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YOUR ANNUAL RECAP: MIDNIGHT MARATHON RIDE 2015

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Shawn Musgrave ShawnMusgrave Twitter

Image by Shawn Musgrave

 

Let’s get this out of the way: Yes, I cheated.

 

Unlike years past, when I greeted the Midnight Marathon Ride in the wee hours of Marathon Monday with all the naive enthusiasm required to tackle it astride a Hubway bicycle, while wearing pitiably thin socks, or last year when I participated without adequate foot coverage, I dedicated much forethought to the 2015 trek.

 

Or, more accurately, much dread.

 

I do this ride for the cruel but timely reminder of just how doughy I am heading into warmer months. (That, and to feel the amazing camaraderie of strangers stopping to help fix flat tires, but that’s a given.) Each of the three years I have completed the course, it has been with plenty of huffing, puffing, and frequent “picture breaks for the writeup.”

 

 

I know full well that my body’s biking bits are in despicable shape after our MBTA-paralyzing winter. So when a friend offers to drive us both to the ride’s start, I do what any rational, self-preserving human would have done in my place: I took a shortcut in my own best interest. Rather than steer us toward Southborough, where the 300+ riders who took the commuter rail began their trek, I enter the starting line in Hopkinton into the GPS. There’s a hill halfway between the train station and Hopkinton that destroys me every year, and I took the steps necessary to avoid it. I regret nothing. 

 

 

As midnight strikes and we get on our way, my friend acknowledges a few mistakes in his attire. It’s 40 degrees as the crow shivers, and he’s wearing cutoffs and no gloves.

 

“The Weather Channel let me down,” he mutters.

 

I, meanwhile, am sweating smugly by mile two in my wool socks and innumerable shirts. A few miles on, I hear him yell for me to pull over, and a pitying passerby offers his spare gloves without hesitation. This vastly improves my friend’s mood, inadequate legwear notwithstanding.

 

Several hills later, we stop in Wellesley to warm up in a gas station. I’ve earned a Lunchables, I decide.

 

 

Ten minutes on, just as I realize my snack mistake, our horde nearly takes a wrong turn onto the highway. It’s a beautiful testament to herd mentality, but quickly corrected. I know we’re halfway there, and so I start to think each hill is the heartbreaker. Huffing up one such hill, I see an old man jogging on the opposite side of the street. I can only describe him as John-the-Baptist-wearing-Crocs. My friend is unable to corroborate and I have no photo evidence, so I stop for some some water in case I’m having dehydration visions. All hills vanquished—four years of riding, and I still couldn’t tell you which one is Heartbreak—and we’re suddenly passing Boston College while flying down Comm Ave and Beacon Street toward Back Bay. At the track crossings and tricky turns, volunteers with bells and glowsticks direct us toward the finish line. 

 

 

My friend and I don’t savor our accomplishment long in Copley. We walk our bikes back toward Mass Ave to grab a ride home, stretch, and predict what kind of physical state we’ll be in tomorrow. He suggests that next year’s goal should be completing the out-and-back ride, some 50 miles that requires climbing each hill twice.

 

I wearily agree, and start scheming.

SHAWN MUSGRAVE

SHAWN MUSGRAVE

SHAWN MUSGRAVE

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