Crank The Shield - One Man's Painful Perspective

Yet again, the seemingly insatiable desire to mentally and physically torture myself under the guise of having a good time has resulted in mileage under wheel and under foot.  And yet another finish line has been crossed.  I am ALMOST resigned to stating that I just MIGHT not stop doing this to myself....?  Yeah...right.

Buckle up campers...it's time for a tale of what it was like for a dude that retired from racing like 4 races ago to toe the line and grind out the event that was:  CRANK THE SHIELD 2019.

Prologue:  I'm not very good at doing nothing, so riding my mountain bike is an almost daily occurrence.  Sometimes, riding just for riding's sake is enough, and sometimes having a challenge or goal in mind adds a bit of spice to the mix...especially during the long, cold, wet spring months.  I hadn't had a "goal" race set since the Breck Epic of 2017, and 2019 was looking to be the first time in many years I had gone a full 2 seasons WITHOUT something big and stupid to do.  The exceptionally cold, wet, rainy winter, spring, and early summer Chicago dealt us this year quite literally put a damper on my riding in general, much less any targeted "training."  I wasn't bored, but in the back of my mind, I knew I wanted a challenge.  Vacations and work scheduling precluded any event prior to late summer or fall, and it was a happenstance posting on a Facebook page that caught my eye as something where the timing would work...and, honestly, it didn't look IMPOSSIBLY difficult and was thusly more "on par" with my level of fitness.  Crank The Shield is a 3-day stage race north of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, Canada...total distance was going to be in the 110-115 mile range with around 10,000 feet of climbing, but much of it on gravel fire-roads and two tracks.  Eminently do-able, IMO.  So, about a month to go before the start...I signed up.

Training and Preparation:  In retrospect, this section of the blog post SHOULD  be a lot longer.  But, it's not.  Partly because I only had one month, and partly (mostly) because I underestimated the difficulty of the event...by a lot.  About the only extra efforts I put into my normal biking routine were a couple 4 hour touring rides of the local trails (one on my singlespeed) and a 6-hour Wisconsin Endurance Mountain bike Series race that I conveniently won (adding to the confidence level that was already overinflated).  The end.

OH, CANADA.

Thursday morning at 6am found me in the driveway of Matt W, a veteran of two Breck Epics and 3 Cemetery 6-Packs among other things, who had fool heartedly agreed to accompany me on this sojourn...on only about 10 days notice.  Again, my confidence was somehow elevated knowing he had even less "training" than me...which makes NO sense at all.  With my trusty pop-up camper in tow, we headed east and then waaaaaaaaaay north, crossing the Mackinac Bridge (which I had boated under almost exactly one year prior), then crossing into Canada at Sault Ste. Marie and hitting that button on the dashboard that makes everything seem faster because it goes from mph to kph.

A 25 minute drive north of the city of SSM put us out into some beautiful country, with trees, rolling hills and the Goulet River.  Everyone seemed to be towing something fun...campers, ATVs, boats...so it was clear that we were in vacationland.  We made our way to Stokely Creek Resort, which is apparently heaven-on-Earth to the cross-country ski set in the winter.  Endless miles of groomed XC ski trail, warming huts in the backcountry, and a lodge made up of several cozy buildings that would soon be filled with mountain bikers.  We were among the first to arrive, and had our pick of where to park and set up the camper.  Matt had weaseled his way into a room at the lodge, and brought his gear inside, and then we both took several minutes to figure out the logistics of the coming days.

Crank the Shield is a unique event in many ways, chief among them would be the course itself.  While technically based at Stokely Creek...the start was somewhat...different.  From Stokely, we drove the truck back down to SSM with our bikes and gear for day one, checked in at Outspoken Brewery (damn right mountain biking!), and handed our precious carbon bike-cycles (Ibis Ripley for me and Yeti SB4.5C for Matt) over to the organizers to be loaded onto a TRAIN for the morrow.  Yup...we would be taking the Agawa Canyon scenic train ride in the morning to get to the starting line far north out into the bush.  Certainly a cool thing, and a great way to showcase the area.  After a dinner and a couple beers, we checked into our hotel, which was conveniently located closely by both the brewery and local bike shop (Algoma Cycles)...and only a couple blocks from the train station. 

Sleep didn't come easily due to anticipation, but it had been a long day.

ALL ABOARD...

6am saw a LOT of very fit-looking people at the Holiday Inn complimentary breakfast...and two dudes from IL slightly disappointed that they only served regular bacon and not Canadian bacon.  Fueled up and amped, we drove the truck over to the train station and about 10 minutes later, our ride came steaming down the tracks.  Groups of riders were chatting about course expectations, where they were from, and whether they'd done this event in the past (this was the 8th year...and the second using this portion of Ontario).  We all clambered aboard, and Matt and I flopped into a couple seats in the car adjoining the "food" car (pastries and coffee were served during the ride).  We chatted up the guy across from us...quickly determining that he was an exceptionally fit rider...and eventually finding out he was not only a previous rider at the event...but a previous winner.  Peter Glassford couldn't have been nicer, and we had a great running convo for the length of the ride, which helped me avoid any nervousness that I tend to build prior to a starting line.  We also learned that a toque was a Canadian hat.

We came to a stop in the Middle of Nowhere, Ontario, Canada, and everyone disembarked, then formed chains to help unload all of the bikes.  We were given about 1/2 hour to get situated, the sun was shining, mood was high, and I couldn't wait to get started on what was to be an 80 k (yeah...it was a week spent doing quick kilometer to miles math in my head)...or 50 mile...ride to Stokely Creek.  The course description stated that much of the day was to be on gravel roads and two tracks, with several creek crossings and a small section of singletrack after the second aid station at mile 37.  There were smiles all around, Matt and I high-fived and wished each other luck...and somebody yelled "GO!"

Things got really dusty, really fast, as the leaders moved up the road.  I tried to stay conservative...as 50 miles would be about the longest ride I've had all year...but I kept jumping from group to group and moving through the pack on what was basically a dirt road.  We turned into a double track that was pretty closed in by foliage...branches were whipping your arms no matter what side you rode on...and I was still in a lot of traffic when we hit the first creek crossing.  It was about knee-deep and very rocky, so a dismount was required, and the cold water was quite refreshing on the legs.  This spread things out a bit, and I wound up riding with a couple that had matching kits featuring the front and back ends of a cat, which was particularly amusing.  They were riding REALLY strong, and I was still trying to find my tempo, so I backed off a bit and wound up largely by myself.  The terrain was rolling, and the surface varied from swampy loam to sand to loose 3-6" rocks to embedded large rocks.  I found that I was really strong on the uphills, largely because I was mashing a bigger gear and floating over the rough terrain as opposed to immediately dumping into the spinny gears and bouncing over everything.  This works great right up until you CAN'T turn that big gear, lol.

The ride got serious probably 8 miles in when we hit the first "wall" of the day...and it was the first of many.  Off the bike and pushing seems to be the norm in every stage race I've done, but the frustration of it in this particular race was compounded by the fact that you were technically walking up a "road," and you could always see the top.  The descents were largely the "hang onto your ass and hope" high-speed variety, almost inevitably with a section of 5" deep pea gravel or sand at the bottom ready to send your front wheel into the next province.  After a beautiful double-creek crossing, we were treated to about a 10 minute climb...I managed to stay in the saddle for maybe 70% of it...but it was a burner.  I decided I needed to slow down at the first aid station shortly after.

I didn't slow down, though, because my legs like to only ride one pace.  So...I suffered.  I saw very few other riders, which I took to be a good thing because it meant I must be up front (or very, very far off the back).  We rambled through a hydrocut (Canadian for "power lines") area with a ton of sand, and eventually came out to a spectacular vista of the Lake Superior shoreline.  It was breathtaking...and I really, really NEEDED that breath!  I then rolled up on a course marker arrow that was unlike many I'd yet seen...it was pointed down for some reason.  It wasn't lying, however.  Next thing I knew, I was hurtling down the world's worst slip'n'slide...being made up of about 200 vertical feet of round 5-7" rocks (400-600 centimeters or something like that I'm not doing the conversion).  The three people that had been in front of me were all walking...but I couldn't stop, so I dropped my dropper post and just let 'er rip.  I made it down in one piece AND on both wheels...and I still don't really know how.

Aid Two never seemed to arrive, as the hills were relentless, but when it did, I knew I only had 20 km to go (a bit over 12 miles).  A couple locals I spoke with while rolling said "It's ALL uphill to the finish" but I figured that just what locals like to do.  Nope.  This is Canada and people don't bullshit you.  I grabbed a couple bananas and some Gatorade, and decided to forego the offers of hot dogs and beer that Matt would heartily take advantage of, and decided I just wanted to knock this thing out.  We immediately entered a SUPER sketchy singletrack that was described as "rideable," but for the life of me, I cannot figure out by whom.  I was forced off the bike by impossibly steep rock drops and ascents, slick mossy boulders, wet roots, and loamy berms, and basically walked my bike for the next 2/3 mile, which was disheartening, seeing as it was largely DOWNHILL.  Upon a horrible creek crossing exit, the next serving of pain was delivered in the form of a grassy, embedded boulder-strewn field, followed by a soul-crushing gradual grass/gravel climb.  At this point, I figured I had probably 10 miles to go...and I was almost on empty.  Still, I kept turning the pedals and hoping that finish line would come...metering my efforts on the climbs and dismounting to walk rather than burying myself.  Those damn locals really hadn't lied.  At 11k or so to go, I encountered a rider at a creek crossing, who was apparently out of water because he asked me if I thought it was OK to drink. I said I didn't know...but also that I wouldn't do it...and offered him a sip off my bottle...which was only 1/2 full and my ONLY liquid left, my Camelback having gone dry a couple minutes earlier.  He politely refused, and we rode together to the next checkpoint about 1k later, where the guy directing us to turn had some water for the dude.  It must've really helped because about a mile later he passed me like I was going backwards (note:  I may have actually been going backwards at this point).  6 miles to go...more rolling hills, more grass, more gravel...but I was not stopping.  And then...I had to stop. With about one mile to go, the inside of my right hamstring engaged in open revolt...and suddenly I couldn't pedal.  I tried to just use my left leg, but didn't have much success.  Finally, I had to stop and stretch for a minute, then gingerly get back on the bike and HOPE the cramp didn't return.  Fortunately, we were treated to a fun, short, steep downhill singletrack before the finish line...which mercifully came after 5 hours, 31 minutes in the saddle.  25th place overall.  Whew.

Pizza at the finish line is the greatest and best thing I've ever experienced and CTS had on the first two days.  I inhaled a couple slices along with a ton of water and Gatorade, retreated to my popup (which I was lucky enough to have...other riders that were tenting had to finish the race and THEN set up their tents!), and grabbed  a quick shower.  In order to celebrate feeling more like a human being, I propped my feet up and had a rum and coke while waiting for Matt to finish, which he did just over an hour later.  A couple cocktails, a delicious dinner of chicken and mashed potatoes, and the constant exchange of war stories with other competitors made for a quick evening, and after a LONG day, we hit the sack early, legs aquiver.


DAY TWO SUCKED

I mean...why sugarcoat things?  Positivity is a key in any distance event, and keeping your brain in a good place contributes in a BIG WAY to keeping your body moving always forward.  Day Two hurt my brain...and my body.  The more sadistic reader will appreciate the following...

It rained off and on all night, and rain seems to echo off the roof of my camper for some reason.  The same happened on one night of the Pisgah Stage Race, and I swear I counted every single raindrop that hit.  This did NOT result in a restful evening.  Nobody told my leg muscles to stop firing, and my brain was awash with thoughts of the previous ride and apprehensions about the upcoming two...especially now that wet trails were going to be a factor.  Day Two was billed as having more singletrack, which I very much looked forward to, but I also know that wet rocks and roots are a great way to turn fun into NO fun.  I was first in line at breakfast, having gotten to the dining room an hour before it was served, and by the time the food came out, I was ready to eat the light fixtures.  Scrambled eggs and bacon...my favorite long-effort morning fuel.  I hit the starting line with a modicum of positivity...and my legs felt OK, but both were undermined by the knowledge of how much that first day took out of me.

Everyone we had spoken to at dinner and breakfast seemed to be in the same boat (well...except for Peter...who was crushing it).  Matt and I together and separately yakked with people from all over Ontario, and then some folks from MI and even Mexico...it was a good crowd of friendly people bonded together in our mutual suffering...and somehow hungry for more.  Josh was a veteran of 8 years in the Canadian Army and hammering a rigid aluminum bike with a kickstand!  Ashley was killing it in the women's race utilizing her fancy new Shimano 51 tooth cassette.  Matt was looking to take more pictures, drink more beer, and hopefully take a dip in the swimming hole that was featured on the day's course.  Gotta love it.

"GO."  So we went.  I pedaled out SEMI-easy...trying to get a feel for my legs while keeping towards the front of the group before we hit the singletrack.  Oddly enough...my legs felt kinda GOOD.  I was scanning the racers to see if I found anyone I had been with yesterday to try and gauge where I was and/or needed to be, but it was useless.  We hit the singletrack and it was only SLIGHTLY more rideable than yesterday.  Nasty mud bogs, loamy whoops that would catch your chainring, downed trees, slippery rocks, and a good bit of conga-line walking because people were sliding off and having to dismount constantly.  I was starting to not like things.  And then it got way, way worse.  King Mountain was in store, the second highest peak in Ontario, and getting up it was nightmarish.  Starting with a LOOOOOONG grassy climb (again, steep enough that walking was sometimes a better option...but you could see like 1/4 mile in front of you and the grade NEVER slackened), then denigrated into a gnarly, root-filled, slick, muddy singletrack interspersed with wooden bridges so slippery that if you looked at them wrong your eyes would slide off.  I took my only fall of the event by SLIGHTLY turning the wheel at the end of a bridge and instantly flying off the bike.  Hike-a-bike, get on an pedal, get knocked off by a root or a downed tree or a slab of rock, then hike again, for probably a full 1-1/2 hours...just to get to Aid One at 14k into a 50k day.  Ugh.

Finally, I made it.  I can't say I was happy, and I knew more darkness lie ahead, as we had been told there'd be more climbing at the end of the day.  I grabbed a bit of food, and received some encouraging advice from Paul, a mechanic at Algoma Cycles that had helped me out prior to the race.  "There's a couple rollers, but mostly just drop that dropper and have fun on the way down."  I'm sticking to my idea that Canadians aren't bullshitters...so maybe he was thinking of a different trail than the one we took?  I dropped in...but was immediately confronted with a LOT of climbing...and rocks, and roots...followed by a sign that said "Cliff Area - Carry Bike"...which...duh.  After what seemed like an eternity, we emerged on a big slab of rock...and I pulled over to rest (something I never do).  The guy following me did same and we chatted about the insane difficulty of this singletrack...both of us being on the same page that what we were riding was relatively terrible.  We were being made to earn every single meter (appr. 3 feet), and slidey, gnarly downhill that followed was almost as tough as the climb!  I was bottoming out...my positivity tank was on empty.  A couple riders went by and I just tried to find a tempo on the next section of gravel, when I rolled up on another guy and we started talking.  Jason was an ex-pat Aussie living in London, Ontario, my age, and apparently going through the same mental trepidations...in addition to riding the same pace.  It is to him that I owe a great deal, because the camaraderie and misery shared in the last 20 or so kilometers is what got me to the finish line.  We rode through a pretty good section of singletrack then, which raised spirits, then passed by the swimming hole and did a quick stop at Aid Two.  The second climb of the day wasn't QUITE as bad, as it was largely just straight up a grassy hill, replete with a hand-drawn sketch about halfway up telling us we hadn't gotten to the REALLY bad part yet, lol.  Another crazy sketchy downhill followed by some XC ski trails put us back into the same finishing singletrack as the previous day...and again I was so happy to be done.  4 hours 24 minutes to go ONLY 30 MILES.  Yikes.  56th place overall.

It was straight to the bike wash afterward, then to the Mike wash.  I was so zonked I forgot to eat pizza...those who know me will recognize the seriousness of this situation.  I rectified that soon after, then slammed a bunch of water and Gatorade before squelching my pain with rum.  Our tent neighbors Nick and Stacy hung out with us for the afternoon when Matt got back (having taken a nice swim and almost enjoying his day out).  I found out Nick and I had finished pretty close together, and if it were for him taking the Day One "optional" climb of Batchawanna Mountain (20 riders signed up for extra extra pain...and a t-shirt), we'd have likely been right together in the standings.  Dinner (DELICIOUS chili dogs omg) and awards completed...I hit the pillow at 1 million kph.


IT GETS BETTER........right?

So...when I researched this event and signed up for it, somehow I got the impression that it was going to be a 50 mile day, followed by two 30 mile days.  I was REALLY looking forward to having ONLY 30 miles to go on the final day...but I had overlooked some things.  First...I seem to have missed the part about the "neutral rollout" which had been stated as 15 k in length (appr 9 miles).  The only other neutral rollout I've ever done was Stage 1 of Pisgah...and those miles were included in the length of the stage.  Not in this case.  We basically just had to get our carcasses to the starting line by 10am (10am Canadian)...only the 15k was now being stated as more like...20k.  Oh...and something like 750 feet of climbing (#$%& meters).  At least it was all on the road?  Oh...and also...the 50k length of stage?  That wasn't really a thing...its 65k.  So...I awoke in the morning feeling pretty blasted, and was hit with the fact that I was facing basically another 50 mile day (1000 kilometers).  Right.  Right?

We spent the morning breaking down camp (tenters would be putting their stuff in a Uhaul truck to be delivered to the finish line...we would have to drive back up to Stokely to pick up the camper post-race).  If I was uncertain how I felt the day before...I was floating through the cosmos somewhere in terms of what I felt this morning.  Still...my legs responded well when we rolled out of Stokely with Nick, and spent the next hour soft-pedaling so as not to tax the legs too much.  AND THEN...there was about a two freakin' mile uphill.  Anger.  Rage.  Sorrow.  I got to the starting line with 25 minutes to contemplate what I had done to myself and also feed the local mosquito populous.  12 miles and 750 feet of vert just to get to the START.  Then, 38 miles of racing.  Oh boy.

GO.  Up even more.  A 200 foot grind to start the day and really crush those remaining positive thoughts into oblivion.  I wound up next to Nick somehow, and he pulled slightly ahead of me at the top, only to hit an embedded boulder in the grass and fly over his bars.  I asked if he was ok as I passed, but then had problems of my own, as the people in front of me were dismounting for a nasty wet exposed rock section, before remounting, dropping the dropper post and hanging on tight as we bounced down an intense downhill mere feet off the wheel of the next rider.  A super-slick wood bridge with a diabolical downward swoop was the next thing to get me off my bike and pray I didn't slip off to my death (could have ridden it, but with traffic, it was impossible to stop so I walked like the rest).  Remounted again, and the guy behind calls out that he'd like to pass.  I find a wider spot, duck to the left, and he whips by...then immediately hits a root and flies over the bars, his bike careening off into the woods and smacking a tree.  Two more crashes and at least three people with broken bikes or flat tires, and I made it out of the woods unscathed.  Whew.  What a rush!  Am I...happy?!?  NOPE.  Turns out, this trail has just dumped us right at the bottom of the nasty road climb we already had to do once on the rollout. GAH.  10 minutes of grinding...funny how my race pace now looks a LOT like my rollout pace.  Nick catches me again as we cross a highway and continue upwards.  Somehow this gravel road is absolutely saturated...I am wondering how the heck the areas at the TOP of the mountains are wetter than those at the bottom...and I still don't have that answer.  But I digress.  And then I egress the fire road, and into yet another section of horrible hellish, mostly walkable and not rideable by human beings (the leaders of the race don't necessarily count as humans...they are some kind of mutant life form).  I yell to Nick "This is the GOOD stuff, right?"  His response indicated a similar viewpoint...no.  He got away from me on the next section of forest road, which was littered with rocks and downed trees.  Despite all of this...I was moving pretty fast...although I began to feel nauseous for some reason.  At Aid 1, I wanted to eat, I knew I should eat...but I couldn't eat.  I drank some Gatorade and grabbed a packet of peanut MnMs, and then rolled out.

The next gravel section was actually pretty fun...maybe 10 miles or so of pretty flat, fast rocky stuff with the occasional huge puddle or creek to splash through.  My nausea came and went a couple times, but I eventually choked down the MnMs, and nobody passed me, so I felt I was going alright.  Before I knew it, I was at Aid 2, which meant...the home stretch.  20km (12 miles) to go...and it was almost ALL singletrack.  This was a point of consternation, because, as yet, I hadn't really ridden any singletrack that was even remotely FUN...so this 12 miles could be all kinds of bad.  I grabbed 1/2 banana, filled my water bottle with Gatorade, and shoved off.  Thankfully, dear reader, the trails were BLISSFUL for the balance of the ride.  Swoopy, twisty, bermy, flowy...all the good things that come with mountain biking.  It was VERY fun, and I was having a great time.  It was VERY fun, and I was having a great time.  It was VERY fun, and I was still enjoying myself.  It was PRETTY fun and I was starting to get tired.  It was OK but enough is enough.  It was GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS FOREST I WANNA BE DONE.  And then...after a mere 3 hours 58 minutes and 46th place...it was over.


CRANKING THE SHIELD

Well, the Shield (which is what that particular geographical area of Ontario is known as) was cranked.  And so was I.  Wow...way more challenging than I'd anticipated, but at the same time, one of the most positive environments I've experienced at a race event.  Everyone was so friendly, the staff was on-point, the courses were very well marked (even when I was hallucinating I didn't get lost), meals and accommodations were top-notch...a remarkable event.  HUGE kudos to organizer Sean, I cannot imagine the countless hours of prep it took to bring all these random strangers into your backyard, but I appreciate it.

Matt finished as I went and picked up my truck, we enjoyed a post race meal and the awards ceremony before heading back up to Stokely for my camper, then back to the Holiday Inn for a quick shower and meal before the afterparty at the Bushplane Heritage Museum, which was SPECTACULAR.

Thanks to all those we high-fived, cheered on, jeered at, and shared beers with...everyone who threw a leg over a top tube and finished this one should be proud of themselves.

I still think I should probably retire from this kind of thing.