It was the first week back at school in my Junior year at Indiana University when someone came up with the hair-brained yet unforgettable idea of doing a ride called “The Midnight 90”. In Bloomington, every townie and student who rides a bike with some level of seriousness knows the Nashville 90 – a 90 mile ride which heads in a counter clockwise direction through some of the most beautiful countryside in southern Indiana. Depending on which riders are in attendance, the ride can vary from casual and enjoyable to 90 miles of gear mashing and lung busting misery. In my five years of living in Bloomington, I had done the 90 more times than I could possibly count, but had never done it in the middle of darkness.

It was about 10PM on a Friday when my buddy Chuck came walking into my room with a six pack of Rolling Rock.

“Drink these.”

“What. Now?

“Yeah. All of them. Right now.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask questions, just start drinking.”

I willingly complied with Chuck’s request and started chugging down one after another of the green glass brews from Old Latrobe. Chuck anxiously sat across from me with his wavy blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and his menacing grin looking like he was about to break out in laughter. I knew something was going on. After finishing the second beer in 10 minutes, I spoke up.

“Care to tell me why you’re trying to get me drunk?”

“Because dude, we’re going on a ride.”

“When?” Chuck glanced at his watch.

“In about an hour.”

“What? Where?”

“Nashville 90.”

“At night!?”

“Yep.”

“So let me get this straight. You’re getting me drunk so we can do the Nashville 90 at midnight?”

“Yep.” Chuck let loose a wickedly evil laugh.

“Screw it. I’m down. Pass me another brew.”

I drank the entire six pack and put on my cream and crimson IU Cycling gear. I walked down the hall of my fraternity, Acacia, at 11:30 on a Friday night clad in lycra and my helmet while holding my last Rolling Rock as hordes of scantily clad drunk chicks and wasted frat brothers smoking cigarettes walked by me.

“Where the hell are you going, Gensheimer?” asked one of my inebriated constituents.

“90 mile ride dude, at midnight. Drunk.”

“YEAH!” Suddenly I found myself being mauled by five different drunken fools pouring beer on me and cheering me down the hall towards my bike. I stumbled down the stairs with my silver and yellow steel Specialized Allez as the drunken congregation of brothers escorted me out the door.

“Give ‘em hell, Gensheimer! WOO HOO! Little 5! YEAH!”

While waiting in the back parking lot for Chuck to show up, I looked up at the crystal clear Indiana sky and the stars began to spin. I hadn’t eaten since six o’clock, got five hours of sleep the night before, and now fully drunk out of my skull, I was about to do a 90 mile ride – at midnight no less. What the hell was I thinking?

Chuck rolled up on his brand new yellow Eddy Merckx Corsa, and we rode across campus to the Little 500 stadium where a group of 20 other crazies were waiting to depart on our perilous twilight journey. As we rode along Indiana Avenue, I weaved and drifted, almost hitting Chuck and a parked car.

“I can’t believe you made me drink an entire six pack two hours before this thing,” I said with horribly slurred speech. Chuck did nothing but let loose his evil giggle.

We got to the Wilcox House and were amazed to see so many people willing to take part in this soon-to-be notorious ride. Not wanting to reveal my inebriated state, I just stood quietly and listened to others talk. Even though it was 70 degrees, two girls who were dressed with more gear than an Everest expedition enthusiastically gabbed to one another.

“I slept like 12 hours last night to get ready for this!”

“I know. I ate like five meals today. I even brought extra food. I’m so ready.”

“Hmm,” I thought to myself. “I found out about this ride two hours ago and I’m ripped off my ass right now. Let’s ride!”

The peloton of nearly two dozen riders left Bloomington with a one car ahead of the group and one car behind. Nobody on the ride thought to bring lights with them, as it was advertised that “lights would be provided.” Had I known they were referring to car lights, I would have at least brought a rear blinker. Last thing you want to have happen when you’re alone in the middle of nowhere darkness is to have a drunk Indiana hillbilly run you over with his rotted out Chevy pickup.

We coasted along a gentle downhill on Route 446 towards Lake Monroe, the same road that the infamous Dave Stoller raced along against Cinzano in the classic movie Breaking Away, in daylight mind you, when I decided it would be best to ride off the back of the pack in order to prevent an inadvertent wreck. Chuck dropped back to check up on me.

“You okay?”

“What do you think, man? I just drank a six pack. I’m crapulated.” Chuck just giggled again and rode back into the group.

After two hours of riding, we got past “the flashers”, and were headed east. My drunkenness had worn off to a mild buzz, and wits began to come about me again. I rode next to my good friend Seth Pizzo, who helped me run the IU Cycling team. We were talking shop when Seth hit a huge pothole and his tire blew out.

“Want us to stop?” I asked.

“No, I’m fine. Keep going. I’ll catch up.”

The group pressed on with both cars, and forty minutes later we arrived at our normal general store stop in Freetown, which of course was closed at 2:30 in the morning. We waited 45 minutes, and no Seth. Mike Foote, former Little 500 Director and the one who gave me the nickname “Genshammer”, spoke up and suggested one of the cars go back and look for Seth, while the other car stay with the group and press onward. With all of us now freezing in the dark of night, there were no arguments.

Now down to only one car to guide us, a wood-paneled Dodge Caravan drove behind the group as we twisted and winded our way along the hilly back roads near Story. I looked across an expansive cornfield to see an eerie shadow of wheels and bodies in motion looking like something out of a Tim Burton flick. What the hell were we doing out here? Who came up with this confounded idea? Why is everyone slamming on their brakes? SHIT!

The sound of locked up rubber and bodies hitting asphalt jolted me out of my day(night?)dream as I bunnyhopped off the pavement into a ditch in order to avoid being taken out like a falling domino. One overzealous rider who inexplicably found it necessary to string out the group at the front with little to no lighting, miscalculated a corner and got his rig horizontal. One after another followed suit, and before I came to a head over handlebars halt in a pile of leaves, seven of us had been derailed.

Thankfully, injuries were limited to minor road rash and scratched brake levers, or so it appeared in the low beam headlights of our escort’s Dodge Caravan. As we regrouped to push off again, the second car from our convoy came rolling up with Seth and his 49cm Merlin Extralight in the back seat.

“Dude, what the hell happened to you?” I asked while pulling leaves and twigs out of my helmet.

“I should ask you the same thing. Well, you know I got a flat, and I’m running tubies. When I got off my bike to put the spare one on, it was gone. I lost it somewhere along the way. So there I was left standing in the middle of nowhere 25 miles from Bloomington with no lights, food, spare tubular or even a phone. And it was dark, man. Frigging dark. Like cave dark.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“What do you think? I just started walking towards town.”

I picked the final twig out of my brain bucket, and we cautiously pushed onward towards Nashville. It was now 4 in the morning, and I began to fade hardcore. The beer had lost its effect, and it was replaced with heavy eyes and the desire to rest my head on the handlebars for “just a few minutes”, as I said to Chuck while he pushed me along.

I must have ridden the last few miles to Nashville with my eyes closed half the time, because I can hardly remember making it to the 24 hour gas station. Like the exhausted winner of a Tour de France mountain stage, I dropped my bike next to a gas pump and collapsed onto the oily concrete for a short nap. The smell of fresh coffee rocked my eyes wide open as I heard Chuck’s evil giggle.

“Here. Drink this.” I sipped the horribly burnt gas station coffee and slowly came back to life.

“Got any little chocolate donuts?” If Belushi could eat them, so could I.

“They’re sold out.”

“Harsh.”

We climbed out of Nashville and could see the horizon changing to a navy blue, signifying the arrival of daybreak. The entire group was now recharged and ready to knock out the last leg of our crepuscular jaunt when Mike decided he was going to try and knock out his own leg instead. Mike led us down a 50 mile an hour freefall downhill just outside Nashville which had a high speed right hand turn at the bottom. Still dark, the corner came faster than it appeared in daylight, and just as Mike entered it, a car came around the corner taking the inside line and leaving very little space. Mike veered right, but there was no more right to veer, and his beautiful steel blue GT went off pave into a pile of rocks and broken asphalt.

Like every wreck which seems to happen in slow motion, I looked over to the right as I came even with his ragged body and bicycle tumbling on the shoulder like synchronized Olympic gymnasts. Amazingly enough, nobody else was taken out by Mike’s misfortune, and even more astounding was that Mike got up, brushed himself off, and kept on riding.

Dawn had officially arrived when we reached the Lake Lemmon turnoff, and most of the group who had their fill of harrowing events opted to stay on 46 and go the short way home to Bloomington. Chuck, myself, and a three other weary souls decided to ride home via Lake Lemmon so that we could lay claim to a midnight century. No longer requiring the guidance of headlights, both volunteer cars stayed on 46 with the main group.

As we rode along the lakefront, we were rewarded with a gorgeous orange and red sunrise that reflected off the water.

“Bet you’ve never seen a sunrise like that while riding your bike,” said Chuck.

“Nope. Can’t say that I have.”

The last 15 miles were the greatest part of the ride – not because it was the end, but because we were riding into Bloomington at six o’clock in the morning. Not a soul stirred, not a car passed us. We took up both lanes of the normally bustling Third Street and came to a stop in front of Acacia.

“Can’t wait until next year,” I said to Chuck.

“Dude, there isn’t going to be a next year. This is a one time only kinda thing.”

Chuck was right. There wasn’t a next year. It was the first and last annual Midnight 90, and you know what? It’s better that way.