How is everyone doing with the Year-Rounder Challenge? Did you find reasonable days, or did you have to suffer them out? Was it nice knowing that people around the country were doing the same thing? Or did you grumble that your warm-climate counterparts are a bunch of cheaters?! Either way, I am thrilled with the YRC, what a great idea! Personally, at age 35, this is my first year with a driver's license, so winter riding long ago became something to embrace in its own right. I mean, Ma Nature's artistry is so wonderfully different and breathtaking, as are the technical challenges. Not that cold is such an obstacle - as a friend from Québec once said, "Tu Americains, you complain that you're cold, so: put on some phreaking clothes, how hard is that??!" But certainly the snow and ice create a whole new brand of riding. As I like to say, the lovely perfect-day rides are great while they last, but it's the crazy ones that become memorable stories.

Poor crutches-constrained Hughes requested the vicarious pleasure of riding stories, so here goes. Actually, New England treated Russ and Garrett Loomis and me to cakewalk 50-degree January and February centuries, so I will go back a week before the Challenge officially started. December 26 was another deal altogether. This day has become a tradition of sorts, on which I cycle 130-something miles from my parents in Hartford to my girlfriend's parents northwest of NYC. My motivation is, of course, that I can shamelessly gorge on holiday cooking twice. The trip has always been an epic, but last Christmas was the best yet for both its difficulty and my level of enjoyment. My training had been spotty, so this would be a ride from the gut, not the legs.

The Nutmeg State roads just plow straight up and down almost continuously at 10-15%. As a rider, you first scoff at their brevity, but your quick bursts are numbered. It was 18 degrees when I left, and within a mile the first dark snow squall came through. These came and went all day as the mercury dropped into the low teens. My Gatorade froze solid, my quads and hamstrings were cramping, and I gasped on each icy breath, unable to ingest anything. At least the locals were warm - lots of friendly waves and toot-salutes. Ripping off Mohawk Mountain, a motorist rolled down his window, but instead of admonishing me for using the middle of the lane, he called out "FIFTY!" I managed a thumbs-up and a frog-mouth smile - my chin was solid and gushing tears were freezing on my cheeks.

Later, at a stoplight, a rather tough-looking fellow smiled at my bright clothes and said, "Man, for a driver to hit you, they'd have to be Helen Keller!" "Or Stevie Wonder!" I replied. How cool: years ago, on tour somewhere I won't name, a cashier dumped my change on the counter for wearing black lycra shorts: "Here you go, ma'am!!" Today, someone made a friendly quip about my hunter-orange hat, purple do-rag, neon jacket, royal blue shorts, and magenta tights. It's a good thing this story is not illustrated.

Onward, the hills funneled into the lower Hudson Valley, whose dizzy-high bridges have expansion joints that would gladly chomp your wheels up to the hubs. You either bunny-hop (not an option when you're numb and have to land on slush-covered steel), or else walk - sideways, so your feet don't slip into the gaps - while you try to ignore the swirling icewater 150 feet below. I shivered at the memory and instead took the narrow sidewalk, which was no better: the gusty 25 mph crosswind required leaning toward the handlebar-high railing! It was a long half-mile.

As the afternoon faded, the snow accumulated to four inches on the continuous climbs out of the valley. It may sound odd, but I chose 20c tires: they cut through and find pavement. My girlfriend's parents live atop the rock-climbing Mecca known as "The Gunks." Its thousand-foot face is both an inspiring backdrop and a laughing ogre to someone whose legs are completely shot: "Come to me, you pathetic excuse for a cyclist, I shall grind you into fertilizer and blow you back to the vineyards below ..." Bumpy sideroads paralleled this looming ridgeline for an eternal hour.

At long last, the aptly-named Ski Run Road presented its final three miles uphill. Dreading its three 15% pitches, I found, ironically, that they had not been sanded; my rear wheel spun out. Walking was bitter indignity for an avid bikeman, but, oh well, even the pros walked the Koppenberg. Great fun as the trip had been, this was 25 minutes with my stomach doing the "Little Shop of Horrors" thing: "Feeeed meeeeeeee .....!!!" As the last steep pitch eased, I made a running cyclocross mount and gave the pedals all I had. Both quads rolled up like window shades, making huge knots above my knees, screaming at me to stop. I scolded - "Yeah, you go ahead and CRY, you worthless (FCC beeeep)s, I expect better!" I shifted into my big ring the last 200 yards just to reassert who ruled the mind-body battle.

I never use a cycle computer, the bike is my escape from the numbers and electronics that I earn a living with, but I went the distance in 7:20, all on some 6 ounces of slushy Gatorade and a frozen Twix bar that might as well have been a petrified buffalo chip. My time was again short of my goal, but this was a ride for the storybook and I knew it. We always make time for Christmas stories ...

Again, thanks so much to the UMCA for arranging the YRC. It's a great camaraderie-builder during these months when we don't see much of each other. I mean, those stiff, biting, windswept miles feel different with the warm thought that people across the country are doing this. Cheers to you all!

UMCA Year-Rounder Challenge

Preparing for and riding centuries