IT WAS....a beautiful fall afternoon for a bicycle ride in the forest. The trails were packed tightly, with only the occasional hint of moisture in spots, and the only other variance to the surface would be the typical puddels. It was as if the day itself was curated for the purpose...a celestial and meteorological circumstance of perfection for the Cemetery 6Pack. Here is the story of that event, as told by someone who lived it.
The concept of this event was birthed in the avid mind of one Matt Wagner, and the traction instantly gained through instant support voiced by fellow mountain bike idiots immediately solidified his resolve to see his idea through to fruition. The task...ride the Cemetery Hill "lollipop" loop with connector stem 6 times and consume a fermented beverage of choice for each lap. The course would be about 2 miles long, twisting singletrack with the occasional sharp climb. Three laps clockwise and three laps counterclockwise...just to even things out and encourage the possibility of collision with fellow competitors.
I arrived with the intention of getting some warmup miles in, even though my chief concern lay with my relatively poor beer-drinking skills and how I would perform in that aspect of this particular duathlon. This attempt was thwarted by my own ineptitude in the mechanical realm. This weekend, I thought I was on a roll, having successfully converted a wheelset to tubeless, and then cleaning and repairing my Milwaukee Bicycle Company singlespeed...replacing the bottom bracket (which had a completely locked drive-side bearing) with one that was sitting on a shelf in my basement bike room. I had ridden the bike the previous day, but something felt loose. I discovered that a cleat on my right shoe was loose, and fixed that as soon as I made it back to the lot...so I figured I was good to go. Nope. The loose feeling remained, and, in fact, was a lot worse. I thought that perhaps the cranks were loose, so I cranked down hard on them. Still, they were floating. It was then I was informed of the proprietary nature of the crankset I was using, and the size of the spindle being smaller than the inside diameter of the bearings...hence...the "float." Not good. What to do...no time to go get another bike, nobody had a replacement, and I WAS DOING this event at all costs. The bike WAS rideable in that state...BUT...in order to improve upon the feel of it, I wrapped the axle with electrical tape to reduce the space between axle and bearing. Not a perfect solution, but one that worked. I hammered everything back together with 5 minutes to spare, and brought my 6 pack (three Bud Lights and three Spotted Cows...in cans) over to Matt's pickup...the unofficial start/finish line.
Upon the chime of four...the beers were cracked. Well...except for Dave, who had opened his early because he was thirsty. All told, there were 8 intrepid souls that left the lot...Matt W, Jon, John, Dave, Matt S, Lawrence, Joel and myself. The first four apparently lack gag reflexes, because their beers were gone and they were mounting bikes before I got 1/2 way through my can of Spotted Cow. I am generally a person that drinks without any sense of urgency, so, when the can was empty and I set it down and threw a leg over the bike, my gut reacted rather negatively to the sudden influx of liquid. I was on Joel's wheel, and it felt like my stomach took over all the space in my chest cavity, leaving no room for lungs. The belching mechanism went into play immediately to clear some space, and I'm pretty sure Joel was attempting to surge to get away from all the horrible noises following him. The Cemetery loop doesn't provide much in terms of passing zones, and Joel and John in front of him were running a decent pace, so I settled in and enjoyed the lap.
Returns to the truck were made more interesting by the fact that all racers had to cross a fairly busy road...fortunately, we were aided by Melissa and Troll, letting us know when cars were coming. Joel and I got hung up by a sudden clot of cars, and lost the lead pack for good...our drinking wasn't really on par with those guys anyway. Matt S and Lawrence had gotten a late start, and to their credit, they hung in and battled back into contention and drunkenness. Beer Two for me was a Bud Light, and it seemed to go down easier than the Cow, so I was out of the lot before Joel and on my own for the remainder of the event. It was time to pace myself...only...I had had two beers and wanted to ride fast...so I didn't pace myself all that well. Does hard breathing make you more drunk? Possibly.
There were very few rules/guidelines in this event...and one of them was that the loop was to be completed 3 times in each direction. There was no direction as to which direction we were to go first, nor was it out of line to go the same direction twice in a row. The result was a series of exhilarating high-speed drunken encounters with other racers heading the opposite way, which, in my opinion, really gave the whole thing a nice extra bit of spice. Somehow, nobody hit each other. I DID end up feeling really bad for the girl who was apparently just learning how to mountain bike in the midst of these shenanigans. I passed her at least three times, apologizing each time, and finally was able to tell her at the street crossing that she should not be in any way discouraged by the unusually high concentration of idiots on this particular trail.
Beers three and four honestly kind of ran together, as by this time, the alcohol was starting to take effect. The belching continued, rather uproariously, in point of fact, and, during a technical downhill on the start of the 4th loop, began to...solidify...shall we say? I came to a stop, took a couple deep breaths and swigged some water from my bottle, then remounted and continued to hammer down. I began to worry about my ability to complete the whole thing...not the riding...but the BEER. It was seriously putting a hurt on me. But...I persevered.
Beer five was the last of my Bud Lights, and by this time I was buzzing pretty good. I narrowly missed Jon, John, Dave and Matt, who were light years ahead of me and might not have been yelling and drooling as much as I was. I began to pick new lines. I splashed through puddles that I had been riding around. I bounced off a tree with my bar end, and took a root to the side of the foot that I swear almost ripped my shoe open. I did not, however, slow down. At least it felt that way. I also realized about 1/2 mile into lap five that I had left my glasses sitting on the side of the truck bed.
Choking down the final beer was probably the hardest thing I'd done all day. My stomach was full. My taste buds were overwhelmed. I'm pretty sure if I'd have drunk it any faster, all five previous beers would have unceremoniously re-entered society. Somehow I got it down, and before I could even mount the bike again, Jon and John, who had been dicing it out in front, FINISHED. I was a lap down. Crap. I furiously pedaled away, only to be intercepted by a speeding Dave, taunting me and laughing manically. Lap six was nothing but flow. I was turning, ducking and diving between trees, braking late in corners, thrashing myself on the uphills, launching roots, blasting puddles...basically hero-biking. I am really glad there was nobody coming the other way and that there is no video of my ACTUAL ride...which was probably ponderous and slow.
Soooo...how do you properly celebrate a ride that contained as an element of difficulty the very substance which you would imbibe were you celebrating the conclusion of a "normal" ride? Apparently you drink more. The grand prize winner was Jon, having consumed 6 Modus Hopperandi and ridden his butt off...and the grand prize was a bottle of Malort. Having been force-fed a shot of Malort...I'm not sure I ever want to win this event. Jon celebrated with such aplomb that the next morning's message from him inquired as to the location of his car. Which is exactly how it should be.
Roll on, my friends. With beer.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Monday, June 6, 2016
I Left All My Tubes in Pennsylvania
WHY? Yes. This is the great unanswered question. Why do I do this to myself? I have nothing to prove. I have no aspirations toward greatness. I am perfectly satisfied being an average
mountain biker living in a disadvantageous locale for that particular
activity. So…why travel 10 hours to
punish myself on the hills and rocks of Central Pennsylvania? Even when this race is over….I’m not sure I
will have a solid answer, but I guess I’ll attempt some insight…if only to
prevent future folly. Maybe.
Catharsis.
Certainly one facet of this experience and my perceived
necessity for its occurrence that I CAN actually put a finger on is the
aforementioned 8th grade vocabulary word. I am a person that gets brought low by
monotony, the in’s and out’s of daily life, and the subterranean pressure of
small business ownership. I like to
escape every day, so into the woods I go.
Local rides haven’t been cutting it of late, and my mentality has
denigrated to the danger level this spring.
I like to think I’ve maintained a fairly even keel externally, but I
know at least one person that is married to me has seen right through the
veneer. I guess I needed to do this…or
at least SOMETHING.
Off With a Bang
No better way to start an adventure by getting in your first
car accident, right? Yeah…I could have
sworn the traffic in my lane was at least MOVING…but it wasn’t. By the time I threw out the anchor, it was
too late. 7000 lbs of truck with a tiny
popup camper behind it doesn’t stop very well, and the Honda Accord that was my
victim certainly didn’t fare too well.
I’m extremely grateful that nobody was injured. Total damage to my truck was literally Rodney
Dangerfield-like “Hey…you scratched my anchor.”
The guy I hit actually said…damn…I’ve got to get a truck!
7 hours later, I stopped and grabbed a hotel and some grub,
then finished up the remaining 2 hours the next morning, arriving at
Singletrack Summer Camp and the Transylvania Epic around 11am. I got my popup set up and camp established,
then rolled over and said hello to my local contact, Russ, who I had met at
Mohican 100 a few years ago and been Facebook friends with since. Russ and his cohorts Joe and Jim are
apparently very serious riders, with shaved legs and everything, so I had a
feeling I wouldn’t be seeing much of them in the actual competition portion of
this experience. This has proven to be
true, and I have undertaken the task of providing comic relief and a slower
cheering section for them…as well as plying them with New Glarus beer.
The Gnat and the Elephant
The power around the PA boy’s campsite had some issues on
the first night, and we were treated to a cautionary tale about power surges
and popped breakers using the titular animals as examples from the camp
caretaker. For my part, I am referencing
these animals in terms of how I felt at the end of the stage…like a gnat that
was stepped on by an elephant. I started
and found my pace fairly quickly…but noticed after a couple miles, that I was
ahead of the PA guys. Not. Good.
Jim had started in front of me, and I later learned he was a former
age-group national champion, so….yeah I did NOT see him. Russ and then Joe passed me, probably about 8
or 9 miles into the day, and so I felt better then…at least I was potentially
riding within my meager abilities. The
climbs were largely on gravel roads, but gravel that was STEEP…like
smallest-gear-I-have steep….and, that being the case, took forever. Considering the longest sustained climb on my
local trails is something under 2 minutes, the 20 minute grinders are a bit out
of my element. The singletrack was as
rocky as promised, and it seems that you are either going good and bouncing
along, or struggling to even roll a full rotation of a wheel, which can be
somewhat frustrating. Walking isn’t even
a viable option, as the rocks are all loose and rounded off, so hard-soled
mountain bike shoes don’t exactly grip with any alacrity. Anyway…I actually felt decent, and made it up
the 5 mile long climb at the end of the day…and then everything fell
apart. I bonked. I could barely turn the pedals. It wasn’t that any particular part of me
hurt, it was just a general hurt, and the only way it stopped is if I stopped. Which I could not do. At one point there was a large rustling in
the bushes to my left, and my thought was “I hope that is a bear and it would
just eat me.” That, my friends, is being
crushed.
My confidence was at smashed-gnat level yesterday afternoon. I was pretty sure that despite training all
winter and spring, I just did not have the conditioning to finish this
event. I don’t remember feeling that way
after Day One of the Pisgah Stage Race two years ago…and this race is 30 miles
longer. I went to bed feeling like a
terribly sucky mountain biker.
Pedal ‘Til the Wheels Come Off
My legs actually felt alive this morning, despite their
recent death. I will attribute that to
the rum. That is my tactic and I am
sticking to it. I made it a point to
ride a bit slower at the start, and succeeded on this count, which resulted in
a much more pleasant experience at the end of the day. Perhaps…I am learning? Anyway, there was more grinding ascent,
teeth-rattling rock gardens, and a couple of awesome downhills…the first
fall-line trail we went down I actually smelled burning brakes, lol. All was going swimmingly, I was riding within
myself, and was not feeling bad when I started up the Tussey Ridge trail (the
featured section of the day). About 1/3
of the way through that extremely bumpy area, I hit a rock that stopped my
front wheel, and when I went to pedal again…I got nothing. A quick glance down revealed a VERY slack
chain, and a dismount and further investigation showed that the lower pulley
wheel on my derailleur had popped off.
Fortunately, all the parts were sitting just below their proper
position…so, I was able to fix the problem despite streams of sweat literally
pouring from my helmet. A final tweak
was necessary to tighten the torx head on the offending screw…and I didn’t have
it. Crap. I did the best I could with an allen, but had
a feeling it would not suffice. A kind
soul passing by asked if I needed anything, so I mentioned that, and BOOM…guy
had one. Awesome. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but mountain
bikers are a spectacular group of people.
With that fixed, I finished up the rest of the grind that is Tussey (and
hell yeah it’s tough), and flew down the awesome flow trail to the second aid
station. Only 7 miles to go. I’ve got this. About a mile later, a rider was off the side
of the road, so I asked if he needed anything…and he said “YES! Do you have a 29-inch tube?” I replied in the affirmative, and passed on
the good karma that was given to me earlier.
The last 7 miles featured an inordinate amount of climbing…I
plan on seeking out the race organizer and lodging an official complaint as
soon as I’m done typing and drinking some rum.
I ALMOST made it without feeling that gutted pain of the first day…and
then…stupid sharp climbs took all my likes away. The proximity to the finish kept me rolling,
though, and I finished with a bit more of a smile on my face. Tomorrow, we Enduro, bro.
Never Go Full Enduro
For the uninitiated, “Enduro”-style mountain bike racing has
gained rapidly in the popularity department over the past couple of years. Essentially, it’s a ride out in the woods
with your friends, and only the downhill “segments” are timed. Thoughout the Pisgah Stage Race and the TSE,
there are Enduro segments on each day, and a breakout competition with the
champion being the person that can throw themselves and their bike downhill in
the least amount of elapsed time. Unique
to the TSE, however, is an entire day devoted to Enduro. While not an EASY day, (29 miles and 4,600
feet of climbing), it was a very
laid-back day. People recovered from the
previous two days by basically soft-pedaling up the climbs, then waiting in
line for the segment starts…a clear course being a necessity to a good time. The other really cool thing about this
experience was that you were able to meet and ride with a ton of people you
would not normally see on the race course…for instance, the last part of the
day the PA crew and myself rode with Kaycee Armstrong, who is doing very well
on GC (general classification, or, overall).
She won the women’s overall when I was at Pisgah a couple years ago and
is an EXCELLENT rider, obviously.
Keeping the group together for the day was fun…and fortunate, as Russ had
his chain fall apart twice, and Joe, who is an excellent mechanic and was
dressed in a Batman shirt and cape, was able to fulfill his superhero
role.
As to the downhill segments…I make ZERO pretense about
having any downhill ability (hell…these last couple days have me questioning
whether I have ANY actual ability!). I
live in a flat place and don’t have a heck of a lot of experience with
high-speed descent. Sooo…this was
eye-opening and ass-puckering. Imagine
hanging your butt off the back of the seat, over the rear wheel, hurtling down
a hill littered with large pointy rocks, squeezing both brakes with all your
might…and yet not slowing down. The
fourth segment, called Wildcat, featured me in just such a position. I finally had to bail by just leaning hard
left and sliding off into the leafy detritus on the side of the trail. Problem solved, right? I was stopped. Buuuut…I had to start again, and the damned
slope was so steep I could NOT, lol. I
literally ran downhill with the bike…covering 40 or 50 feet with like three
steps…before the trail levelled off enough to remount and continue the horrific
abuse they refer to as “mountain biking” in PA.
When I reached the bottom of that section (it took a seemingly
interminable 3 minutes or so)…I just dropped the bike and said “That was
literally the hardest trail I have ever ridden.” Everyone laughed.
The day ended with me flatting on the way down to the
parking area, and upon hearing I was running tubes at an event sponsored by
Stan’s Tubeless technology, Joe deemed this to be utterly unacceptable. So, now my bike is set up tubeless for the
remainder of the race.
Finally! Ridable
trails…BUUUUUUT….
Day Four, and if you had asked me at the end of Day One if
I’d still be here, I’d have answered pretty emphatically in the negative. However, somehow I am still plugging away,
and not only that, but I seem to be getting stronger. Today was just over 35 miles at RB Winter State
Forest, about a 40 minute drive from our campsite. I had purchased transportation by bus from
the TSE organization, but the PA boys came through for me yet again, and told
me I could just ride with them. This was
pretty cool for me; taking the bus yesterday was fraught with the unexpected
instance of a language barrier, as there is a pretty large contingent of
Panamanians here…and they were all on the bus.
The PA boys mostly speak English and bicycle.
Anyway…this course was much more to my liking. The rocks, while still fairly omnipresent,
where not QUITE as large, and there was even a couple sections without them
(some of the first sans-rock trails in over 100 miles). I started pretty slowly up the 600 foot
road/gravel climb, and found my rhythm on the first section of singletrack. I rolled through the first Enduro feeling
pretty good and riding within myself.
Then…adversity reared its ugly stupid face again…this time
in the form of rain. The temperature
dropped, and after riding the past three days with temps in the mid/upper 80s,
70s and extreme wetness had me very concerned.
As did the rocks. Because what is
harder to ride than dry rocks? WET
ROCKS. Yay. Nonetheless…somehow, some way…I started to
feel GOOD for the first time all week. I
was powering up the gravel climbs pretty well, and despite the soul-crushing experience
that was walking up a flooded-out, slippery, muddy, rocky incline too steep to
ride while being Biblically poured upon…I persevered.
One more day to go, and Russ is kicking serious butt in the
30+ age group…he has a chance to take the win tomorrow. Joe is doing well in 40 plus as well. Jim had a rough day today and DNF-d due to
vision issues (glasses don’t work very well in pouring rain and flinging mud). I am still hoping my legs can carry me
another 35 miles and 5000 feet upward.
This One Goes to Eleven
This entire week was challenging. Not that I thought it wouldn’t be, but I
guess I underestimated the level of challenge that I would be facing. In retrospect, I can’t really fault myself in
that regard, as there are not 10 feet of local trail that have anything even
remotely close to the level of difficulty experienced here. At least on the last day of Pisgah, the
mileage was lower and there was a downhill finish…TSE featured a 35 mile
day…and the most climbing of any day of the week…5466 feet of vertical. When I say I started the last day still
wondering if I had the ability to finish this event…I am being very truthful.
Rain and cool temps preceded the start, and I added a base
layer to my kit and also carried a light rain jacket in my CamelBak, as the
forecast called for more of the same. I
can stand being wet and miserable, but COLD, wet and miserable is where I draw
the line. All 150 or so remaining riders
in the event were bussed out to a remote start line in the Rothrock Forest, and
upon disembarking…the sun came out. And
the humidity went WAY up. So the 1400
foot climb right out of the gate was more than a bit of a burn on the legs and
the lungs. Much of the climbing has been
(mercifully) on forest roads and two-tracks, but this one was mostly
singletrack, interspersed with occasional rocky sections and a couple of decent
rock gardens…one of which contained THE rock with my name on it that sent me
over the handlebars for my first completely out-of-control crash of the week. I didn’t hurt myself or the bike,
fortunately, and was able to finish off the climb feeling pretty good…at least
relative to the situation. We had been
warned repeatedly about the opening Enduro downhill…the fact that I was barely
able to WALK down it (largely in the name of finishing the event, but, my
desire for self-preservation did factor in highly) had me shaking my head in
disbelief at the talent of those who rolled it.
Conditions were wet, rocky, and extremely straight down. The ensuing portion of the ride was
punctuated by some muddy and rooty singletrack next to a stream flowing from
the morning rains…it PROBABLY should have been fast and smooth, but instead it
was slow and a bit frustrating. I wound
up with a guy from Vermont, and we rolled together through that and the second
nearly 1000 foot climb of the day…sharing the pain made it somehow a bit
easier. I gapped him after the third big
climb, and was alone on top of a ridge slicing and dicing some nice trail when
the heavens once again opened.
Unfortunately for me, this deluge hit just as I was about to descend the
third Enduro section, which was a very narrow benchcut trail that was literally
running like a river. I could not see
the trail under the water, which was ok, because I couldn’t see my handlebars
either from the rain coming off my helmet.
All that while descending at 20 mph and hoping my brake pads lasted the
day. This…is Epic, I guess.
After barely surviving yet another madhouse downhill (YES…I
had to stop and rest my hands because I was braking so hard), it was time to
climb again. The aforementioned torrents
were still flowing on the trail, only now, I was going against the stream. I yelled “I’ve never felt so much like a
salmon in my life!” A couple riders in
earshot laughed. I was thinking that a
salmon has like the worst fish-life ever, and if I were to choose to be a fish,
I’d choose something much lazier.
Fortunately, all the fish-thoughts came to an end with the return of the
sun, and the knowledge that I was at the second aid stop, which meant only 10
miles and ONE CLIMB to go! The last
Enduro segment of the race again nearly killed me, featuring even more
ridiculous rocks and a grade so steep I needed to stop three times to rest my
hands. Things went worse for the women’s
leader, Vicki Barclay, who was walking back to the aid station up the hill,
having snapped her handlebar.
A nice long downhill road section led me to the bottom of
THE FINAL CLIMB. This needs to be
capitalized, because I had been hearing about THE FINAL CLIMB all week…and none
of the comments were particularly pleasing to the ear. “Save some energy for Stillhouse.” “Oh…wait til you see Stillhouse.” “I’m looking forward to hearing about your
experience on Stillhouse.” “Try not to die on Stillhouse.” “Stillhouse climb will kill your family and
everyone you know and make you watch a slide show of it happening.” That kind of thing. So, at least I was mentally prepared. It was not the worst climb of the week, for
sure, but with 160+ miles of difficult riding on the legs, the 20 minute gravel
ascent at an unrelenting grade did put me through my paces. Like the previous day, however, I was finding
some good energy and by alternating seated pedaling with some hard standing
efforts, I made it up without pause and even passed three riders. One more final leg-screaming uphill and a
mile or so of peanut-butter mud/ice-slick singletrack, and I was descending
into the camp and crossing the finish line.
Man, that was hard.
Post-script:
What an awesome and well-organized event this is. The TSE guys have it DOWN…from location to
courses to support…there was nothing for us to do but suffer and ride and have
fun. Nightly meetings featuring photo
slide shows from the day and even video were awesome, as was Wednesday night’s
wheelie, skidding, bunny hop, and foot-down competitions. Everyone I met was just great, and a special
shoutout to Russ (who WON the 30+ Category…amazing job my friend!), Jim and Joe
for letting me hang with you guys and providing insight into each stage. Talk about a diverse crowd….I was keeping
track of where people I spoke to were from…and here’s the list:
Pennsylvania
New Hampshire
Connecticut
New York (The Long Island Boys!)
Maryland
Michigan
Vermont
Oregon
New Jersey
North Carolina
Florida
Virginia
Nova Scotia
Quebec
Panama
Barcelona, Spain
New Zealand
And “anywhere there is mountains”
Will I do it again?
I’m not sure…but after driving home yesterday, the first thing I did
this morning was go ride my bike.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
In Dust We Trust - Gravel Road Racing
In Dust We Trust – An Off-road Experience on the Road
I mostly created the position of “sponsor” of the R-bikes
racing team in order to procure a sweet team kit with my company name on
it. The added benefit has been exposure
for Richard’s Bikes, my long-term local shop of choice, and, of course, helping
out a cadre of eager racers ready and willing to take the R-bike flag to
many-a-podium. Also…I like being
involved with racing, even though I, myself, long ago semi-sort-of kinda maybe
retired from the racing game, using the formidable excuse of having raced too
damn much in the first 20 or so years of my life. This being the case, my competitive drive
isn’t quite what it used to be…BUT…there is apparently a well-documented case for
the fact that it is not entirely dead (see previous blogular iterations on
silly racing events…also…this).
Every couple years I get an itch to do something stupid…of
late, that has usually involved two wheels and great distances. This year, I am working up to just such a
thing, and, having trained hard all winter, was looking to bolster my fitness
level as well as my confidence level by giving the whole “gravel racing” thing
a try. Gravel “grinders” aren’t
necessarily new, but they certainly are popular with the kids these days, and
involve the requisite levels of torture that tend to inspire that insipid voice
in my head that talks so convincingly about doing stupid things.
I signed up for Barry Roubaix (The Killer Gravel Road Race)
with only slight trepidation…after all…I HAD completed a B-R in the past,
albeit only the 31 mile version. This
was the big daddy, however, 62 miles (100 kilometers, for you
metric-philes). I’d never attempted such
a thing this early in the year, but, as stated, I had been on the bike with
more than my usual frequency for the previous 5 months or so, even rolling with
relative comfort through a couple 70 mile road rides. My target was acquired…now all I had to do
was make it to the finish line.
One week prior to the feted B-R, on a frigid Friday night, I
was looking for the coup-de-grace for my training…and, after slogging through
an entire winter of cold, I was just about sick of it. I do most of my training alone, and the
forecast for the upcoming weekend was precisely the kind of temperature that I
had been dreading…and, unfortunately, just the kind of thing that would keep me
off the bike were I to be rolling by myself.
I needed motivation. I needed
some company for my misery. And I found
just the thing in my friend Bionic Bob and the Rough Road 100, another 62 mile
gravel race only 45 minutes from my door in Morris , IL
Note to self…and any other like-minded fools…when it is so
cold that your bike rack is frozen…staying in bed IS a viable and recommended
action. Instead, I found myself at the
starting line with just over 100 other silly people…the temperature hovering at
a less-than-balmy 28 degrees. As Bob had
some experience with this kind of thing, I figured I would roll out with him,
and see how I felt, and that worked out pretty well for the first couple
miles. When the first hill hit, the pack
we were with exploded, and I ended up on the front with a group of about
9. Now…when I say “the front,” I am
merely referring to the front of the group I was riding with…the actual front
of the race was off hammering themselves into oblivion some ways up the road
(did I mention I’m not super fast?).
This sudden effort brought into sharp relief something I did not think
possible on this day…I had overdressed.
I had to sit up and move out of the pace line to remove my thin outer
shell jacket…and the damn thing wouldn’t come off! Too tight around the shoulders…especially
with it being over the small Camelbak I was wearing. Rather than crashing in a very embarrassing
fashion, I stopped, got the jacket off, stuffed it inside the OTHER jacket I
was wearing, and kept on rolling.
The rest of the race was a mix of roads, crushed limestone,
and a section that I would much rather have ridden on my full-suspension
mountain bike, but I persevered. I ended
up in a group of about 10…with some riders occasionally catching on and some
getting shelled off the back…and in my relative ignorance; I spent a LOT of time in the wind pulling for the group. I figured…no big deal…I am used to training
by myself anyway. At about mile 50 (I’m
guessing here…I don’t believe in the calculated metrics provided by bike computers
and GPS…they take the fun out of the ride for me)…things suddenly got very
hard. Our group had caught a rider…but
this rider just put his head down and started bashing out an incredible pace. We were on the I and M Canal towpath…the home
stretch of crushed limestone…and I knew the end had to be near, so I just held
on. One by one, riders began popping…and
nobody was strong enough to come around this guy. Finally, I looked around…and there were only
four of us. The Big Engine looked around
too, and let off enough so that we could all put in some work. Then, after I took a pull, I found there was
only three…Big Engine had run out of go.
We worked together, and all I can say is…I was literally cross-eyed by
the time we hit the outskirts of Morris.
Cyclists call this the “pain cave,” and I was definitely
spelunking. Regardless of finishing
place, it is that kind of thing that tends to make my day.
Three hours, 29 minutes and some change, and I crossed the
line. It was still freezing, but I was alive,
and they had free pizza, so altogether, it was a big win. 42nd out of 104 wasn’t too bad for
my first attempt. All I had to do was
the same thing next week…just add a couple thousand feet of climbing.
One week later and about 40 degrees warmer, I was rolling up
to the starting line in Hastings ,
MI
At this point, my easy start played against me…as I found
myself hurtling headlong into a haboob.
Yes…that’s a thing…look it up.
Seeing and breathing suddenly became a primary issue, although the
secondary issue of staying upright at 30 mph on a gravel surface on tires 34 mm
wide made sure all synapses were firing.
Soon, the cloud settled, and the speed rapidly reduced, as we were
introduced to the Three Sisters…a dose of reality in the form of triple steep
hills that reduced some in the crowd to walking…and a harbinger of that which
was to come. I was able to clear all
three without a complete redline, which was good, considering the 59 or so
miles that lie ahead.
Of course, just like the week before, I ended up on my own
after the hill. I could see the speck of
Jon’s jersey up ahead, and decided it would be worth the effort to try to catch
him. It took me probably 3 miles, but
eventually I tucked into the back of his group of 6 or 7, and was again able to
settle down and ride a reasonable pace.
This was a pretty strong group, and I was pulled along well. We hit a road section, and the pace picked
up…and suddenly, we were enveloped by the speeding front end of the Masters group
that had started 2 minutes behind us.
Our group swelled to probably 30, and a proper amount of ass was
hauled. Being used to riding on my own,
it was slightly unnerving to be moving so quickly only inches from other
riders…I did my best to stay all the way right…on the very edge of the road…so
as to leave a way out should someone crash.
It was pretty thrilling…especially so when the group hit a gravel section.
That group eventually thinned out…a section with some 5 inch
deep sand pits saw to that…and the miles kept ticking by. One particular incident of note…on a speeding
downhill obscured by dust…the road suddenly made a hard left. I managed to slow myself and unclip my inside
leg to counterbalance on the loose surface to negotiate the turn…but a number
of riders blew straight through…unable to stop in time. I suspect they went off the edge of some
canyon, Wile. E. Coyote-style.
At about mile 50, I noticed that the uphills were starting
to take their tolls. Jon and I were in a
strong group of maybe 30 riders…but at each rise, one or two guys would pop off
the back. I was on Jon’s wheel when he
couldn’t close a gap, and gave him a word of encouragement as I passed…and then
saw him no more. Not that it
mattered…because by mile 57, I would not have recognized him even if he were
next to me!
Boom. Well…it wasn’t
exactly THAT dramatic. It was more
like…”that sign said 5 miles to go…come on legs! Legs?
Hello? Are you guys still
there?” And the sad part was…I knew they
were still there, because I could see them churning away…but I could no longer
feel them or make them do my bidding.
Slowly…agonizingly…the group left me behind. I shifted gears, spun faster, stood up, tried
a bigger gear…nothing was waking up the zombified stumps between my hips and my
toes. It was suffer time, and whoever
threw the huge hill in with 1-1/2 miles to go was possibly my greatest
enemy. My brain burned with the curses
my mouth was too tired to issue forth, my legs screamed similar curses at the
pain center in my brain…and I just wanted to be done, thank you.
The final swooping turns into town were an ecstasy…and even
though I couldn’t make my legs go faster, at least they stopped being such
whiney bitches. My good friends Keith
and Marcy had turned up to cheer for me, and they saw me two blocks before the
finish, which was cool as I had someone to catch me if I were to fall
over. I crossed the line in 3 hours, 19
minutes…something like 163rd out of almost 500 riders. A pretty good effort, I thought, and one
which certainly justified the two hot dogs I ate in approximately 35 seconds
post-race.
So…there’s my official R-bikes.com race report(s)…and,
ideally, I’m just warming up. The big
race is still to come. And now I can say
I wrote a blog entry in 2016.
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