Lessons from a First-Time Half-Century Rider

Molly and Alyssa Skiba in Sister Bay after completing 50 miles of the Peninsula Century Fall Challenge.

We were five miles into our ride when the sprinkles of rain hit us and the heavy wind picked up off Eagle Harbor, pushing at us as hard as we pushed against it. Any other day, we probably would have agreed that maybe it was not the day for a bike ride and headed back home.

But today was not any other day. Today was the day my sister Molly and I had anticipated for weeks – the day of the Peninsula Century Fall Challenge, when we would mount our bikes and pedal a 50-mile route from Sister Bay to Egg Harbor and back up again.

The ride had been on my mind since I failed to sign up for the Peninsula Century Spring Classic in June and as a way of making up for it, said I would ride the 50-mile route in September. At that point, the furthest I had ever biked in one ride was 25 miles and I thought I was going to have to amputate my own legs after.

It’s not that I don’t bike often. In fact, most of my evenings are spent pedaling around the county. It’s my form of meditation; a ritual born in my childhood – a country kid who passed her time on summer evenings with her older brothers and younger sisters circling the block, outpedaling the territorial Rottweiler and Chihuahuas that chased us, being passed by tractors, and taking in the smell of fresh-cut alfalfa.

The idea of taking part in a group ride was frightening. What if even the Century riders finished before me? What if I didn’t even finish? Were spandex shorts required?

So I did what is pretty typical for me when it comes to all things biking – I talked to my coworker Jackson Parr, who is lightyears ahead of me on the cycling scale and who said the only words I needed to hear: it’s not a race.

I signed up. And so did my younger sister, Molly. My anxiety about the ride returned immediately.

Molly Skiba

You see, this wasn’t our first go at participating in a group ride together. Last summer, Molly and I signed up for a 20-mile foodie ride that would take us to some farms in Dane County where we would enjoy locally sourced food and the country roads of South-central Wisconsin. What could be more casual than a foodie ride? We didn’t even have to wear spandex for it, and no one would care if we were slow. It was going to be delightful.

Until five miles in, when a first-time group rider cut us off, resulting in my sister going over her handlebars, breaking off half of each of her two front teeth and fracturing her elbow. While our fellow riders visited a pick-your-own strawberry farm and enjoyed ice cream at a farm in Columbus, I sat in a waiting room while my sister had a 15-minute, $1,500 visit with an urgent care doctor.

And here I was, a little more than a year later, hearing that sister tell me how excited she was to ride, how happy she was that part of the route went through Peninsula State Park, and Oh! did you see the stuff about the after-party at the Sister Bay Waterfront Park?

So when Saturday rolled around, my mind was filled with all sorts of things – residual post-traumatic stress from her accident, fear of biking too slow for the group but too fast for my sister (she would be on a hybrid and I would be on a road bike), and then realizing we forgot to eat breakfast because we were giddy and trying to make sure our butts didn’t look saggy in our new padded spandex bottoms.

It’s not a race. Easier thought than believed, especially when we found ourselves being passed by nearly every person participating. That pack mentality took over: I better hurry up. But the differences in our bikes made all the difference and would be the ultimate teacher for me that day, along with my sister’s undying enthusiasm for the ride.

As wonderful as hybrids are, their tires are still thicker and heavier than road bike tires and therefore, lead to a slower ride. When we went up the hills, Molly fell behind. When we went down the hills, Molly fell behind. But every time I looked over my shoulder, there she was, pumping her legs to catch up and telling me I could go ahead without her.

That’s when it dawned on me: at the end of the day, I wanted to look back and think about how much fun we had hanging out on our bikes all day, not regretting pushing her to go faster. It’s not a race.

I pressed the brakes and felt the self-induced pressure fall away. I had a new goal – to enjoy the day with someone who, despite a pretty gruesome biking accident, had signed up because she loves Door County, loves biking, and loves adventures.

So we stopped to look out over the bay at Horseshoe Island, we ate the donut holes at our first stop in Fish Creek (and our second in Gibraltar), we “dream house hunted” along White Cliff Road, and we got passed repeatedly. But at each rest stop, we saw those people who had passed us earlier – they were hanging out and laughing, eating cookies and donut holes, and enjoying what became a sunny, bright blue-sky day in Door County.

Nobody cared that we were “too slow.” They just smiled and greeted us as they passed us by. They knew it wasn’t a race.

And by the time we rolled into Sister Bay’s Waterfront Park at mile 50, five hours after our start, I knew no other riding partner or speed could have made it a better ride.