Columbus Monthly / June 2011 / Easy rider

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Easy rider

Writer Steve Wartenberg reports on his 208-mile trek from Columbus to Portsmouth and back on the 50th annual Tour of the Scioto River Valley.

 

It’s 4:50 am and I’m tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable on the rock-hard floor of the gymnasium at Shawnee State University in Portsmouth. My back is aching from this night of torture, my legs are tired from the 104-mile bicycle ride from Columbus. I’m surrounded by scores of people, several in all-out snore mode, others starting to wake up and rustle through their bags to find their clothes and get ready for the long day ahead.

The symphony of deflating air mattresses begins (why didn’t I think to bring an air mattress?) and then someone’s cellphone alarm goes off, which is totally annoying and downright inconsiderate.

Trying to sleep is futile, so what the heck; I might as well get up and get going. Maybe, just maybe, the thunderstorms predicted for this morning will hold off.

Am I miserable?

Heck, no. It’s the start of day two of the Tour of the Scioto River Valley, more commonly known as TOSRV and billed—quite accurately—as America’s bicycle touring classic. I’m one of those fanatical bike riders who thinks any day that includes a 100-mile ride is a great day, so two century rides in a row must be heaven. I’m not alone in my logic, as about 2,900 cycling fanatics rode the 50th annual TOSRV on May 7 and 8.

“It just sounded like a crazy thing to try and do,” says Albert Lai, 33, who rode his first TOSRV in 2010. That was the year of the epic headwinds. Anyone who has ridden TOSRV has a weather-related story and doesn’t mind sharing it.

“After last year and all that wind, I wasn’t going to do it again,” says Albert, whom I met in the gym at the end of day one and rode with on day two. “But because it was the 50th one, I had to do it.”

Last year was also my first TOSRV. Like Albert, I suffered through the headwinds—and still came back for more.

 

TOSRV’s history dates back to a stiflingly hot July weekend in 1962 when Charles and Greg Siple went on a father-and-son bike trip from Columbus to Portsmouth, and back the next day.

This just wasn’t done back then. Only children rode bikes; adults drove cars. But Charles did a lot of cycling in his youth and wanted to pass along his love of pedaling to his 16-year-old son.

“I was totally enthusiastic about doing it,” Greg says. “I didn’t know a single other person who would consider doing this with us. There were no bike clubs or anybody who biked back then.”

The ride was a struggle—and neither rider had an inkling their trek would become an annual event and the foundation for organized, long-distance cycling events and cross-country rides so popular today in this country. “The next spring, I was thinking I wanted to do it again,” Greg says. “And people started to emerge, other young guys I knew, and 10-speed bikes became available—so I went with three other guys. My father opted to stay home.”

In 1964, five riders joined Greg. In 1967, his younger brother, Doug, 11 at the time, joined in, and by the end of the decade there were 700 riders. TOSRV peaked in 1989 at 6,650 riders. The number slowly began to drop in the ensuing years, due in large part to the success of the ride. “There was nothing like this anywhere else,” Greg says of the early years of TOSRV. Cyclists from far and wide would come to Columbus, ride TOSRV, go home and say: Why don’t we have anything like this here?

Soon they did, and today most states have some sort of organized, long-distance ride. Ohio has several.

Greg was just getting started.

Between June 1972 and February 1975, he and his wife, June, and friends Dan and Lys Burden cycled from Alaska to Argentina, and talked about riding across the U.S. They created Bikecentennial in 1976, and about 2,000 people—on their own or in small groups—rode from Oregon to Virginia. This spurred a cottage industry of cross-country rides. The Siples and Burdens founded Adventure Cycling Association, a Montana-based nonprofit that promotes long-distance cycling and has mapped thousands of miles of routes.

This makes Columbus the birthplace of organized, long-distance bike rides in this country, and Greg one of the founding fathers.

Greg, Adventure Cycling Association’s art director, has returned home to ride TOSRV every few years. He estimates he has ridden about 30, and Doug has done 40. The lure of the 50th was strong—and Greg returned to be part of the history he helped create.

“It’s such a neat thing that after 48 years and nine months I could come back, TOSRV is still here and I could ride it,” he says. As for Charles, he’s 92 and living in Canal Winchester—and has retired from riding.

 

“There I am,” says Brad Bolton, pointing to a 1967 TOSRV group picture, taken on the Statehouse steps shortly before the ride began.

It’s the Friday night before TOSRV, and I’m at the Hyatt on Capitol Square to pick up my registration packet. “I heard about it through my cycling
club,” Brad says of the 1967 TOSRV. “My friend and I—that’s him, right next to me in the picture—said, ‘Let’s do it.’ ”

He was 18.

Brad doesn’t remember much about the first day’s ride, but sure remembers day two. “It was so cold and there was a hard rain, and by the time we got back to Chillicothe we were shaking and hypothermic and got on an old bus and got a ride back to Columbus.”

See, I told you every TOSRV rider has a weather story.

Brad rode the full route in 1968 and has ridden TOSRV off and on over the years. He didn’t have time to train this year, and decided not to ride. “But I wanted to be part of the 50th, so I called and asked if I could volunteer, and they said yes.”

TOSRV riders come in all shapes and sizes, ages and sexes (the men outnumber the women by about a 3-to-1 margin). They ride an amazing assortment of bikes, from $5,000 road racers to tandems, recumbents and even a few old, heavy bikes better suited for puttering around the neighborhood than undertaking a double century. There’s a half-TOSRV option, but most people do the full route.

Mario Kennedy is riding his 38th TOSRV, and will captain a three-person bike with Marie and Nino Pacini, who are blind. “This is our sixth TOSRV,” Marie says.

In past rides, they’ve ridden on different tandems, each captained by a sighted rider. This is their first time riding a triple in TOSRV. “We’re totally in tune with our surroundings and how our bodies are functioning,” Nino says. “We can hear and definitely smell everything,” Marie adds. “It’s not that we hear better, we’re just more aware of sounds.”

 

Albert was hurting 20 miles into day two. He’d only ridden about 300 miles this year before TOSRV, which meant suffering was in his future. I’d done about 1,300 miles.

We’d both been able to hook up with a few fast packs of riders on day one and had uneventful—and fairly fast—rides to Portsmouth. There was a steady headwind all day, but it was minimal.

On day two, we packed up our bags, put them on the truck and hit the road at about 6:30 in the morning. We rode past and admired the famous Portsmouth murals on the long walls that run parallel to the Ohio River. It was a raw, gray day. It looked like it would start raining any minute, but it never did. The headwinds? Steady . . . but minimal.

This meant a pleasant day of riding along a mostly flat and somewhat repetitive rural landscape that included lots of farms and occasional views of the Scioto River and the remains of the old canal.

Albert fell in behind my back wheel and I pulled him along to the first rest stop at Lake White State Park, where it was a mob scene. It took 20 minutes to get to the front of the Porta-Potty line.

A short stretch of rolling hills started soon after the park. Albert’s lack of training miles began to wreak havoc on his legs, a sensation every cyclist is all too familiar with. Small hills seem like big hills, big hills feel like mountains. Albert kept pedaling, and we made it to the second rest stop—and lunch—in Chillicothe.

“If I can’t keep up, just go,” Albert says.

“We’ll see what happens,” I reply.

Soon after we got going again, a group of five fast riders roared past. I jumped in with the pack and motioned for Albert to fall in behind me. I looked back a minute later . . . and Albert was a distant dot.

It was decision time. Do I stay with these guys and fly along at an exhilarating 20 miles an hour, or slow down and wait? Part of me felt an obligation to wait, and part of me wanted to ride fast.

My need for speed won out. I rode with this fast pack to the third and final rest stop, then found another group that got me most of the way back to Columbus. The sun had emerged and it was a perfect day for riding.

Hey, don’t give me that look: Albert told me to go ahead if he was struggling. I e-mailed him the next day to apologize—and see how the rest of his ride went.

“No problem leaving me behind,” Albert replied. “I was actually trying to wave you on when you looked back.”

Whew! Now I feel a lot better. In fact, the 50th TOSRV was such a great experience, I think I’ll be back for the 51st. And this time I’m packing an air mattress.  

 

Steve Wartenberg is a freelance writer and avid biker.