At first glance the Hancock Horizontal Hundred does not appear particularly intimidating. Northwestern Ohio is flat, the roads are good, and there are no major climbs anywhere on the route, which sounds reassuring right up until the moment you actually ride it. I’ve ridden the Hancock Handlebars Bicycle Club century several times over the years and every time I finish it I swear I’ll never do it again.
It always turns out to be considerably tougher than I expect. After several hours of broiling in the sun I tend to lose my already tenuous grasp on reality, but the heat isn’t really the problem. The real problem is that the route is flat — unbelievably flat — with nothing but soybean fields, occasional corn, and a horizon so distant it looks more like Kansas with humidity. You earn every mile one pedal stroke at a time with no help from gravity. And once the route turns west, the headwind arrives to remind you that Ohio is fully capable of manufacturing mountains out of moving air.
For this year’s ride, I got up at three o’clock in the morning and drove to Findlay, about two and a half hours from my house. Somewhere along the way I obediently followed a detour sign that led me deep into the Stygian darkness of the rural Midwest. For the next twenty minutes I wandered among silent farm fields beneath spectacular stars wondering if I would ever again encounter human civilization. Finally deciding the detour had forfeited any claim to my trust, I ignored the detour entirely and found Findlay High School with time to spare. I was surprised by how many people were already there, along with a scattering of motor homes and tents around the parking lot.
After picking up my route map and lunch ticket I headed for the restroom to unload the quart of Gatorade I had consumed during the drive, only to discover the line extended out the door and twenty feet down the hallway. The hostess very politely offered to take my name and notify me when a seat became available, but the pressure was mounting and I decided immediate independent action was required. Walking very carefully, I returned to the car and drove across the street to a McDonald’s that had just opened. In a largely symbolic attempt to preserve my dignity I bought an Egg McMuffin I did not actually want, then after removing the meat attempted to rapidly consume the sandwich, forgot to swallow, and nearly passed half of it through my nasal passages. Trying to remain inconspicuous while choking and coughing, I staggered toward the restroom only to discover it already occupied. After the situation was finally brought under control, I returned to the high school and began preparing for the ride. The sun had just begun to rise so I suavely donned my hot new “bike stud” sunglasses and rolled toward the start line. Although I could barely see through the dark lenses I managed not to immediately collide with anything, which I chose to interpret as a favorable omen.
I eased into the steady stream of cyclists pouring onto the route and was amazed by how many riders had turned out. I fell in with several riders moving at a decent speed and together we rolled through cool foggy farmland while hundreds of bicycle tires hissed quietly across the pavement. Fog lingered in the low areas, fields sparkled with dew, and the air carried the smells of freshly cut hay, damp earth, livestock, and late summer crops. I reached the first rest stop considerably faster than expected and was still feeling strong. More importantly, I discovered they had excellent banana-nut bran muffins. I ate two before heading back out onto the road. I also attempted to refill my water supply, but one of the drink coolers had malfunctioned and orange drink was steadily advancing toward the door while a comically inept maintenance crew pursued it with mops. Deciding conditions were deteriorating rapidly, I left while escape still seemed possible.
The ride to the lunch stop was largely uneventful aside from the increasing heat. The scenery never seemed to change as soybeans stretched endlessly in every direction, interrupted only occasionally by isolated stands of corn. I was still maintaining a decent speed and feeling rather pleased with myself. Lunch proved memorable for entirely different reasons since it was held inside a small-town grade-school cafeteria reached by climbing a long staircase and passing through what I can only describe as a working facsimile of the gates of Hell. The building appeared to be storing heat for future generations. Three small floor fans pushed around sluggish pockets of torpid air that felt remarkably like a large dog breathing directly into your face. Despite having arrived slightly ahead of most of the riders, the food line stretched halfway around the room. When I finally reached the food table I was presented with ham and turkey sandwiches on white bread, a paper plate containing peanut butter that had melted into a vaguely brown liquid, several gray bananas, and a tub of pasta salad. Considering the heat I passed on the pasta salad and instead helped myself to carrot sticks, celery, and two more excellent muffins. After a few minutes inside the cafeteria I was already looking forward to getting back out into the sun.
The main body of riders had now arrived and the line extended down the stairway and out into the schoolyard. I carefully threaded my way past countless weekend warriors dressed in violently colored skin-tight cycling attire that, in the overwhelming majority of cases, was deeply unfortunate. Once back outside the temperature somehow felt twenty degrees cooler. I climbed back on the bike and started the second fifty miles.
The roads themselves were surprisingly interesting, often narrowing to little more than eight feet wide with virtually no shoulder, and in some places resembling paved bike paths more than public roads. What struck me most, however, was that every road we traveled — whether state highway or obscure farm road — was perfectly paved. Somewhere in northwestern Ohio there apparently exists a road department that takes its responsibilities very seriously.
The sun was now at its zenith and the temperature had risen accordingly. It had become an absolutely beautiful late summer day, assuming one enjoys slow dehydration beneath a nuclear furnace. By the time I reached the next rest stop I was definitely feeling the heat and my average speed had begun a long, steady decline. Tragically, there were no muffins at this stop, though they did have excellent oversized chocolate-chip cookies. I took three and sat beneath a small tree eating them while watching a swarm of bees orbit a nearby flagpole. I also noticed the flag was being blown straight sideways by the wind. It did not seem particularly encouraging. Before leaving I refilled my hydration system completely. From past experience I knew that in temperatures like this I would need every bit of water I could carry.
The route now turned directly west into heat and wind. Not a strong wind, just a steady resistance that wore you down mile after mile. My average speed continued creeping downward as I labored through what increasingly felt less like the breadbasket of America and more like the bread oven. With only eight miles remaining I was flagged down by two riders, one of whom had a flat tire but no pump. At least he possessed the correct adapter for his presta valve stem, which already placed him ahead of complete catastrophe. When I stopped and removed my helmet to wipe the sweat from my eyes one of them looked genuinely alarmed and asked if I was all right. I tend to turn a frightening shade of red and sweat profusely when overheated, so I imagine I must have looked like a minor demon. The sag wagon arrived just as they confirmed the tire was indeed punctured. The poor fellow had a spare tube but apparently no idea how to install it. I removed the tire while someone fetched a pump from the support vehicle. His friend meanwhile rode half a mile down the road where he waited in the shade of the only tree in sight, evidently contributing moral support from a safe distance. I had to remount the tire myself or I suspect the bloke might still be there fighting with it. After standing beside the road in direct sunlight for more than thirty minutes I was about ready to quit entirely. With only eight miles remaining I forced myself back onto the bike and continued. Less than half a mile later I ran out of water.
The wind became less of a factor once I reached town, even though the endless stop signs and traffic quickly became tedious. Although my throat was beginning to hurt from dehydration, I otherwise felt reasonably good and was actually in fairly high spirits by the time I rolled into the high school parking lot. I changed out of my sweat-soaked clothes, grabbed two more muffins, and began the long drive home.
The first fifty miles in the cool morning hours were by far the best part of the day. I’ve always loved watching the sun rise over open farmland while fog lingers in the low areas and dew still sparkles on the fields. The route was extremely well marked, the roads were excellent, and the muffins were superb.