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Fragments from the Road

We waited out a thunderstorm at a stranger’s house in the middle of the night.

On a cold, rainy day, we stuffed newspapers under our jerseys, stopped at a post office, and laughed about whether it helped at all.

At the end of my first 600k, someone rode out to meet me for the final kilometer. Others congratulated me at the finish and paid for my hotel so I could rest and drive home safely.

These moments don’t appear on a brevet card. But they’re what I remember.

Randonneuring doesn’t stay in my memory as distance or time. I don’t remember average speed or finishing rank. What remains are fragments; brief, vivid moments that surface years later, often without explanation.

I remember riding alone through farm fields when someone passed me. We exchanged a simple greeting and nothing more. I don’t know why that moment stayed with me. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the reminder that even in long solitude, you’re never completely alone.

I remember notorious potholes on a 200k ride around Barrington. I don’t remember the climb profile, but I remember bracing for impact, over and over again.

I remember a thunderstorm in the middle of the night. I was riding with a group when the rain became too heavy to continue. We gathered at someone’s house, a place we had never been invited to before, and waited together. No heroics. Just shared shelter.

During a 600k, I was so tired that a gas station became a refuge. Someone offered to let me sleep in his car for a few minutes. I slept for over an hour. At that point, the body negotiates its own terms.

On another 600k, I was desperately searching for a place to nap. I found what looked like the perfect spot under a tree, only to realize someone else was already sleeping there. I had to find another sleep spot.

Not all memories are gentle.

One night, I stopped suddenly after making a wrong turn. Someone riding behind me got angry. It was dark. We were exhausted. In that moment, patience was gone. I remember it not because it was dramatic, but because it was honest. Fatigue reveals everything.

I remember riding alone when a pickup truck passed me and deliberately rolled coal. I’m certain I was on the shoulder. That moment reminded me how exposed a rider can be and how small.

I remember a road sign where the road name matched my bike’s name: Caledonia. Someone took a photo of me and my bike beneath it. Coincidences like that feel larger when you’re deep into a ride.

I remember a pitch-black night that was supposed to be gravel. Rain turned it into mud. The bike stopped moving as mud clung to everything. I was pedaling, but going nowhere.

I remember cold rain and poor preparation. Three of us put newspapers under our jerseys. I can’t say whether it worked, but I remember stopping at a post office and laughing, really laughing, about how ridiculous it was.

I remember my first brevet in Korea. A 200k in Jeju. We stopped at a local market and ate noodle soup. It tasted perfect.

Food becomes strange out there. I ate instant ramen at gas stations more times than I can count. I remember, vividly, the first time I saw a canned iced coffee that tasted like a Snickers bar. Chocolate, coffee, sugar, all of it wrong, all of it perfect. I drank it anyway. I still remember the taste.

At the end of that first 600k, with one or three kilometers left, someone rode out from the finish line to meet me. We rode together to the end. It was my first time riding that far. Others were waiting. Someone paid for my hotel room so I could sleep and drive home safely.

I don’t remember what time I finished. I don’t remember my average speed.

But I remember that someone came out to meet me when I was empty.

What stays are moments, some shared, some solitary, some kind, some uncomfortable. Randonneuring, for me, isn’t remembered as a continuous story. It’s remembered in fragments. And somehow, that feels exactly right.