Mohican 100 Race Report
I had some serious misgivings going into this race. The execution of the event has had a rocky past. My own performance was also in question. I had only done two races so far this season and training for 100 mile races was a new experiment for me.
The morning of, I nervously shoveled oatmeal into my mouth as my race gut left me running to the bathroom a few times. My traveling companions, Keith and Topher, calmly completed their preparations resigned to the fact we were all in for a very long day.
In the pre-race meeting they tell us there's going to be a two mile roll out to the dam before the race starts. With the meeting adjourned, we the racers started rolling out before the motorcycle lead could get in front of us. Once he was there, the roll out got faster and faster as we rolled on. At this point my goal was to simply keep it close to Topher. He was directly in front of me and I stayed glued to his wheel. At the dam, the pace quickened and we began to climb. It was a short climb with a little downhill and another climb. A funny thing happened. I pulled away from Topher. I didn't know how far, but I knew he wasn't keeping pace with my climb. Was I going too hard? Was it too early? Nope. I felt good and comfortable, so I let it go. Soon we hit trail or at least a double track path with some short ups and downs. The guys around me were slower on the ups and downs then I was comfortable with, so I raged by. Literally I raged. Something woke up in me and I knew I could do this. The double track turned to singletrack and got really fast. It was swoopy, tight and smooth. I turned on the iPod and let it rip.
All my previous thoughts of despair faded as I began to put together a strategy. I knew the majority of the singletrack was in the beginning of the race. From what I heard there was roughly thirty miles of singletrack in the beginning and the rest was fire/gravel road (at least that's how I laid it out in my oxygen deprived mind). With the singletrack flowing as well as it was, I knew I could hammer it like a sprint race, then use the roads to recover and continue the race at some kind of steady road pace. I had done most of my training on the road. If I could put some kind of gap on the competition in the singletrack, I would surely shine on the road. I know. It makes me cringe as a mt. biker to say that, but I'm also a racer. You do what it takes.
One by one I picked off racers in the woods. In the distance I saw Doug of Vicious Cycles. Keeping him in sight became the next goal. In my pursuit of crushing riders (each pass I would second guess myself, am I going too strong, can I keep this up, then I'd get stuck behind someone else and have to motor around them) I latched onto a worthy adversary. Not sure who he was, but he raced for Independent Fabrication. He was pacing some guy in a red kit that I could tell was not quite as fast as we wanted to go, but fast enough to keep a steady pace ahead of those behind us. The three of us hammered it. Up and down we kept it pegged sliding through the turns and airing off the bumps. Eventually it got to be too much for the guy in red. He pulled off and let us go.
Up some climbs, we caught another group of riders.Leading the charge was some big guy in white on a single speed. He was killing the hills, powering his way through riders in front of him. I remember thinking I'd met my match and would happily stay behind him. Also in this group was Vicious Doug. We all formed a loose knit train and rolled on together. The big SSer leading the way. Through a dipping turn to the right, Doug lost it and went down hard. I asked if he was ok as I went by him standing on the side of the trail. He said yes and I rolled away. There were at least five of us in this little group. All five of us missed the same turn and rode off course for about five minutes before realizing our mistake and turning around. Being at the back of the group now put me in the front. I hit it hard knowing this train would be riding my ass pretty hard to make up for the mistake. I also realized I had a lot of lost ground to make up - people I previously passed that I now had to pass again. Vicious Doug was one of them. I kept waiting for the train to strike. I expected the big SSer to plow right through me. Never happened. It actually got quiet behind me.
Mile twenty-three was the first aid station. Doug was rolling out as I was rolling in. I stopped to get water. As my bottles were being filled, the big SSer rolled through without stopping. Refueled, I got back in the chase. It didn't take long till I caught up with Doug and the big guy. There were a series of short switch-backs we were climbing. The big guy was marching right up them. Doug was having trouble. Finally Doug stopped halfway up one and got off. I rolled by with the big guy in my sights. I caught his wheel just as the trail turned into a roller coaster and Traffic's "Dear Mr. Fantasy" came through my headphones. Mr. Fantasy was dead on. The big guy hammered the course. We were rolling up and down and around in unison. Sliding and ripping through turns at full bore. Suddenly the fun stopped as we had to get off for a hike-a-bike. The big guy threw his bike on his back and started climbing. I chose to push. At the top he turned slightly. The sideburns gave it away. The big guy killing it was Dejay Birtch. Through a little chit-chat, I learned he was hurting. Something wasn't right with his crank, shoe or pedal. Either way, climbing shot pain into his one leg. Out of the woods and onto some roads and double track, I could see it was affecting him. I pulled away and started eating. In the singletrack there wasn't much time for nutrition. I made up for the last three hours in about twenty minutes stuffing my face with everything from my pockets and riding on.
I rolled into aid station two at thirty-nine miles. One of the biggest things I learned from the 101 last year was to make my aid station stops short. I got my drop bag and started replenishing my endurolytes and cytomax while eating some watermelon. Dejay rolled in soon after me. Standing next to me was Jeff Kerkove resupplying himself. Part of me was freaking out because I was already so far ahead. I just shouldn't be at this level, while the other part of me was saying shut-up, you're killing it. Keep it up. As I was headed out, my worst fear came to be. Topher rolled in with a big smile on his face. Damn! I said,
"I didn't expect you to be here." He replied,
"Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."
I agreed and left as Doug was rolling in behind him. Dejay rolled out behind me. He was close enough that I could see him back there. Besides a gnarly short singletrack section in the woods behind the aid station, we hit the roads and started climbing. I would get off to walk, look back and see Dejay do the same. Good. If we're both walking the hills, I only have to worry about everything else to keep ahead. It wasn't long before I couldn't see him anymore.
On the roads I started yo-yoing with another Independent Fabrication geared rider. We kept this up through aid station three at mile forty-nine. I got out before he did and before anyone else showed up. Shortly out of the aid station was a huge trail climb. I spent most of the time walking, while the IF guy granny geared it and left me behind. (This is where it gets a little foggy for me.) At the top there was more singletrack. By this point, I was kind of sick of the effort required to ride singletrack. The roads were quick with a nice breeze. The singletrack in the woods took a lot of effort and the air wasn't moving really well. I rode conservatively through the trails and over the rocks. The last thing I wanted was to wreck fifty miles in and have to contend with wreck induced cramps and pain. It was hard enough dealing with those things on their own. I think this is where I passed Kerkove. I thought for sure he would catch me back and pass since I spent most of the time off the bike and carefully running through the slick rock gardens. I never saw him again. We were back out on the roads and I was yo-yoing again with the IF guy. I felt good spinning down the roads. He obviously wasn't and I lost sight of him as he dropped off.
This particular part of the course was sort of a dead zone. The previous aid station was at mile forty-nine. The next one was at mile seventy-four. The last ten miles to the aid station was supposedly a flat rail-to-trail. Twenty-five miles was a long way to go in the middle of the day with only three water bottles. Around one o'clock I joyously hit the rail trail. I had a bottle and a half to last ten miles. I set in to a fifteen mile an hour pace on the rail trail. If I could hold that, I'd easily make the rest area before two o'clock. I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled. Five minutes went by, ten, fifteen, then twenty. It was flat and grueling. I drank all my water and ate some food. Five miles in, my pace dropped to thirteen then twelve miles an hour. I still had five miles to go. Twinges of cramp started to hit as I was out of water and quickly getting behind on my hydration needs. I kept looking over my shoulder expecting some geared rider to catch me in the flat wasteland. Never saw any behind me. Shortly before the end I saw one ahead. Inspired, I cranked the pace up, rolled past him without a fight and hit the fourth aid station to restock with my last drop bag.
The station workers warned me I was heading into an oncoming storm. I asked how far the next aid station was and how much singletrack was left. They said not a whole lot of singletrack and the aid station was roughly twelve or thirteen miles. At the pace I'd been running, I could finish in the next two hours and be done with this mess around four o'clock. Twelve or thirteen miles to the next aid station was perfect. That would split the last twenty-five miles up nicely. Shortly after leaving the aid station, the storm hit. It poured hard, but I kept at it. The rain lasted only a little while. Unfortunately, so did its cooling effects. The air quickly was thick and muggy again.
The trail turned up a road with a dead end sign. I knew what this meant. I'd seen them before on this course. We'd ride the gravel road to its termination then take some trail or old logging road through the woods to the next road. The old road was hardly ridable or I hardly felt like riding it. The air wasn't moving at all in the woods. I started the slide down. Watching the time, I could see my pace was slipping. My head was throbbing and cramps were setting in. I drank and drank some more. I turned off my iPod. The day's effort was catching up with me. Earlier when walking hills, I was careful to cut the switchbacks tight so no one below could see me and get inspired for an attack. I didn't care now. I stumbled and fumbled my way up the hills. Previously I would ride the false flats between the steeper pitches. Now I just walked. Walking wasn't helping me recover. I just got hotter. I kept doing the mileage math in my head based on my current GPS reading. It wasn't working out like I wanted it to. Every little mile kept dragging and the aid station didn't seem close enough. I kept drinking and was quickly running out of water. My stomach felt nauseous (the term boo-boo belly came to mind, but I squashed it). Was this the end? Finally I rolled out onto a gravel road at the top. Just as I crested and started a slight decent, a red tailed hawk flew out of a tree next to me and down the road in front of me. As hokey as it may have been, I took it as a sign. Slowly but surely I turned up the pace again. I drank the rest of my water and let myself roll down the hill. I wasn't tucking and flying like I had been earlier, but I was moving and cooling off. I rode across the swing-bridge I was warned about and saw some people monitoring our race numbers. There was a table with what looked like ice. Was that the aid station? I couldn't confirm the mileage I expected on my GPS. Frustrated I continued without stopping to ask. I turned down a road and started to really fly. There were few markers if any on the decent. I started getting scared. Did I miss another turn? Would I have to walk back up? Where the hell was the aid station? At the bottom there was another sign. With relief I turned and saw some riders up ahead. I could tell by their leisurely riding, they weren't 100 mile racers. I put my head down and set out to catch them. The cramps came on hard at this point. Both quads started to lock up. I kept a steady pace, hoping the pedaling would relax them. Around a few turns I hit the fifth and final aid station. I asked how far the finish was from here. They said somewhere between eight and ten miles. That made the aid station between four and six miles further then I expected. Whatever. I was close. All I had to do was finish.
I headed out to finish and quickly ran into the last thing I wanted to see - slick singletrack. I regretted not asking how much I would have to endure. Back into preservation mode, I rode it conservatively. I made all the climbs and obstacles and passed a few people. I wasn't sure if
they were 100 mile or 100K racers, but didn't really care. What started out as nicely maintained singletrack bliss, quickly turned to a treacherous fishermen trail hugging the bank along a creek. It was covered with roots, rocks and off-camber opportunities to seriously hurt yourself. Normally I would have loved this trail. Now I just wanted to survive. I got off and ran way more times then my friends would be proud of. To top it off, (though warned with signage) there were pedestrians using the trail. They were scrambling around on the same lines I was trying to cleanly ride. With ever lacking patience, I got off and ran more. Then the single track dumped us onto an old dirt road that was completely filled with mud. Any resemblance of clean the storm had made of me earlier was quickly caked in thick brown goo.
The muddy road ended at the base of the dam where we started.
Relief was short as the arrows pointed directly up the face of the damn. Under normal conditions, hiking this thing would have been a chore (it really was that steep). Hiking it ninety-eight miles into a hundred mile race was a real kick in the balls. I seriously had doubts I could do it. At the top I got back on the bike and grimaced as I had to force my legs to pedal again. There were all kinds of people milling about. I was covered in mud and wincing. I can't imagine what they thought. They can't imagine what I felt. From the dam it was a road climb. I was determined to walk no more. I hunkered my chest down to the bars and pushed all I could at each pedal stroke. It crested and rolled down and around back onto the trail we started on. I yelled out "On your left!" as I flew by two people on the trail. On the last road to the finish I chased down and passed another rider struggling with his gears on the last little climb. I powered up the finishing chute, grabbed my pint glass and finished in just over nine hours. I had a vague idea of where I was in relation to the other single speeders, but had no confirmation. I was done. I went back to the car to start the recovery process.
I got second in singlspeed. Way better then I could have imagined. Apparently all the training and support from Spot Brand / Twin Six / Bean's Bikes has paid off. Now I have to hit the Lumberjack and see it wasn't just a fluke.
And the Mohican - was excellent! What an adventure! The singletrack and the forest it went through in the beginning was awesome. The Ohio countryside - beautiful. I would definitely go back.
- b
The morning of, I nervously shoveled oatmeal into my mouth as my race gut left me running to the bathroom a few times. My traveling companions, Keith and Topher, calmly completed their preparations resigned to the fact we were all in for a very long day.
In the pre-race meeting they tell us there's going to be a two mile roll out to the dam before the race starts. With the meeting adjourned, we the racers started rolling out before the motorcycle lead could get in front of us. Once he was there, the roll out got faster and faster as we rolled on. At this point my goal was to simply keep it close to Topher. He was directly in front of me and I stayed glued to his wheel. At the dam, the pace quickened and we began to climb. It was a short climb with a little downhill and another climb. A funny thing happened. I pulled away from Topher. I didn't know how far, but I knew he wasn't keeping pace with my climb. Was I going too hard? Was it too early? Nope. I felt good and comfortable, so I let it go. Soon we hit trail or at least a double track path with some short ups and downs. The guys around me were slower on the ups and downs then I was comfortable with, so I raged by. Literally I raged. Something woke up in me and I knew I could do this. The double track turned to singletrack and got really fast. It was swoopy, tight and smooth. I turned on the iPod and let it rip.
All my previous thoughts of despair faded as I began to put together a strategy. I knew the majority of the singletrack was in the beginning of the race. From what I heard there was roughly thirty miles of singletrack in the beginning and the rest was fire/gravel road (at least that's how I laid it out in my oxygen deprived mind). With the singletrack flowing as well as it was, I knew I could hammer it like a sprint race, then use the roads to recover and continue the race at some kind of steady road pace. I had done most of my training on the road. If I could put some kind of gap on the competition in the singletrack, I would surely shine on the road. I know. It makes me cringe as a mt. biker to say that, but I'm also a racer. You do what it takes.
One by one I picked off racers in the woods. In the distance I saw Doug of Vicious Cycles. Keeping him in sight became the next goal. In my pursuit of crushing riders (each pass I would second guess myself, am I going too strong, can I keep this up, then I'd get stuck behind someone else and have to motor around them) I latched onto a worthy adversary. Not sure who he was, but he raced for Independent Fabrication. He was pacing some guy in a red kit that I could tell was not quite as fast as we wanted to go, but fast enough to keep a steady pace ahead of those behind us. The three of us hammered it. Up and down we kept it pegged sliding through the turns and airing off the bumps. Eventually it got to be too much for the guy in red. He pulled off and let us go.
Up some climbs, we caught another group of riders.Leading the charge was some big guy in white on a single speed. He was killing the hills, powering his way through riders in front of him. I remember thinking I'd met my match and would happily stay behind him. Also in this group was Vicious Doug. We all formed a loose knit train and rolled on together. The big SSer leading the way. Through a dipping turn to the right, Doug lost it and went down hard. I asked if he was ok as I went by him standing on the side of the trail. He said yes and I rolled away. There were at least five of us in this little group. All five of us missed the same turn and rode off course for about five minutes before realizing our mistake and turning around. Being at the back of the group now put me in the front. I hit it hard knowing this train would be riding my ass pretty hard to make up for the mistake. I also realized I had a lot of lost ground to make up - people I previously passed that I now had to pass again. Vicious Doug was one of them. I kept waiting for the train to strike. I expected the big SSer to plow right through me. Never happened. It actually got quiet behind me.
Mile twenty-three was the first aid station. Doug was rolling out as I was rolling in. I stopped to get water. As my bottles were being filled, the big SSer rolled through without stopping. Refueled, I got back in the chase. It didn't take long till I caught up with Doug and the big guy. There were a series of short switch-backs we were climbing. The big guy was marching right up them. Doug was having trouble. Finally Doug stopped halfway up one and got off. I rolled by with the big guy in my sights. I caught his wheel just as the trail turned into a roller coaster and Traffic's "Dear Mr. Fantasy" came through my headphones. Mr. Fantasy was dead on. The big guy hammered the course. We were rolling up and down and around in unison. Sliding and ripping through turns at full bore. Suddenly the fun stopped as we had to get off for a hike-a-bike. The big guy threw his bike on his back and started climbing. I chose to push. At the top he turned slightly. The sideburns gave it away. The big guy killing it was Dejay Birtch. Through a little chit-chat, I learned he was hurting. Something wasn't right with his crank, shoe or pedal. Either way, climbing shot pain into his one leg. Out of the woods and onto some roads and double track, I could see it was affecting him. I pulled away and started eating. In the singletrack there wasn't much time for nutrition. I made up for the last three hours in about twenty minutes stuffing my face with everything from my pockets and riding on.
I rolled into aid station two at thirty-nine miles. One of the biggest things I learned from the 101 last year was to make my aid station stops short. I got my drop bag and started replenishing my endurolytes and cytomax while eating some watermelon. Dejay rolled in soon after me. Standing next to me was Jeff Kerkove resupplying himself. Part of me was freaking out because I was already so far ahead. I just shouldn't be at this level, while the other part of me was saying shut-up, you're killing it. Keep it up. As I was headed out, my worst fear came to be. Topher rolled in with a big smile on his face. Damn! I said,
"I didn't expect you to be here." He replied,
"Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."
I agreed and left as Doug was rolling in behind him. Dejay rolled out behind me. He was close enough that I could see him back there. Besides a gnarly short singletrack section in the woods behind the aid station, we hit the roads and started climbing. I would get off to walk, look back and see Dejay do the same. Good. If we're both walking the hills, I only have to worry about everything else to keep ahead. It wasn't long before I couldn't see him anymore.
On the roads I started yo-yoing with another Independent Fabrication geared rider. We kept this up through aid station three at mile forty-nine. I got out before he did and before anyone else showed up. Shortly out of the aid station was a huge trail climb. I spent most of the time walking, while the IF guy granny geared it and left me behind. (This is where it gets a little foggy for me.) At the top there was more singletrack. By this point, I was kind of sick of the effort required to ride singletrack. The roads were quick with a nice breeze. The singletrack in the woods took a lot of effort and the air wasn't moving really well. I rode conservatively through the trails and over the rocks. The last thing I wanted was to wreck fifty miles in and have to contend with wreck induced cramps and pain. It was hard enough dealing with those things on their own. I think this is where I passed Kerkove. I thought for sure he would catch me back and pass since I spent most of the time off the bike and carefully running through the slick rock gardens. I never saw him again. We were back out on the roads and I was yo-yoing again with the IF guy. I felt good spinning down the roads. He obviously wasn't and I lost sight of him as he dropped off.
This particular part of the course was sort of a dead zone. The previous aid station was at mile forty-nine. The next one was at mile seventy-four. The last ten miles to the aid station was supposedly a flat rail-to-trail. Twenty-five miles was a long way to go in the middle of the day with only three water bottles. Around one o'clock I joyously hit the rail trail. I had a bottle and a half to last ten miles. I set in to a fifteen mile an hour pace on the rail trail. If I could hold that, I'd easily make the rest area before two o'clock. I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled. Five minutes went by, ten, fifteen, then twenty. It was flat and grueling. I drank all my water and ate some food. Five miles in, my pace dropped to thirteen then twelve miles an hour. I still had five miles to go. Twinges of cramp started to hit as I was out of water and quickly getting behind on my hydration needs. I kept looking over my shoulder expecting some geared rider to catch me in the flat wasteland. Never saw any behind me. Shortly before the end I saw one ahead. Inspired, I cranked the pace up, rolled past him without a fight and hit the fourth aid station to restock with my last drop bag.
The station workers warned me I was heading into an oncoming storm. I asked how far the next aid station was and how much singletrack was left. They said not a whole lot of singletrack and the aid station was roughly twelve or thirteen miles. At the pace I'd been running, I could finish in the next two hours and be done with this mess around four o'clock. Twelve or thirteen miles to the next aid station was perfect. That would split the last twenty-five miles up nicely. Shortly after leaving the aid station, the storm hit. It poured hard, but I kept at it. The rain lasted only a little while. Unfortunately, so did its cooling effects. The air quickly was thick and muggy again.
The trail turned up a road with a dead end sign. I knew what this meant. I'd seen them before on this course. We'd ride the gravel road to its termination then take some trail or old logging road through the woods to the next road. The old road was hardly ridable or I hardly felt like riding it. The air wasn't moving at all in the woods. I started the slide down. Watching the time, I could see my pace was slipping. My head was throbbing and cramps were setting in. I drank and drank some more. I turned off my iPod. The day's effort was catching up with me. Earlier when walking hills, I was careful to cut the switchbacks tight so no one below could see me and get inspired for an attack. I didn't care now. I stumbled and fumbled my way up the hills. Previously I would ride the false flats between the steeper pitches. Now I just walked. Walking wasn't helping me recover. I just got hotter. I kept doing the mileage math in my head based on my current GPS reading. It wasn't working out like I wanted it to. Every little mile kept dragging and the aid station didn't seem close enough. I kept drinking and was quickly running out of water. My stomach felt nauseous (the term boo-boo belly came to mind, but I squashed it). Was this the end? Finally I rolled out onto a gravel road at the top. Just as I crested and started a slight decent, a red tailed hawk flew out of a tree next to me and down the road in front of me. As hokey as it may have been, I took it as a sign. Slowly but surely I turned up the pace again. I drank the rest of my water and let myself roll down the hill. I wasn't tucking and flying like I had been earlier, but I was moving and cooling off. I rode across the swing-bridge I was warned about and saw some people monitoring our race numbers. There was a table with what looked like ice. Was that the aid station? I couldn't confirm the mileage I expected on my GPS. Frustrated I continued without stopping to ask. I turned down a road and started to really fly. There were few markers if any on the decent. I started getting scared. Did I miss another turn? Would I have to walk back up? Where the hell was the aid station? At the bottom there was another sign. With relief I turned and saw some riders up ahead. I could tell by their leisurely riding, they weren't 100 mile racers. I put my head down and set out to catch them. The cramps came on hard at this point. Both quads started to lock up. I kept a steady pace, hoping the pedaling would relax them. Around a few turns I hit the fifth and final aid station. I asked how far the finish was from here. They said somewhere between eight and ten miles. That made the aid station between four and six miles further then I expected. Whatever. I was close. All I had to do was finish.
I headed out to finish and quickly ran into the last thing I wanted to see - slick singletrack. I regretted not asking how much I would have to endure. Back into preservation mode, I rode it conservatively. I made all the climbs and obstacles and passed a few people. I wasn't sure if
they were 100 mile or 100K racers, but didn't really care. What started out as nicely maintained singletrack bliss, quickly turned to a treacherous fishermen trail hugging the bank along a creek. It was covered with roots, rocks and off-camber opportunities to seriously hurt yourself. Normally I would have loved this trail. Now I just wanted to survive. I got off and ran way more times then my friends would be proud of. To top it off, (though warned with signage) there were pedestrians using the trail. They were scrambling around on the same lines I was trying to cleanly ride. With ever lacking patience, I got off and ran more. Then the single track dumped us onto an old dirt road that was completely filled with mud. Any resemblance of clean the storm had made of me earlier was quickly caked in thick brown goo.
The muddy road ended at the base of the dam where we started.
Relief was short as the arrows pointed directly up the face of the damn. Under normal conditions, hiking this thing would have been a chore (it really was that steep). Hiking it ninety-eight miles into a hundred mile race was a real kick in the balls. I seriously had doubts I could do it. At the top I got back on the bike and grimaced as I had to force my legs to pedal again. There were all kinds of people milling about. I was covered in mud and wincing. I can't imagine what they thought. They can't imagine what I felt. From the dam it was a road climb. I was determined to walk no more. I hunkered my chest down to the bars and pushed all I could at each pedal stroke. It crested and rolled down and around back onto the trail we started on. I yelled out "On your left!" as I flew by two people on the trail. On the last road to the finish I chased down and passed another rider struggling with his gears on the last little climb. I powered up the finishing chute, grabbed my pint glass and finished in just over nine hours. I had a vague idea of where I was in relation to the other single speeders, but had no confirmation. I was done. I went back to the car to start the recovery process.
I got second in singlspeed. Way better then I could have imagined. Apparently all the training and support from Spot Brand / Twin Six / Bean's Bikes has paid off. Now I have to hit the Lumberjack and see it wasn't just a fluke.And the Mohican - was excellent! What an adventure! The singletrack and the forest it went through in the beginning was awesome. The Ohio countryside - beautiful. I would definitely go back.
- b
posted by JenBob at
9:18 PM
1 Comments:
Bob...seriously, that's awesome. Great job!
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