I can still vividly remember my first metric century. Not so much the riding part, as the I’ll-eat-anything-at-arm’s-length call sent from my rumbling stomach at mile 50. It was a desperate plea for calories, and even the fumes from a nearby McDonald’s had me salivating like a dog.
Since that ride, I’ve learned to eat more mid-pedal and to slip some protein into my back pocket. But I still live for the post-ride barbecue or diner stop. Continue reading