This week, I will eschew my normal training log format and instead focus on one ride in particular because it was quite remarkable and it costs me about one hundred bucks, so I want to be certain I get my money’s worth out of the experience.

The ride that I am focusing one is the Bicycling Fall Classic, held on October 12th on the roads of the Lehigh Valley. Now, because I know that if you are reading this—you are most likely a grizzled veteran of the world of bike that’s spent years developing an inflexible credo regarding both sock color and length—and you would probably poo poo all things that are related to Bicycling magazine as “Fred Fodder”; but I am here to serve as a counter point to that inflexible stance. I am here to tell you that there is delight, perhaps even joy to be found in Fred-ness.

As I am on my quest to ride 10,000 miles within this calendar year, I reckoned that the Fall Classic would be a enjoyable and social way to pile up 90 miles. I was also able to sucker my teammates Erik the Swede and Josh the Track Racer into coming along, so the day was shaping up to be an enjoyable one. Early on Sunday morning we met up at an undisclosed location along route 78, and headed towards Eastern Pennsylvania.

As we made our way into the Pennsylvania hinterlands, there descended a morning fog thick enough for a crooked Scooby Doo real estate tycoon to project a pirate ship onto. I gave my phone another check and hoped that the forecast would hold and the temperatures would rise, because the clothing that I brought was meant for shivery start that would evolve into an on-bike strip tease that would be sure to disgust and disappoint all who were unlucky enough to witness it. We arrived at the sign in and discovered that Erik the Swede had neglected to bring gloves, which meant that his sensitive Swedish hands would be at the mercy of the Pennsylvania fog. We tried to beg for gloves, but to no avail. Erik’s only alternative would be to drive to Walmart and get gloves before the ride began.

I felt bad sending a European into a Walmart, but there was no alternative. Thankfully, Erik did return with warm, puffy gloves—and a newly developed taste for Mountain Dew—but we were now woefully behind schedule. The three of rushed to the line as the announcer was calling for the start, and we did the racer thing where you ride the wrong way up the course, turn your bikes around, shove them into the front row and then try as hard as possible to make it look like you didn’t just do what you did. And our plan would’ve worked too, had it not been for Nicolas Roche (man, how many times have I said that? It’s getting really old…). You see, we arrived just as Nicolas was being announced as the special guest rider, and our last minute maneuver placed us right next to Mr Roche. Normal people would’ve slunk away in shame—Erik got some good shots of us with Nicolas.

Soon it was time to ride. The race format for those who chose to do such a thing consisted of three timed sections. I do not, as a rule, race a bike in October, but Erik the Swede was keen to exert himself, so I would pair myself with Josh the Track Racer as he “climbed” his way through the course. Due to our sweet positioning move, we were all at the front for the first KOM section. I pedaled sensibly, Erik took off like a SAAB rocket and Josh climbed his way onto the side of a milk carton. I waited at the top of the hill and then reconnected with Josh and we descended like pinballs through a pachinko game.

This pattern stayed consistent for a good while, we would get to a hill, Josh would prove why he races track and we would then regroup—but this is the charm of this sort of event. No one needs to be dropped. I could ride hard in the KOM sections and still collect Josh afterwards. It’s a very polite way to race. But alas, Josh soon came to his track senses and decided to turn his 90 mile aspiration into a 50 mile reality. I bid him farewell, and headed off alone with about 200 other riders.

It was while riding solo that I was able to appreciate my surroundings. With its bubbling brooks, rolling hills and stone houses, this section of Pennsylvania is akin to an Appellation version of the Shire. I especially enjoyed Bieber Creek, a body of water which I assume sells its naming rights to the highest bidder, and was also recently known as Jonas Brothers Brook. And since the ride had thinned out considerably, I had Pennsylvania to myself for a good portion of the day.

I rolled through the hills. I took in the sight of the leaves on the trees are they prepared to burst into autumnal fireworks. I pace-lined with strangers. I caught stragglers ahead of me and was caught by some behind me, and then the ride was over. We were directed into the Lehigh velodrome for a finishing lap, and I had an evil chuckle (I think we’ve established the fact that I am not a good person) as I watched a few riders unfamiliar with the ways of the banking as they caught their pedals and slid down the banking, unhurt save for an ego bruising. I carried my bike on the steps to leave the velodrome, so that totally counts as cross too.

After that I collected Erik the Swede (who finished second overall on the day—I told you he liked exertion) and Josh the Track Racer and treated myself to a FREE sandwich and FREE fries (I didn’t have any of the FREE BEER, which is really remarkable if you know me at all); and I chewed and chatted as a Fred among Freds.