My back ached, but its whimpering was mild compared to the screams coming from my calves and butt. I blinked away the sweat that threatened to blind me, and concentrated on pedaling my bike up Sugarloaf Mountain. Why I – an older, decidedly recreational bike rider – had decided that entering the 37 mile section of the “Horrible Hundred” was a good idea suddenly seemed a great mystery. 

I had to be crazy. The ride, put on the by the Florida Freewheelers, features 37, 72, and 102 mile sections. It’s billed as being challenging and hilly. Horrible.

So, how bad was it?

In a walnut shell, pretty horrible.  My bike is a lumbering department-store monstrosity, purchased originally for my step-son’s birthday the year he turned 12. Suffice it to say that my step-son has since married and had a child, who will soon need a bike of her own. Nevertheless, I had the bike suitably spiffed up for the occasion, the cobwebs hosed off of its wheels and its brake handles neatly duct-taped.

I was sure that some of the other riders would be similarly unfashionable – until I got to the start, located at the pavilion in Clermont by Lake Minneola. Over 1,100 bikers milled around the area, tuning their sleek machines, scarfing last minute snacks, or fidgeting in the lines to the bathrooms or registration.

Shelly, who I met in the registration line, tried to comfort me.  This outgoing young woman – with a body fat level that I would guess was around minus 12 – competes in sanctioned Iron-Man triathlons.  When I confessed to her that I felt a little out of place with my ancient equipment (which was safely hidden back at the truck, so no one could see it), she waved her hand in dismissal. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she told me.  “Lots of people have $10,000 bikes, but I do okay on my old one.” She pointed at her bike, a sparse skeleton with whisper-thin tires. “Look at it! It weighs 25 pounds!” I didn’t have the heart to tell her mine was closer to 45 pounds, and that we were doing two completely different sports.

Out on the course, my worries were confirmed. Countless riders glided past me, as if my tires were bogged down in some imaginary sludge. Many yelled out encouragement as they passed, but soon, I was mainly alone, kept company only by the SAG van and the occasional straggler. I felt pretty good at the first rest stop, some 19 miles out, until I discovered the most brutal terrain was yet to come.

Nevertheless, I made it. Not everyone did. I passed a few people myself, and I didn’t walk up any of the hills, either, though it took me 4 1/2 hours to slog around the course. I saw some beautiful country, and I might have made some new friends if I’d been able to keep up with them. I felt an incredible sense of accomplishment when I finally coasted over the finish, too. In fact, next year I might try for the 72 mile section. If I just take off my kickstand and get some new tires…