Sushi Feast
Went out for a little Sushi the other night with Jeff and Nancy. Good company, good food, what more is there?
That's five plates of tasty food. Makes me hungry all over again.
- b
Doggy Cast
CJ got his cast today.
He's pretty wiped out from the meds. A couple of times he's walked up to a wall and just stood there. Six weeks they'll do an x-ray to check progress. Could be on as short as eight weeks or as long as twelve.
- b
Poor Dog
CJ's been limping since Sunday. Sometimes this happens and he heals on his own. That didn't appear to be the case this time. Took him to the vet this morning, and they took some pictures.
His outside toe on his right front paw is broken. It's a bad break too. Dr. said surgery would fix it for sure, but just a cast might work. Considering the cast is a few thousand bucks cheaper then surgery, we're going to try it first. Pictures of the patient soon.
- b
Misunderstood
Maybe I was tired or overheating, but I don't find comments like "You're crazy" and "Singlespeeders are sick" exactly complimentary.
It's funny how people (I'm guilty of it too) label things they don't understand and/or can't comprehend.
- b
Rock Star
Decided I needed more to show for this rock star lifestyle (traveling, racing, living out of a duffel bag) I've been living the past couple weeks.
Headed to the Cranky Monkey this weekend for a little teammate action with Buddy. Should be nice to have someone else to suffer with.
- b
Wednesday Night Follies
Still in recovery mode and unable to ride, I showed up for the entertainment part of the Wednesday Night Ride last night. As always Wednesday Nights never disappoint.
A quick shot of Topher's new ride before he headed off for another kind of ride since shaving his beard.
Ben happy to have some fitness again and a nice beer buzz, shows his appreciation for the greatest waitress in the world.
The rest of us played "Mess with the Expecting Father" as we each relentlessly called Henderson's phone trying to trick him into believing he had to run off to the hospital to greet his new born. Yeah caller id and the stupid grins on our faces gave it away, but it was fun nonetheless.
Last night also marked the beginning of the Summer Parking Lot Sprint Series. Marcus has been our reigning champion since the series started (who knows when). Tim Dickson thought he'd make a go of it boasting he was one fast mutha Fer. After two rounds Mark maintains his barefoot domination.
Poor Justin thought he'd try the pre-ride with Marcus and Henderson. Silly boy got his ass handed to him (I don't even try that shit). Guess we all have to stick our fingers in the light socket once to learn.
-b
Invasion
Not quite zombies, but these little guys are everywhere in our yard.
- b
I Used to Ride
Now it feels like cycles of punishment and recovery.
- b
Lumberyack 100
The Lumberjack was quite possibly the hardest race I've ever done. I went into it without much mental focus and never found any while I was there. For the Mohican I had some goals. I wanted to beat Topher and Keith. For the Lumberjack I was more curious how my body and training would stand up against two 100 miles races two weeks from each other. That's not really a strong mental game plan if any at all. The format of the Lumberjack is also very different. Instead of a point-to-point adventure, the Lumberjack is four twenty-five mile loops. Once you've done the first lap, there's no mystery left. There's no curiosity to keep the fires burning.
The first lap was fun. The course had decent flow, beautiful scenery, and climable ascents. I rode most of it with Simon (one of many traveling partners). We had a great time ripping through the twisties and barely hanging on through the downhill tree slaloms. He kept saying "We're going so fast!".
Finishing off the first lap at around two hours, I ate a Z-bar, an apple and stopped to fill my Camelbak. I don't typically use a camelbak, but decided it was a good idea for the first few laps in order to ride fast and drink without having to slow down and deal with bottles and avoiding trees. With the food down and water consumed, my stomach got full. Not too bad, but it was noticeable. Something else I noticed were my quads cramping a little on the climbs. That's not good, so I slowed it down and started pushing more water into my already full belly. At the only supported aid station halfway through the lap, I stopped for more water. Shortly there-after, Simon caught up and passed me feeling really well. Simon had goals that day. Going to school in Michigan, he had two local rivals to keep ahead of. I never saw him again.
The second half of the course is no-mans land. Not far from the aid station there's a decent climb, then it's flat forever. It was out there I totally lost focus. Most of the time I was by myself just wandering through the trees. I was on the trail, but I wasn't riding with any kind of purpose. It was hot and I was hot. I was just riding. My legs weren't cramping anymore, but they weren't feeling like riding hard either. Near the end of the lap, there's some more hills to climb. I started walking these hills. I finished the second lap in close to two hours. I was holding steady, but obviously a little slower - smart (sort of) for a race of this length.
I grabbed another apple, dropped the camelbak for bottles and headed back out for my third lap. I noticed as I went by the start/finish a young singlespeeder (SS kid I'll call him) I'd been yo-yoing with standing with his parents. It didn't take long for him to catch and pass me again. When using bottles, I have to actively drink more, so I slowed down and did just that. In the flat area before the supported aid station, I ate another z-bar. At the aid station I had two of my three bottles filled with water and headed out to the dead-zone, that I now completely hated. Riders would pass me now and again. When I went to drink the water the aid station gave me, I nearly puked. It smelled like sulfur. It was nasty. I kept trying to drink it, convincing myself it was fine, but it was awful. Two guys rolled up behind me. For some reason it provoked me to ride a little harder. With the right motivation the back-side of the course was a lot of fun, so I cranked it up a bit and went spinning through the trees. At some point I asked the lead guy if he wanted around. He said I kept pulling away from him, so he was happy where he was. Finally at the first of the big climbs near the end, I got off and let them by. I also swapped my bottles around, so I had one little bottle of my own drink and one large mix of mine and theirs. Even with my water in the bottle, I could still taste the sulfur mix.
The course was mostly loamy and sandy. Rarely was there any hardpack, so you had to work to get your bike moving quickly through this stuff. There were hardly any roots or rocks, but it wasn't smooth either. The first lap was mostly leaf covered. In some places it was hard to follow the trail. The second lap was the smoothest. Two hundred seventeen riders through on the first lap left a nice groove to follow. The third lap started to get shitty. Two hundred seventeen riders of different abilities and bike setups braking in the same turns (for two laps now) on loose material left huge brake bumps. They were kind of like rumble strips, but bigger and more painful on my hands as my rigid fork plowed over them. These various locations throughout the course quickly became water bottle graveyards. Each lap more and more water bottles would pile up along the sides of the trail where people were braking or hitting these bumps at full speed. Luckily I didn't loose any bottles, though would have been glad to with the taste they gave me.
Walking the rest of the climbs on the third lap, I really started to lose focus. I was really hot. My head was swimming. I couldn't focus or get charged up on anything. I started rolling up my jersey and letting my belly hang out to cool. A few more people passed me, then the women leaders came through. It was only two of them. The first got away. The second I passed back (while walking), dropped and never saw again.
I was miserable. I started to get sick. Every time I brought a bottle to my lips, my stomach turned. Eating was out of the question. I started considering quitting. Why did I need to suffer this way? I was thinking I was a perfectly capable human being who didn't need to do this. I had nothing to prove and it didn't make a difference whether I quit or finished. I should do the smart thing and quit before I hurt myself or made the rest of the week miserable with some kind of injury or something else to recover from. I thought about a DNF. I didn't care about the money I paid to enter, though I should have cared about the money I paid to get there. I realized DNFs are the biggest waste of anything. They represent nothing. They speak for nothing. There's no story. No one cares. You gave up. You didn't finish. You have nothing to show or talk about. You did not finish. You may as well have not even been there. But I was there. I felt like ass but I was there and I was going to finish. I didn't want a DNF to ruin that for me.
Without thinking more about it (or anything really), I finished the third lap, stopped and swapped bottles and began the fourth lap. On my way out I saw the SS kid now sitting with his parents. He'd been catching me before and quite easily dropping me. I knew by the way he sat and looked, that wouldn't be the case on the fourth lap. Also headed out on his fourth lap was Ezra. I met Ezra years ago at the Ohio SingleSpeed State Championships. Ezra was strong as hell. He rode really big gears and quite easily won a lot of stuff. I could tell by the look on his face, he wasn't winning it today. Walking the first hill of the fourth lap, I dropped Ezra and never saw him again.
I started out hard. I figured it was the last lap. That should be enough motivation to ride it strong and be done with it. I finished the third lap at something like six hours seventeen minutes (so I thought). That wasn't bad. At this rate (with a strong last lap) I could quite possibly do it all in eight and a half hours. My legs had other plans. What was twinges of cramps in the second lap was now full on twists of muscle from my knees to my hips. Ok back it off and suffer another slow-ass lap. At least I had my own water to drink and try to fix the cramps. Nope. I couldn't even drink my own stuff. Whenever I got my bottle near my lips, I gagged. Once I even dry-heaved. Miserable suddenly seemed nice as I was somewhere way beyond miserable.
The brake bumps started to really hurt. My hands were raw. My feet even felt bruised as my bike bounced wildly over the bumps. Sometimes I had enough awareness to try and ride around them, but mostly I forgot where they were or didn't have the dexterity to steer around and through them. My head was completely in a fog. On Friday Tim and Harlan talked about heat head-aches. Not necessarily from dehydration, just the heat and your body telling you so with a dull ache in your head. I was going on a four plus hour heat head-ache. I wanted it over.
All the bouncing had another effect. My chain-tug (a bolt-like device to keep my rear wheel straight, bolted and tight in the frame) had come loose. My wheel was slightly cocked to the left and occasionally rubbing my frame. Part of me wanted it to rub clear through and crack the frame, so I'd have a legitimate excuse for a DNF (severe mechanicals are ok), but mostly it gave me something to freak-out about. At the supported aid station, I stopped and asked for a tool to fix it. I was so busy with the tool, I didn't ask why their water tasted like ass when they filled my bottles for me (I was able to drink some of my own). As I was headed out the woman said "You're almost done. Only 10 or 12 miles left to go." I said "Yay. That's at least an hour and a half." She looked at me kind of funny and I quickly told her how much I hated the back section of the course as I headed off.
Yep. It sucked. I rolled along at about 8mph. I didn't care. I was just going to finish it. The heat was ridiculous. I was cooking. I kept wondering what they would do if I took my helmet off and finished without it. I thought about quitting racing altogether. Going home and selling all my stuff. I was burned out from it. It wasn't fun anymore. Suffering isn't fun. I kept rolling. I thought about all the damage I was doing to my body from not drinking. I thought about puking. I thought about going to the hospital and getting an IV. I thought for sure I'd collapse at the finish and ride off in an ambulance. I nearly cried out when I hit the brake bumps.
I started watching my time on my computer. I was looking good to finish around eight and a half hours. I decided to switch over to mileage and count them down. The final hills started at around ninety-six miles. That was only four or so to go. There was at least a mile prologue on the road at the start, so I wasn't sure exactly how long the race would take to finish. At a hundred miles I was still a ways out. I was a zombie. I really didn't know what I was doing. I just kept heading down the trail. I got off to walk all the hills. Stopped to drink and not puke. Finally I saw the cars and crossed the line at nine hours and two minutes.
I saw Simon at the finish. He looked beat. He said I looked worse. I got back to the car where Tim was changing. He said he puked and felt horrible. I started taking off my stuff thinking I was going to die, but I didn't. As soon as the helmet and jersey came off I felt better. I finally cooled down some. We headed up to eat. It took a while, but it was good. My legs tried cramping off and on, but I was feeling better. Simon said he puked too, but felt better afterwards and crushed his fourth lap. Tim finished fourth SS at eight hours and twenty one minutes. Simon finished 26th at eight hours and thirty minutes. For feeling like the worst ride of my life, I did ok. I finished 6th (out of 27). My splits were 1:55, 2:10, 2:23 and 2:34.
I won't be doing the Lumberjack again. It was a great course, but the format didn't suit my style. When I think about it, the back half of the outer loop (as it's called) wasn't physically any harder then the inner loop (the inner loop had the most up and down). It just sapped me every time I got out there. Also the SS awards were a bit lacking. The first place guy got a Walmart hatchet - no cash. Tim and I lucked out with a raffle. Tim got a free Cannondale Rush frame (ironic, he races for Cannondale) and I got a pair of Surly hubs (ironic, I don't need them).
All in all it was a good trip. I met a lot of nice people and had some great traveling companions. Now if I could just rest a little, maybe I can get my head back in the game for the next one.
-b
Leavn' Again
Road trip for another 100 miler. Legs still haven't quite recovered from the last one.
Saw the witch doctor this morning. Hooked me up to some electronic/bionics, then had his punk rock assistant rub me down. Feel better, but still nervous.
Car is getting a little rehab too. Guy at the shop said I was 1,000 miles away from a timing-belt incident. Considering I'm going 1,000 miles, I had him take care of that. Hopefully the car does better than me.
Hauling precious cargo this time. Two top dogs are sharing the ride. Hopefully 15 hours in the car will rub off on me.
It's not easy being a fluke.
- b
Liquid Courage - Final
This is the continuation and final installment to the Liquid Courage series. If you need a refresher, you can find it here.
Closer now to the beer stash, the never mellow pace quickened up Sawmill rd. Shortly before the turn off, we passed the LoweRiders crew. "How do you like our trails fellas?" we almost said out loud. A quick turn into the woods, Ben and Mark led the way up Mark D'Huez. DeCarlo followed with me and Henderson in tow. DeCarlo got hung up on a root or something as Henderson and I slipped by. Quickly we formed a four man uphill train and gaped the rest of the group. I recently moved up to Big Boy gearing. With the turn of each switchback, I expected the gearing to finally wear into me. Never happened. Our little train chugged along rise for rise. Finally over the final push, it was a mad dash for the stash.
Nearly a case of Hop Wallop was hidden beneath the leaves. As the rest of the group gathered, beers were opened and passed around. Somewhere through the second round the B group rolled through (an entirely different group of people, but more tolerated then some of the riff-raff that's out there). Many familiar faces, but a few new who obviously didn't know. With darkness closing in, we finished off the beers and headed out flying high.
From the top of Mark D' Huez, it's another loose rocky decent. Fueled up on liquid courage, I ignored the dark and let it rip. Some resemblance of fear was lurking in the back of my mind, as I didn't hit the log drop as I should have. In the woods, the darkness was quickly closing in. My focus narrowed to just the trail in front of me. Up the root climb I started to catch the B guys. Adrenaline, testosterone and now alcohol fueled my ambitions to catch and pass as many Bs as I could. I had two in the bag before hitting the road.
On Sawmill we regrouped as the Bs rolled ahead (some in our group were obviously walloped by this point). With a decent gap between us we rolled up Sawmill behind the Bs. In my head I pictured an attack. Our group swarming and enveloping the Bs in our pursuit to crush the school climb. Just as a smile drew across my face, Mark and Henderson sprinted it to reality. They took off with a vengeance chasing down and closing in and around the Bs. Like sharks in a frenzy, the rest of us followed. Around and past the Bs the aggressive pace continued back into the woods and up the school climb - Mark and Henderson way out front. Scott and I followed. The rush of momentum sent the alcohol faster to every region of my body. I started to hurt in places I didn't know could. Quickly we dropped the group to the distant sound of laughter. Determined to keep pace with the leaders, my focus narrowed again to the trail before me in the dark woods, so narrow I had to blink and shake my head to regain focus of the trail conditions. The school climb is washed out with loose rocks and narrow reroutes around the ruts. Balance and dexterity are necessary to make it clean. Balance and dexterity had already left me for rehab.
Out of the woods and across the road, Scott and I hit the sidewalk climb well behind Henderson and Mark. I slowed up a little trying to breath and recover, but followers were in hot pursuit. Ryan flew out of the woods determined to catch us as we climbed. Back to the crushing, I pushed Scott to the top before Ryan got us.
In the parking lot we circled to recover and wait for the others. Once we were all there, we headed for the woods at the far end of the school property. The fields kind of pour into a far corner where the trail starts. Like a drain, our pace quickened as we descended to the corner of the field. DeCarlos keen Copper eye saw what was happening and made a dash for position. Mark and Henderson went in first followed by me, DeCarlo and Ben. Taking an opportunity without consideration was a big Copper mistake. Ben hounded DeCarlo into the nighttime woods. DeCarlo had never ridden the new trail and his roadie prowess would hinder his and Ben's success of navigating the technical bliss we've come to love of this trail. Completely dark, we rode it by feel and memory. In front of me was chatter between Mark and Henderson. Behind me was Ben's relentless harassment of DeCarlo and DeCarlos feeble attempts at defense (Some advice. When a guy twice your size and ability tells you to get out of the way - do it). I felt like I was riding through a mad house.
Someone fumbled in front. Mark and Henderson were in a pile off to the side. I took the lead and prceeded to gap. The trail is completely off-camber with short steep ups and downs. I was pinned at maximum flow. DeCarlo had long ago lost his place. Sliding the rear around a quick right, I got a "Nice move" outta Ben as he didn't make the turn so nicely and I pulled away. From that point it's a fast down to the railroad bed. Winner is first to the gravel. Over the last launch something furry (a cat? raccoon? too dark to tell) scurried away from my point of contact with the gravel. High fives and hollers were passed around as each rider dropped out of the darkness and onto the gravel.
With the last rider down, we headed back on the Iguana - a flat sort of twisty trail running parallel to the tracks. It was completely dark now. I could only differentiate trail from forest floor by the darkness of one over the other. The trail was slightly lighter with dark spots designating obstacles to avoid. Closer now to the final beer stop, the pace remained treacherous through the black. Quick and smooth over a large log-over got another "Nice" out of Ben as we hammered to the field and sprint finish.
Somewhere in the dark Ben, Henderson and I pulled away from the group (enough that they claimed we short-cutted the end). Finishing the field, I gave up the lead on the downhill driveway. Ben's momentum took over and carried him first to the bottom. Between the lightweights (Chris and I) it was a battle of resolve. Who would brake first before spilling out onto the road? Chris (with a kid on the way) made the wise choice as I careened out onto the road to catch Ben. With a sketchy light change, Ben charged through the intersection for the sprint. Chris, making up for his conservatism on the brakes, followed through traffic. With a bigger gear and slight head-start, Ben easily took the win. As he crested the bridge, he threw his fist in the air for his very own special olympics moment in the setting sun.
-b
Trashed Legs
I haven't recovered properly from the Mohican. Did everything I wasn't supposed to do and not enough of what I was. Legs still feel sore after a week from the event and a week before the next.
I reviewed my training log from last year to see what I did after the 101. I tried to do the same. Apparently last years experience didn't match this year.
Talking with a witch doctor now. Got some ideas. Crazy things to try and bring my legs back.
Hope it works.
- b
Some Relief
-b
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
Mohican Damage Assesment
My nipples are a scabby mess. That's a given. What surprised me the most are my swollen feet. I can't wear real shoes without a lot of discomfort. I've only had my Crocs on since the race. When I put on real shoes today, my feet were very unhappy. I lasted about 20 minutes before I took the shoes off and went back to my Crocs. I find it kind of odd.
Though I was feeling peppier today, it doesn't take much to tire me out. Walking to the mailbox nearly winded me. Tomorrow will be the first day back on the bike. I'm looking forward to it, but need to remember to take it real easy.
While looking for the end of the internet today, I found this. Pretty damn cool I'd say.
Race report coming (very) soon.
- b
On the Wings of a Red Tail
The wise Tyler Durden once said, "It's only after we've lost everything we're free to do anything."
There's something about that in a hundred mile race that appeals to me. Somewhere on the other side of fifty miles, all is lost. You've used/consumed everything you had. The simple life basics (food, water, air) are your only necessity. Your legs burn and your head is in a haze. Twinges of cramp sneak into your quads. You're at your lowest point.
It's at that point I know what I'm really worth. How I measure up becomes clear to me. There's no job, house, car, etc. It's only you and your basic human needs. Nothing matters but the will to pull it together and finish strong. Through the fog of pain and suffering I see that I need to drink. I need to eat. I need to continue turning the cranks. I've got a race to finish.
In the Wilderness 101 last year, that point lasted from roughly mile sixty to mile ninety. It was a difficult time. A time I clearly drifted away from myself. The point of loss is important, but to lose it for so long is counter productive. In the Mohican 100 I hit that point between mile eighty and mile ninety. I lost focus. I struggled to push the pace. I drifted. As the downward slide began to pick up momentum, I stopped it. I started pedaling harder - my legs felt good. I continued to pedal hard. I took some deep breaths. They weren't completely refreshing, but moving the air in and out of my lungs started to bring back my focus. My head hurt. It throbbed beneath my helmet. I drank some water, then I drank some more. My thoughts started to clear. I rolled out onto a road. The rush of air from my quickened pace cooled my skin. Up ahead I could see some riders. From the way they were meandering down the road, I could tell they were 100k racers. Didn't matter. I put my head down and made it a goal to catch and drop them. I ripped by them into the fifth rest stop. Had my bottles filled with fresh water and hauled off to the finish.
Nine hours of truth and suffering, I finished the Mohican 100 in second place in the single speed class.
- b
