Somewhere
along the way through last years season, I got it in my head I liked
long mountain bike rides - really long mountain bike rides. There's
something pretty cool about being stronger then you expected further
along then you expected to get. To push yourself to the point of
collapse, then pick yourself up and finish out strong felt like a
real accomplishment to me. With my new masochistic interest in
mountain biking, I did the Wilderness 101. It hurt. It hurt a lot. It
wasn't until later in the afternoon of the next day I could function
somewhat normally.
It took a while, but I
decided I wanted more. I decided to do the 101 again and a few
others. This time it would be different. This time I would specifically
train for the longer events with the sole goal of not hurting so
much afterwards. Only four years ago I was struggling to finish sport level
sprint races. I figured anything above simply not killing
myself was out of my league for the 100
mile
races.
The 101 was my first full bicycle century
of any kind. To do it again, I would have to do a lot more. I would
have to get my body used to riding for ridiculous amounts of time
and still ride well. Like any base training, I started in January
with lots of low intensity time and miles on the bike. As the winter
progressed (and got colder), I increased my time and mileage. With
the coming of spring, I started my weekend centuries. In three
months, I rode four 100 mile rides of varying intensity (group
roadie, flat fixed and mixed fix).
Originally, I was scheduled to do a 24hr duo
with Buddy
in mid June. As a
warm-up, I decided to do the Mohican 100 in Ohio. I'd heard many horror
stories about this event - poorly run aid stations, bad trail
markings, and sabatoge. I figured what the hell, it's just another
century - good practice for the duo race. After doing the 12 Hours of Lodi Farm race
and watching the solo guys kill themselves and not have any fun
doing it, I decided against the 24hr duo. To me there was a clear
definition between going in cirlces for a specified amount of time
and riding a specified (long) distance as fast as you could. In a 12
or 24hr race nothing matters, but riding till the time expires.
There's nothing you can do to change the rate at which time ticks
away. In a distance event, you can ride faster to make the miles
tick away. With the 24hr duo out of the picture, the Mohican became
a little more important.
As with anything that takes
on greater signifiance, I started to get nervous. I had been riding
well, but wasn't sure I had been riding enough. I missed a lot of
races this spring to volunteer, etc. I wasn't really sure where I
stood in the ranks of those in the trenches. In the week leading up
to the event, my body seemed to level off and flatten out. Prior to
that, I was feeling pretty good about myself, wired and edgy for a
fight. The flatness didn't help the nerves much. I wasn't eating as
much and sleep escaped me. I really wasn't feeling good about it.
To share in the driving and misery, I looked for some traveling
companions. I found Keith and Topher willing to share. Great - a
double edged sword. I've got some friends to share in the pain, but
they're also my competition. Topher's a really strong kid. So he's
not quite a kid, but he's eight years my junior. He did La Ruta last year and really well at most
everything else he entered. Keith is sort of new to our local
SS crowd, but he's come on real strong; driven to prove he's not the
short fat dude he used to be. Since winning the SS class in the 12 Hours of Razorback in February,
I've been keeping a close eye on his results at
subsequent races. So that was it. I had some traveling
companions/competition and a not-so-good feeling about the
race.
The day before we leave, plans change. Harlan needs a ride, so we do some rearranging and the four
of us head out in two cars. Keith and I got some amusement out
of watching Harlan and Topher pack and repack from
one car to another. They were literally running into each other,
though managed to get out of each other's way for the
camera.
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Topher's bike is the
real deal. I went to the trouble of having mine painted
to look neglected and raw, Topher's bike just
is.
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After seven and a half hours
of driving, we finally made the venue and registration. Standing
around in line for registration, I started hearing
more horror
stories. Not about the adminstration of the race, but simply the
effort required to complete it. I figured since it was Ohio, it
was relatively flat and should go pretty well. What I started
hearing and comprehending was there was a lot of single track
that made it longer
and harder to ride. Roads are relatively
easy. You just pedal. Singletrack requires extra effort to to go up,
down, around and all at a slower
pace. Slower means more time in
the saddle. Some guy said it took him twelve and a half hours
last year. Assuming we were of similar skill
levels,
I started to really not feel good about what I had
gotten myself into. Harlan confirmed, it
was longer (time wise), then you'd
expect.
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I went to bed with these
disconcerting thoughts. Needless to say, I didn't sleep very
well. I finally got up, made my oatmeal and dealt with
my race gut. Keith and Topher were kicking back to Keith's
five star breakfast of sausages and
eggs.
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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
adjorned, 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. Then 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 begining 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 layed 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 - including breaking the seal.).
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
Independant 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 pretty
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 doing 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
Independant 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
should mention, I was
gauging my progress with my GPS. Back
in the singletrack woods in the beginning, my GPS lost signal for
what I figured was eight miles.
If the next aid station was at
mile seventy-four, then the beginning of the rail trail should
have been roughly mile fifty-six on my GPS. Not a
big deal at this point, but plays a bigger role
later in the race. 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, but shortly before the end I saw
one
ahead. Inspired again, 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 the mess around four o'clock. Twelve or
thirteen miles to the next aid station was perfect. That
would
split the
last twenty-five mies 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 the 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 either way. 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, climbing this thing would have been a chore.
Climbing 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 keep pedaling. 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.
My bike after the finish. There was a hose for
a bikewash, but I was just too
tired.
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As I
was cleaning up, Tim Dougherty came over. I figured he won it.
I hadn't seen him anywhere till the finish and knew unless he DNF'd,
the
win was his. He said he was busting his ass to keep in front
of the Bean's guy. I said, "I know what you mean. I was
killing it to keep in front
of Dejay and Topher." He asked if I
thought I knew where I placed, but I had no idea. In the time I was
back, I saw two other single speeds
riding around the campground. I wasn't sure if
they were just hanging out, did the 100K or the 100
miler. I continued cleaning up, then went to
get some dinner. With Keith's complaints of warm
weather cramping, I thought for sure it would be hours before he
rolled in. To my surprise
Keith finished it
fifty-one minutes behind me in fourth. Topher came in
shortly there-after.
As it turned out, I got second to
Tim. I was almost seventeen minutes off the lead and only seven
minutes ahead of Dejay (he must not have
hurt that
bad).
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After a hard
race and the typical post race debauchery, Keith was kind enough to
make the drive home. Just keep my car on this side of the
yellow
line next time
Keith.
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I downloaded the GPS data,
but it wasn't completely accurate. The distance is off by
approximately ten miles. The max speed is obviously
off. My
bike computer, which wasn't functioning
properly either, said something closer to forty-three miles an hour
for the
max.
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