So I pondered publicly about joining a local club. Last night I headed out to join their Wed night club ride. The web site says,
I can do that, I tell myself. Especially since my solo rides I'm riding at 19-21 on the flats. But, being a club ride, I was worried that it would be a hammerfest.

I get there (live close enough to ride to the shop, whoo!), and there are few guys pulling bikes of/out of their cars: an Orbea, an Isaac, an OCLV or two. One guy has a Powertap. I'm in the very small minority not in the club kit. I actually take a lap or two around the parking lot making sure I'm not the only one who doesn't have shaved legs. I introduce myself, and we chit-chat while other riders show up. I ask about the ride pace:

"Well, the past couple weeks have been so big that we've had an A group, mid-20s, and a B group, right at 20. Doesn't look like it's that big tonight, so we'll just see how it goes"

"It could be a hammerfest, depends on how everyone feels"

"We'll average 21. So some parts will be faster than that, some will be slower"

That last one stung. My best solo averages are in the low 18s. I realized I might be in trouble. I ask if there are cue sheets, just in case I get lost, there aren't any. Lots of verbal directions. I curse to myself for not printing off the cue sheet. I make a joke about finding Broad or Patterson (two very large obvious roads) and limping home. Get a few chuckles. The group is about 15 strong, and maybe six of us aren't in the club kits. One guy was also a first-timer on this ride, so I was hoping that maybe I'd have a partner if things went South. We get rolling, and I put myself about fifth in line, thinking that's a better place to be if I start slipping because I can suck more wheel that way if I tumble down the line. We settle in at twenty-seven miles an hour.


I lasted exactly seven miles. I got dropped like a hot rock in a hot rock dropping contest. I was spit out the back like a tree branch in a wood chipper. I got flicked out the window like a cigarette butt. It was more than humbling, it was down right laughable.

Thankfully, I'd been on part of the route once before, so I was able to pick and choose my way around to get in some miles, though at this point I was totally blown and limping along at 16, 17mph. I'd cut off probably 5 miles from the 'proper' route, and I get onto Patterson, which I can just stay on for the 9 miles back to the apartment. Then I look behind me to see them about half a mile back. My ego was relieved that they turned off. I get home, ego bruised, left calf threatening to cramp (after only 33 miles!), and laughing to myself. I celebrated by having dinner, a shower, and going to a bar. Fricken yay for me.

Now, the question is, do I go back out there next Wednesday, see if I can last 9 miles?