By Tom Baker

June 2000

Rumors that I had sold my bike and become a born-again golfer have been greatly exaggerated. In November, after thirty years teaching, I retired to enable another generation to experience the joys I sought (yet often did not find!). So what does someone do who retires from the trenches? In December I became a postman, and therewith lost all Saturdays for the next ten years. (Anyone interested in a similar life-style change? Let me know, as our post office needs more help ASAP!)

With this introduction, you realize I was unable to ride the recent 3-State 3-Mountain Challenge. Another person had to miss the event as a participant, too, although she was the Director: Dawn Salyer. When I asked her if she wanted to ride Sunday after the century on Saturday, she said yes, she'd like to ride "about seventy miles" and asked if I had a route in mind. "Sure," I lied, "we can ride to the Pocket, a neat area not far from Villanow." Never trust a postman….

At 8:00am Sunday I met Dawn at the Battlefield Visitor's Center, and she had recruited Kelvin Hale, fresh from the 65-mile metric the previous day. "Yeah, Tom, I'd like to ride about 70 today and loosen up these legs from the climbing I did yesterday -- lead the way." So off we went.

Let me say that before leaving the parking lot, Dawn saved the day for me. It seems that I always forget something on a bike ride -- premature(?) senility or some such politically correct condition. Today it was SOCKS. After asking three of my running buddies who were starting out if they could help -- No -- I asked Dawn and Kelvin. Kelvin did good to find a pair of mismatched Nikes for himself, but Dawn came through: "I wear two pairs in case my feet get hot, and you can use a pair." "Wow, thanks a lot," I said as I quickly put on the already warm purple-pink dainties, unmindful of the ragging I'd get in a long ride from all the "good old boys."

Getting to the Pocket was no easy matter. We rode part of the Thursday Night course to reach Ringgold, zipped along highway 41 past Tunnel Hill and Rocky Face, then turned off onto the road to Villanow. We'd gone about 30 miles when Dawn's horse pulled up lame. After several minutes of trying to extricate her tube from the tire -- using only 1 tire tool -- we discovered the only chink in her bike prowess, grown legendary in only 3 years: impatience! When she threw the wheel -- tire iron intact -- down the road, only an alert Kelvin was able to run it down before an approaching semi could make road kill of it. While he rested, I attempted to teach (isn't that what I did for 30 years?) Dawn the subtleties of changing a tire so that she could do it herself next time. Afloat once more, we cranked thru Villanow and to the Pocket campsites, which were lovely indeed. We were 48 miles to here and I wanted to continue the scenic highway along the creek, observing the folks who were enjoying the beautiful day fishing, and then regroup at the famous Villanow Country Store, taking a different highway from there home as we had done previously.

At this time we all realized we were in Big Trouble!

Nevertheless, we turned right towards Summerville on US Highway 27, a hot asphalt road into an irrepressible wind. It was near noon and we were in need of a break, if not indeed cooked by this time. Kelvin was doing well, though understandably slower than the fresher Dawn and myself on the hills. We resigned ourselves to gutting it out when, at last, our OASIS appeared. We zipped into the food store/gas station all of 10 mph, and watched Dawn amazingly down a Twinkie and a Pepsi in only 45 seconds! Being of the untimid gender, Dawn asked a local -- (always bad advice I had figured) -- if there was an alternative route to Chattanooga. "Why sure, honey, just take the road here across the highway, follow it 'til it ends. Then turn left, climb a mountain, and then take the next right. You ain't far."

Yeah, sure, if you're a crow! But what other choices did we have? Already 75 miles, we pretty much figured out we may be doing our century today. We followed the directions, which led to the T in the road, beyond Subligna, that I knew was a severe climb. We all said bye, that we'd meet at the top. Dawn shot out like from a cannon, only to come up lame a minute into the climb. This time we gave her the prerequisite 2 tire tools and sat back to see if she had taken in the dutifully given lesson of a few hours previous. Again, same result, but Kelvin managed to snatch the wheel before she could throw it down the mountain. "I ain't Lassie," Kelvin muttered, and this time I changed her tire without any sage tidbits of advice. (From what I've observed on rides -- many not bringing pump or tubes -- changing tires is a lost art, indeed). So, we precariously aimed our bikes downhill, then turned them around when our feet were secured and trudged uphill -- "only" one mile in length!

At the summit, Dawn was waiting again, with despair in her voice, as she says her bike won't shift into high gear. "Probably the cable has slipped and needs tightening," I predicted, a better scenario than Dawn's assumption that the derailleur was malfunctioning. Sure enough, with Kelvin's valuable 5mm, Dawn's steed was once more roadworthy. We flew down the other side at 35 mph! We were now in familiar territory, and as we ventured beyond the 92-mile mark, I asked Dawn and Kelvin would they continue riding in the parking lot if when we finished, we "only" had 99 miles. They both said NO, that enough is enough.

Tom

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