the official ride start. Bill O., atop a table, tells us all about it and offers words of caution: "Sort yourselves out in the first ten miles"; "Look out for Joe Six-pack in his Pickup"; "This ride is not won on the descents"; "The clock does not stop for lunch". There is no doubt that this is not an event supported by inexperience or slack organisation. The smoking words of the ride-description on the application form ring around my head.

And they're off. A mass start heading east towards Santa Rosa. We are swept along in the thrill of the pack. Motor-cycle outriders escort us through the seventeen stop-lights, brooding in mid-intersection to hold the traffic when required. It feels great to be able to run the red lights with impunity. It is not many miles before the group has split noticeably. We've headed right on Yulupa and the riders have streamed out comet-fashion in the still of the morning. A thick clump of strong cyclists at the head followed by a wispy diffuse tail. I maintain sight of the front, but gradually lose touch with the coma.

Bennett Valley Road and the first climbs of the day. The route twists, turns and undulates in the clear air; it is five months since I rode this road in the fog of a January morning but now I have barely time to absorb the views of the surrounding countryside. It's still cool but the first sweat has dripped from my brow and I actually look forward to the first climb of the day to get properly warmed up. The sturdy reliable motor-cycle volunteers settle at the junctions and supervise our progress. So far, so good.

Trinity Grade comes after 21 miles; a narrow no-messing road connecting Sonoma and Napa counties. A familiar climb to me having driven it twice and ridden it once. Evenly graded and not too steep, it ascends meticulously to Sugar Loaf Ridge. There are riders all around me and the company encourages me. Soon, I need to stop to shed a layer of clothing and make a contribution to the environment; my hydration policy seems to be paying off already. The climb continues and before long we are rewarded by an interim shady descent. I am particularly careful, not wanting to repeat my fall here earlier in the year. I try to remember the exact stretch of slippery wet road which had sent my back wheel in a different direction from my front. But this time, in high summer, and in the absence of dew, the surface offers enough traction to keep me upright and soon we are climbing again up the short stretch of Oakville Grade.

After the bone-shaking plummet into Napa valley, I check my watch: split-times are crucial on this ride and I have to make Calistoga in under 3 hours, I have already decided. At that time in the morning, the main drag through Napa Valley is quiet but this selection of two-wheeled traffic is oblivious to the wineries anyway. Taking Rutherford Cross to the Silverado Trail, the pace remains swift as "Terrible Two" participants capitalise on the stretch of flatness to put some miles on the clock. The route is pleasantly-rolling and soon I am riding alone, with a few riders in sight ahead. Everything seems fine and I can maintain a steady pace. Suddenly, in quick succession, two mini pace-lines pass me. What do they think this is? The Davis Double? I stay with the second one until a mile from Calistoga.

I make it to this first feeding station at 52 miles in a little under 3 hours; right on schedule. I chew on bread and roast potatoes, noting that this is the sort of support I'd have died for on other rides. I try to assess where I am in the field; the time-checkers haven't counted but claim that nearly half the riders are still to arrive, something which does not seem believable.

Next stop is the Geysers, 30 miles and a long climb away. I set off with a single rider ahead of me; he wears a "Terrible Two" jersey and I think of a new strategy: always keep a ride-veteran behind me. We pass the entrance to California's famous "Old Faithful" geyser; the gates are still locked and I wonder if they switch it off at night. After the turn on to Hwy-128 I pass the rider in front of me and spy briefly a group of about 4 riders climbing a slight shady rise. But nature calls me and I do a favour for the roadside vegetation and lose sight of those riders. The "Hydrate or Heave" motto is prominent in my mind. Back on the road I am on my own; it seems strange indeed to be so isolated yet knowing there are riders far behind me. I even become concerned about the route and check the map, and am only convinced when I recognise the Geysers dominating the skyline ahead.

At the next turn, the "TT" chalked sign in the road reassures me and the meandering Red Winery Road with familiar views of open valley becomes an enjoyable preamble to the climb. At the junction waits the most distinctive SAG wagon of the day, a white "Sonoma Life Support" Blazer. I take the opportunity to shed another layer of clothing and chat with the driver, a veteran of sorts - has been SAGging the "Two" for many years. This year we've thankfully been little trouble to him though so far. Only two riders have caught up with me by now.

The Geysers is always a taxing climb, but mercifully even and one's motion can become rhythmic as the road switchbacks across the golden brown hillside. I pluck my helmet off and attach it to my handlebars, as on so many occasions before. Solitary riders can be seen at each turn below me. Ahead, more striving forms. The noise of straining engines indicates the steady approach of two big trucks. So intent am I on the physical effort that I cannot really form exact questions in my mind: why? here? now? I have not thought hard about where the actual feeding station is placed, but my cycle-computer is playing games with me and registering speeds significantly greater than what I feel that I can really be doing.

Soon we are upon the first descent and the patch of gravel where the road has been washed away. Still. Six months on, there is no sign of repair. So the rest-stop must be atop the second peak of the twin-climb. A true double whammy. The second climb is far harder and I have totally lost confidence in my cycle computer. Made in Italy; I wished it would sing to me. I disconnect it and though it obediently declines to register a measurable speed, it still increments the distance counter at the same rate. Best to forget about it. The clock-time is more important. My hopes of making the 81-mile Geysers Summit by 5 hours have already evaporated. It's over 5:30 before I roll in to gratefully guzzle more potatoes and dowse my head with water. Now it seems that about a third of the field are still to come through. Hardly anyone passed me on the ascent so I begin to worry about someone's counting skills. Never mind: it would be an easy 30 miles to lunch.

Descending off the Geysers is an exhilarating plunge through the morning air before the sharp left-turn takes us down Big Sulphur Creek. It's hard not to enjoy the surroundings; traffic-free roads, shady twisting descents amidst steep-sided hills. The ride-description was accurate "the entire course is VERY scenic . . . ". But I try not to be distracted from the task at hand. The terrain is familiar; the ordeal is not. I curse the stretches of gravel along the road which interrupt my smooth progress. By Cloverdale, my computer is registering about 8 miles exaggeration, but my thoughts are on making the 109-mile lunch-point in a reasonable time. My estimates have been that 7 hours would be excellent, 8 should be the longest. As I power along Dutcher Creek Road, taking the small undulations in my stride, I figure on a time midway between those limits. I pass two other riders but see no others. It all doesn't seem too bad - yet.

At Lake Sonoma, the group of lunching cyclists is quite small. Now I hear the statement that "most riders have already passed through" and am surprised. But the situation does not seem too drastic. I have a couple of sandwiches and more potatoes. I sound out Bill Oetinger who is on the scene, offering words of doom. "Better get going; the window is closing.", is his admonishment. He confides to another rider that there's a devil within him that wishes it's hotter than it is so that people would experience the ride as it should be. "This is where the ride really begins" reminds another.

I hurry out in less than half an hour, the ride-description sentence "After lunch is when the Terrible Two gets truly terrible" resonating around my head. Something suddenly does not seem quite right inside me. I make the turn onto Skaggs Springs in a routine fashion. But soon I have memories of ascending Mt. Palomar in the heat of the day; of grinding up Lockwood Valley with the sun high above; of tackling Mt. Idyllwild in the stifling late afternoon. Grim moments of past doubles. I see riders, tacking, using the full road-width, in the distance ahead. There's no shade on Skaggs; and I soon flag, resting by the road. Half a dozen riders I had just passed, now grind past me. The ride description is there to haunt me again: "It often takes riders up to 3 hours longer to complete the second century . . . if they finish it at all." I continue and stop a further time before the water-station. It's difficult to calculate the passage of Skaggs Springs now. My previous encounter with this route had been a straight 3 hour traverse with a single stop, but in the freshness of early morning. Now my odometer is hopelessly out of touch with reality and my body clock is telling me different stories. How many false summits to expect? As if in response I recall the warning: ". . . an endless series of sun-baked climbs and false summits, with little shade". Back on the road, we ascend a little further before the gratification of descent. Then, a further climb, now protected by a canopy of leaves. How long? How far? This has been the site of my one stop before but I don't remember it being such a long haul. Finally, the summit; I'm losing track of the riders out on the road. There have been multiple individual games of leap-frog.

Then, not a moment too soon, the marvellous 14 mile descent to Camp Gualala. But the satisfaction is stolen from me by the overpowering desire to sleep. I cannot concentrate; I cannot keep awake; I try all the tricks I know; food; water; a brief stop. No good. I concentrate hard on the remaining miles to Camp Gualala. Just 9 miles to the coast; it's now after 4pm and things are looking tight. I get relief for my newfound headache and fill up with more water. Now they're counting a mere 15 riders out on the course behind the assembled company. My grasp of numbers baffles me. How long had I slept?

It's a double-climb to Stewart Point. The first ascent between Annapolis and Tin Barn Roads is a known quantity: tough yet manageable. I make it straightforwardly and without a break. I'm concentrating on arrival at Fort Ross by 6:30pm. The first descent does not really cause any relief for I remember a second summit; that one too is within my stride, though, and the last drop to the coast is thrilling, with the exception of a close call with the wooded embankment when I overshoot a curve. It's almost necessary to get rid of eye-shades, so dark and secluded is this stretch. A Mercedes and a School Bus challenge my attempts to take up the full width of the road.

At the coast, there's a chilling breeze; the idea of stopping to put on one layer of clothing distracts me for the whole 15 mile stretch south to Fort Ross. I still manage to pass one rider; I think I see another ahead, but the road twists and turns so much that I can never get an image to focus on. The winds are not a hindrance fortunately but I worry about the amount of energy that it's necessary to divert into keeping warm. The coast road is scenic from the inert seclusion of air conditioned car; it is but a transitional region to a bicyclist. An unfortunate contact with packaged fun; coastal state parks and vacation properties; a once-beautiful portion of now-spoilt coast. My speed oscillates wildly between 30mph and 15mph; but what do I know really? Electronics have failed me today. The clock remains the most important thing.

Fort Ross. Mile 161. I am not dehydrated. I am tired but not beat. I am not alone and I feel on-time for a photo-finish. I manage to take in noodle soup and other food. I attach lights to my bike. One major double-climb to go. Monte Rio by 9pm - or bust: that's the motivation now. Things still seem possible and the breeze from the coast is now refreshing and would hopefully speed me on.

But it was not to be. I leave the rest-stop before 7pm and vow to reach to summit of Ft. Ross Road by 7:30pm. The climb is immediately steep; ("Some riders find it to be the hardest climb of the whole ride"). Was it 2.6 miles straight? I pass the 1 mile marker and feel drained; I need to stop for water. Continuing, the road winds tightly amongst the trees, never allowing me to see more than a few yards ahead. I have not seen the two-mile marker when I wilt again and lie down beside my bicycle. I am rapidly surrounded by the discordant whining of a squadron of mosquitoes. I do not even have the energy to banish them. At the sound of another approaching rider, I remount and continue. I feel bad about stopping when I see the climb level out after not very long and the road make it out of the woods into the bright sunlight. I do not stop at the junction but head on and down the road to Cazadero. It's a beautiful descent at the end of the day; I begin to feel like cherishing what I can from the ride. But I know that there is one remaining climb; I wish that I am more familiar with the route. Each slight uphill turn seems to herald the major ascent and I brace myself only to relax further when the road dips again. I pass a rider lying in the long grass at the road-side; he seems at peace with the world. Soon, the ascent. Time still seems OK. But I lose momentum again; I am now tacking with large amplitude swings and finally halt. Ironically, merely yards from the summit, concealed by a turn in the road ahead.

The descent to Cazadero begins a race to beat darkness and brings the premature onset of ride's end. The clock is ticking and I cannot be sure how many miles there are to go. After Cazadero, the road levels off though maintains its basic descent. The Cazadero Highway is narrow and thickly wooded on each side, though the lights of habitation twinkle between the boughs. I have forgotten how far it really is to Highway 116, though I recall it being a further 3 miles to Monte Rio on 116 alone. All I can see is a succession of 35-mph speed limit signs. My lights are on and daylight is vanishing rapidly. It's suddenly cold and I feel it hard to maintain speed. The minutes race by as each curve in the road brings an indistinguishable view of trees, occasional lights and speed-limit signs. There seems no end to it. I feel the fantasy of finishing flee from me. I have reached out and almost touched it and now it's gone. Even the uplifting sight of a Stop-sign is a false messenger; still far from the junction with Hwy-116.

At the junction at a few minutes before 9pm, I stop to put on my last layer of clothing. I'm chilled and lacking in energy; a support vehicle pulls up and offers food. A vegetarian sandwich, which seems like a great idea and tastes wonderful, but a little tangy. I abandon all hope of finishing in the qualifying time, and think only of reaching 183-mile Monte Rio. Now there are only 3 riders behind me actually on the road at least one of whom has a "Terrible Two" ride jersey; all others have quit.

The main road is dark but fast and the distance to the last rest-stop seems to evaporate mercifully quickly. I have confidence in my strength to finish by 11pm but knowing that the official cut-off time of 10pm is now impossible to make, my reserves of willpower dissipate. I know that the remaining 17 miles would take more than the 34 minutes I have left. Probably they would take over an hour. I cannot face the remaining miles on the road in the dark and in the sudden cold. I console myself that I am at a more advanced position than I have been on easier rides before; but the "Two" is different, you finish by 10pm or not at all. After over 15,000ft. of climbing and 16 hours on the road, this is a time to hit the SAG wagon. A journey shared with another rider, it seems interminable, even when interrupted by the eruption of the vegetarian sandwich from my system on to a dark and deserted roadside. The climb out of Occidental is unenviable even as we pass the last few riders out there. After that, I no longer concentrate hard on the route back to Willowside High School. The Terrible Two is over for me; it was worth the try.

Richard Bone

June 24th 1996