Cranky Monkey 2013. Check it out
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Monday, May 20, 2013
12 Hours of Lodi Farms - Solo
I cruised into camp after lap number 4, and before I could dismount Warhorse, Stew exclaimed, "Hey, your competition just packed up and went home...I even got a picture of him leaving!"
"What??? Did he wreck, have a mechanical issue??? Why???"
I felt a moment of happiness and triumph and I was only 4 hours 19 minutes into a 12 hour race. The competitor I was most concerned over had just left the race and I was over a lap ahead of 2nd place. Almost simultaneously, I felt another wave of emotion, but this one was lack of motivation to keep racing. I lost my fury.
What was I going to do now for the remaining 7 hours and 41 minutes?
This scenario, like most, began on a cold winter day browsing through bike races on BikeReg.com. As I scrolled down the page of races, I stopped on the 12 Hours of Lodi Farm in Fredericksburg, Virginia.
I had been hearing for several years how awesome the 12 Hours of Lodi (pronounced low-dee) Farms is from the folks I met from the DC Metro/Northern Virginia area. Each year, while racing the 9 Hours of Cranky Monkey mountain bike race in Maryland, I would always hear of the greatness that is Lodi (again, pronounced low-dee) and that if I ever had the chance it was a "must-race" event. Let me just say that definitions obviously vary greatly on what constitutes a "must-race" event.
The 12 Hours of Lodi, as the name implies, is a 12 hour race where teams of 2 or 3 riders, or solo riders, complete as many 9 mile laps as possible in the given 12 hours. This race in prior years was run from midnight to noon, forcing racers to ride the large number of laps in the darkness. This format was later changed from noon to midnight, and this year was changed to 10am to 10pm.
I homed in on this race because it had a clydesdale class (riders over 200 lbs.). I'm trying to stay away from this class this year, but for a 12 hour race, I didn't think I could compete against the really skinny fellas, so clydesdale class it was. My buddies Stew, Joe and Chris had joined forces as Team Angious Fury to compete in the 3 Man team class.
I was really looking forward to this race. I wanted to shift to more endurance racing this year to build my strength toward better a better finish at the Hilly Billy Roubaix in June. I even began cyber-stalking the competition on Strava to drive myself crazy in the months leading up to the race by looking at other racer's rides, average speeds, elevation profiles,etc...yeah, I know, it's a sickness.
The Friday before the race, we all made the 5 hour trek down to Fredericksburg to establish base camp and recon the course. Joe and Stew had beaten Chris and I to the race venue by several hours and were preparing for a pre-ride of the course when we arrived. From the directions provided in the registration information, it seemed easy enough to find, but without Joe and Stew's advice and the signs the promoter had put up, I'm sure we'd still be out there on east banks of the Rappahannock River wandering aimlessly in search of the race venue.
Camping was spartan, at best. Three porta-johns were on the far edge of a circular field, but not much else. The promoter was setting up the registration tents and timing station and a few other teams had set up camp beside us, but that was it. We were warned to bring everything we may need and we were glad we did.
The team next to us gave us a warning the course was very technical and a full suspension bike was the tool for the job. I looked around at the topography, and the small section of trail next to camp and assumed the "technical" portions of the trail were hiding out of site. Joe and Stew returned from their pre-ride and gave me the report...the course was twisty with some roots, a few log crossings, and some short hills. By West Virginia standards (Cooper's Rock, Valley Falls and Big Bear), the course was about a 3.5 on the technical scale of 1-10.
Race morning arrived, up and out of the tent, looking for coffee...the promoter promised pizza, beer, and coffee. Well, I was advised the coffee would arrive around 11:30am...while I was racing...aghhhh! Off to Sheetz or McDonalds!
After the coffee run, I walked over to register and the registration volunteer told me I was the first to register and asked me what number I wanted...well now, uhhh, let me think, how about number 1? It was available and for the first time ever I was going to have the coveted number 1 number plate...what???...no number plate, OK, number 1 bib to pin to my jersey, that would be fine...what?!?!?, no bib either, OK, then what magical numbering device awaits me? The volunteer handed a thin blue hair scrunchy, with a small metal tag with a paper circle containing the number "1" written in permanent marker. This was to be my "baton" that would signify my number and I would display this to the timing officials at the end of every lap. Crap...I really wanted a number plate with a big "1" on it. I also received my number and category (SC...Solo Clydesdale) written on the back of my calves in permanent marker so those that riding behind me would know who I was and what category I was racing in.
Fast forward to 10am race morning...the race was postponed 15 minutes to allow racers travelling south on I-95 to make it to the race...there had been an accident on I-95 delaying traffic (big freakin' surprise) and folks were running late.
But 10:15 soon came, and the whistle blew to start the race. The field of racers clumsily followed a pace bike through a prologue section of trail to prevent a huge cluster of racers entering the woods at one time and piling up on each other. After the half mile prologue, we came out of the woods, past the timing tent, and the race was on.
Everyone pegged it and I latched on to the back of the lead pack running in the top 20. Stew and Joe weren't kidding, this trail was twisty. It wasn't long before some of the riders in the lead pack started falling off the back of our train. I passed when I could and after 10-15 minutes of riding, I looked back to see barren trail. Apparently, the rest of the field was way behind already. I was trying hard to keep my heart rate down on this first lap, but still get a good gap on any other racers in my class so I could have some breathing room on the many laps to follow.
The course was ridiculously twisty and turny, and yes, there were roots everywhere, but they were not an issue in the dry conditions. My buddy Stew described the course design brilliantly. Imagine if someone threw spaghetti noodles up in the air and they landed on a map...the resulting mess was the trail system...by the end of the first lap, I realized he wasn't far off the mark.
I rolled into the timing area, gave them my number, and was off for lap 2.
Pedal, pedal, pedal, brake, pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal, brake, pedal, brake, brake, brake, pedal, pedal, brake, brake, log crossing, pedal, brake, pedal, brake, pedal, pedal, brake...I think you get the picture.
This was the routine. No real place to coast or rest. The turns were so tight, you couldn't roll through many of them without hitting the brakes, the downhills were short, the uphills were short, the straight sections were very short. This course was not suited to my style of riding. I ride similar to how a freight train operates. I like to get moving, and stay moving, only slowing or stopping when absolutely necessary. Stop-and-go traffic is not my strongsuit. It takes way too much energy to accelerate over and over when you're a bigger rider, but no time to whine, this is what I signed up for, so time to just suffer through it.
It wasn't long until I was rolling through the timing tent, stop long enough so the volunteers could record my number and time, then off for a second lap. I was finally warmed up and rolling pretty easily. I was getting used to the choppy riding style needed for this course and began to find the limits of my tires through the tight rooty turns. I kept an eye on my heart rate and it was well under usual race pace...this was intended, but the nature of the twisty-turny course helped keep the heart rate to an all-day level.
Lap 2 was in the books, checked in with the timing officials and off to camp to grab a pb&j sandwich, shotgun a Pepsi, fill up the camelbak and back onto the trail. I learned I had enough GU Roctane in my Camelbak to fuel 2 laps and stay well-hydrated, so I carried just enough gels and energy chews to get me through.
Just for the record, GU Energy is a sponsor of Consol Energy Racing for its second year. I race well on GU Energy products, and have found Roctane to be my go-to for my drink mix...it has caffeine, slow-burning carbs and agrees with my system, but even if they weren't a sponsor, I would use Roctane...it's just that good!
Laps 3 and 4 were uneventful, a little slower, but not much. I pull into camp after lap 4, and this is where our story picks back up. Stew just informed me my competition left the race, I stand around in disbelief, but eventually prepare myself for another 2-lap outing.
As I check in after lap 5, I see CER teammate Joe Sheets waiting for Stew to come in from his lap. So, I chat with him for a second, check my splits at the timing table and learn that I most likely have the Clydesdale class cinched up.
Stew blazes in from his lap, and Joe is off on his third lap. I latch on to Joe's wheel and hope to follow him as far as possible to regain some speed and motivation to stay in this race. Joe is riding well and I have trouble to stay with him but manage to get the legs firing again and stay with him. For the remainder of the lap, Joe and I trade leads on the course. I find out that Joe was also using me for motivation, and both our laps were faster for it. That lap with Joe stands as one of my all-time favorite race experiences.
We both roll in to the timing station together and Joe checks in first so he can send Cyborg Jones out for another hot lap. Jones looks at me for a split-second thinking I'm going to ride with him on a lap...fat chance for that though. I wore myself out keeping up with Joe so there was nothing in the tank for a sub-1 hour lap.
I roll back to camp with Joe, worn out, dirty, sweaty, but content. I take my time to eat, fill up my Camelbak, stretch my sore back, and finally sit down in a chair. This would prove unwise. I sat there for over 30 minutes and getting back up was more than a chore.
Back out for laps 7 and 8. Lap 7 was tolerable and the muscles still felt OK.
Lap 8 was tough. I was no longer able to power through the really rooty stuff with any speed and as a result, I felt EACH and EVERY bump. By mile 5, I decided this would be the last lap...there was no need to abuse myself anymore. I had won Clydesdale class by 4 laps and was running 3rd overall among all the solo riders. I didn't have the legs to catch the two solo racers ahead of me and if there were other riders behind me that wanted to go out for another lap, that was fine with me.
I finished the lap, stabled Warhorse for the night, got cleaned up and out of the clothes I had been wearing all day, and walked back to the timing tent to check the standings and start an hours-long pizza binge.
As I stuffed my face with pizza, I was able to watch fellow CER teammates, Joe and Stew, who were racing with our buddy Chris from Dynamic Physical Therapy Cycling's Chris. Their team, Angrious Fury, was battling it out for 3rd place. They had been moving between 3rd and 4th for many laps and Chris came in off his last lap with a 6 minute lead. Stew blazed out for his last lap with the intent to keep as much of the six minute lead as possible.
He did just that...through the darkness we could see the headlight of a rider coming in fast and as we strained our eyes to make out the rider, we all realized it was Stew riding triumphantly toward us, and Angrious Fury had secured 3rd place.
We all waited around for the remaining racers to come off the course, then awaited our turn to hear our names called by the official with our official placings.
Up first in the awards were overall solos, so I walked up, shook hands with the promoter, congratulated the competition, and walked over to the prize table to see what magnificent reward awaited for my 72 mile effort. Hmmmm, I picked through all of the options...jerseys, pumps, taillights, nutritional items, random bike parts...OK, hard to decide, so I scanned for the newest-looking items on the table and settled on some handlebar grips. $20 handlebar grips. I've since decided the handlebar grips will reside in my trophy case as my award for all my effort.
It was a great day on the bike for me and my other CER teammates. It was a grass-roots race that is in its 17th year, and I was happy to have thrown my hat in the ring. I can't promise I'll be back anytime soon since it's over 5 hours away, but I won't rule it out either.
As I'm finishing this long-overdue blog post, I've learned to appreciate the races that go well, because some absolutely don't...but that's a story for another post, so stay tuned.
Special thanks to Aaron Spicer Photography for sharing some of his great shots! Click here to view his Lodi album.
"What??? Did he wreck, have a mechanical issue??? Why???"
I felt a moment of happiness and triumph and I was only 4 hours 19 minutes into a 12 hour race. The competitor I was most concerned over had just left the race and I was over a lap ahead of 2nd place. Almost simultaneously, I felt another wave of emotion, but this one was lack of motivation to keep racing. I lost my fury.
What was I going to do now for the remaining 7 hours and 41 minutes?
This scenario, like most, began on a cold winter day browsing through bike races on BikeReg.com. As I scrolled down the page of races, I stopped on the 12 Hours of Lodi Farm in Fredericksburg, Virginia.
I had been hearing for several years how awesome the 12 Hours of Lodi (pronounced low-dee) Farms is from the folks I met from the DC Metro/Northern Virginia area. Each year, while racing the 9 Hours of Cranky Monkey mountain bike race in Maryland, I would always hear of the greatness that is Lodi (again, pronounced low-dee) and that if I ever had the chance it was a "must-race" event. Let me just say that definitions obviously vary greatly on what constitutes a "must-race" event.
The 12 Hours of Lodi, as the name implies, is a 12 hour race where teams of 2 or 3 riders, or solo riders, complete as many 9 mile laps as possible in the given 12 hours. This race in prior years was run from midnight to noon, forcing racers to ride the large number of laps in the darkness. This format was later changed from noon to midnight, and this year was changed to 10am to 10pm.
I homed in on this race because it had a clydesdale class (riders over 200 lbs.). I'm trying to stay away from this class this year, but for a 12 hour race, I didn't think I could compete against the really skinny fellas, so clydesdale class it was. My buddies Stew, Joe and Chris had joined forces as Team Angious Fury to compete in the 3 Man team class.
I was really looking forward to this race. I wanted to shift to more endurance racing this year to build my strength toward better a better finish at the Hilly Billy Roubaix in June. I even began cyber-stalking the competition on Strava to drive myself crazy in the months leading up to the race by looking at other racer's rides, average speeds, elevation profiles,etc...yeah, I know, it's a sickness.
The Friday before the race, we all made the 5 hour trek down to Fredericksburg to establish base camp and recon the course. Joe and Stew had beaten Chris and I to the race venue by several hours and were preparing for a pre-ride of the course when we arrived. From the directions provided in the registration information, it seemed easy enough to find, but without Joe and Stew's advice and the signs the promoter had put up, I'm sure we'd still be out there on east banks of the Rappahannock River wandering aimlessly in search of the race venue.
Camping was spartan, at best. Three porta-johns were on the far edge of a circular field, but not much else. The promoter was setting up the registration tents and timing station and a few other teams had set up camp beside us, but that was it. We were warned to bring everything we may need and we were glad we did.
The team next to us gave us a warning the course was very technical and a full suspension bike was the tool for the job. I looked around at the topography, and the small section of trail next to camp and assumed the "technical" portions of the trail were hiding out of site. Joe and Stew returned from their pre-ride and gave me the report...the course was twisty with some roots, a few log crossings, and some short hills. By West Virginia standards (Cooper's Rock, Valley Falls and Big Bear), the course was about a 3.5 on the technical scale of 1-10.
Race morning arrived, up and out of the tent, looking for coffee...the promoter promised pizza, beer, and coffee. Well, I was advised the coffee would arrive around 11:30am...while I was racing...aghhhh! Off to Sheetz or McDonalds!
After the coffee run, I walked over to register and the registration volunteer told me I was the first to register and asked me what number I wanted...well now, uhhh, let me think, how about number 1? It was available and for the first time ever I was going to have the coveted number 1 number plate...what???...no number plate, OK, number 1 bib to pin to my jersey, that would be fine...what?!?!?, no bib either, OK, then what magical numbering device awaits me? The volunteer handed a thin blue hair scrunchy, with a small metal tag with a paper circle containing the number "1" written in permanent marker. This was to be my "baton" that would signify my number and I would display this to the timing officials at the end of every lap. Crap...I really wanted a number plate with a big "1" on it. I also received my number and category (SC...Solo Clydesdale) written on the back of my calves in permanent marker so those that riding behind me would know who I was and what category I was racing in.
Fast forward to 10am race morning...the race was postponed 15 minutes to allow racers travelling south on I-95 to make it to the race...there had been an accident on I-95 delaying traffic (big freakin' surprise) and folks were running late.
But 10:15 soon came, and the whistle blew to start the race. The field of racers clumsily followed a pace bike through a prologue section of trail to prevent a huge cluster of racers entering the woods at one time and piling up on each other. After the half mile prologue, we came out of the woods, past the timing tent, and the race was on.
Everyone pegged it and I latched on to the back of the lead pack running in the top 20. Stew and Joe weren't kidding, this trail was twisty. It wasn't long before some of the riders in the lead pack started falling off the back of our train. I passed when I could and after 10-15 minutes of riding, I looked back to see barren trail. Apparently, the rest of the field was way behind already. I was trying hard to keep my heart rate down on this first lap, but still get a good gap on any other racers in my class so I could have some breathing room on the many laps to follow.
The course was ridiculously twisty and turny, and yes, there were roots everywhere, but they were not an issue in the dry conditions. My buddy Stew described the course design brilliantly. Imagine if someone threw spaghetti noodles up in the air and they landed on a map...the resulting mess was the trail system...by the end of the first lap, I realized he wasn't far off the mark.
I rolled into the timing area, gave them my number, and was off for lap 2.
Pedal, pedal, pedal, brake, pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal, brake, pedal, brake, brake, brake, pedal, pedal, brake, brake, log crossing, pedal, brake, pedal, brake, pedal, pedal, brake...I think you get the picture.
This was the routine. No real place to coast or rest. The turns were so tight, you couldn't roll through many of them without hitting the brakes, the downhills were short, the uphills were short, the straight sections were very short. This course was not suited to my style of riding. I ride similar to how a freight train operates. I like to get moving, and stay moving, only slowing or stopping when absolutely necessary. Stop-and-go traffic is not my strongsuit. It takes way too much energy to accelerate over and over when you're a bigger rider, but no time to whine, this is what I signed up for, so time to just suffer through it.
It wasn't long until I was rolling through the timing tent, stop long enough so the volunteers could record my number and time, then off for a second lap. I was finally warmed up and rolling pretty easily. I was getting used to the choppy riding style needed for this course and began to find the limits of my tires through the tight rooty turns. I kept an eye on my heart rate and it was well under usual race pace...this was intended, but the nature of the twisty-turny course helped keep the heart rate to an all-day level.
Lap 2 was in the books, checked in with the timing officials and off to camp to grab a pb&j sandwich, shotgun a Pepsi, fill up the camelbak and back onto the trail. I learned I had enough GU Roctane in my Camelbak to fuel 2 laps and stay well-hydrated, so I carried just enough gels and energy chews to get me through.
Just for the record, GU Energy is a sponsor of Consol Energy Racing for its second year. I race well on GU Energy products, and have found Roctane to be my go-to for my drink mix...it has caffeine, slow-burning carbs and agrees with my system, but even if they weren't a sponsor, I would use Roctane...it's just that good!
Laps 3 and 4 were uneventful, a little slower, but not much. I pull into camp after lap 4, and this is where our story picks back up. Stew just informed me my competition left the race, I stand around in disbelief, but eventually prepare myself for another 2-lap outing.
As I check in after lap 5, I see CER teammate Joe Sheets waiting for Stew to come in from his lap. So, I chat with him for a second, check my splits at the timing table and learn that I most likely have the Clydesdale class cinched up.
Stew blazes in from his lap, and Joe is off on his third lap. I latch on to Joe's wheel and hope to follow him as far as possible to regain some speed and motivation to stay in this race. Joe is riding well and I have trouble to stay with him but manage to get the legs firing again and stay with him. For the remainder of the lap, Joe and I trade leads on the course. I find out that Joe was also using me for motivation, and both our laps were faster for it. That lap with Joe stands as one of my all-time favorite race experiences.
We both roll in to the timing station together and Joe checks in first so he can send Cyborg Jones out for another hot lap. Jones looks at me for a split-second thinking I'm going to ride with him on a lap...fat chance for that though. I wore myself out keeping up with Joe so there was nothing in the tank for a sub-1 hour lap.
I roll back to camp with Joe, worn out, dirty, sweaty, but content. I take my time to eat, fill up my Camelbak, stretch my sore back, and finally sit down in a chair. This would prove unwise. I sat there for over 30 minutes and getting back up was more than a chore.
Back out for laps 7 and 8. Lap 7 was tolerable and the muscles still felt OK.
Lap 8 was tough. I was no longer able to power through the really rooty stuff with any speed and as a result, I felt EACH and EVERY bump. By mile 5, I decided this would be the last lap...there was no need to abuse myself anymore. I had won Clydesdale class by 4 laps and was running 3rd overall among all the solo riders. I didn't have the legs to catch the two solo racers ahead of me and if there were other riders behind me that wanted to go out for another lap, that was fine with me.
I finished the lap, stabled Warhorse for the night, got cleaned up and out of the clothes I had been wearing all day, and walked back to the timing tent to check the standings and start an hours-long pizza binge.
As I stuffed my face with pizza, I was able to watch fellow CER teammates, Joe and Stew, who were racing with our buddy Chris from Dynamic Physical Therapy Cycling's Chris. Their team, Angrious Fury, was battling it out for 3rd place. They had been moving between 3rd and 4th for many laps and Chris came in off his last lap with a 6 minute lead. Stew blazed out for his last lap with the intent to keep as much of the six minute lead as possible.
He did just that...through the darkness we could see the headlight of a rider coming in fast and as we strained our eyes to make out the rider, we all realized it was Stew riding triumphantly toward us, and Angrious Fury had secured 3rd place.
We all waited around for the remaining racers to come off the course, then awaited our turn to hear our names called by the official with our official placings.
Up first in the awards were overall solos, so I walked up, shook hands with the promoter, congratulated the competition, and walked over to the prize table to see what magnificent reward awaited for my 72 mile effort. Hmmmm, I picked through all of the options...jerseys, pumps, taillights, nutritional items, random bike parts...OK, hard to decide, so I scanned for the newest-looking items on the table and settled on some handlebar grips. $20 handlebar grips. I've since decided the handlebar grips will reside in my trophy case as my award for all my effort.
It was a great day on the bike for me and my other CER teammates. It was a grass-roots race that is in its 17th year, and I was happy to have thrown my hat in the ring. I can't promise I'll be back anytime soon since it's over 5 hours away, but I won't rule it out either.
As I'm finishing this long-overdue blog post, I've learned to appreciate the races that go well, because some absolutely don't...but that's a story for another post, so stay tuned.
Special thanks to Aaron Spicer Photography for sharing some of his great shots! Click here to view his Lodi album.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Lodi
These blog posts are starting
to remind me of “Quantum Leap”. Every
episode starts out exactly the same. Instead
of Sam and Al popping into somebody’s life, though, they all start with me on
the ground after a wreck. I resolve to
change two things in the near future:
1)
crash less
2)
find a new way to
start blog posts
Anyway, on with the show…
From my inverted position in
the ravine, I could see the headlight coming through the black. Nothing was broken on me or my bike and the
brief rest was nice, but I had to get moving again. I know the kind of bugs they grow in the
Virginia Piedmont and I didn’t want to spend any more time in the weeds than necessary. Plus, somebody was chasing me.
I watched through my
still-spinning front wheel as the headlight rolled up and looked down into the
gully at the soles of my shoes. I couldn’t see a face but I could imagine its
empathetic grimace. “Wow! Are you OK?”
I’m getting really tired of
hearing that question.
Thankfully, for the third
time in three weeks I was, indeed, OK.
That was the good news. The even
better news was that this guy was wearing a bright green and orange kit. The guy I was running from was wearing a
black jersey with white sleeves.
“Never better. See you at the finish.”
Nine hours earlier I had been
standing at the start/finish line, waiting to go out for my second lap. I was feeling strong; ready to take another
crack at the tightest, twistiest singletrack that I had ever ridden. Our team had put up four clean laps, out of
an anticipated twelve, and I was waiting for Jones to finish number five. We were sitting in fourth place, about four
minutes out of third.
“What do you think of the
course?”
The rider in the starting pen
next to me struck up a conversation. “Me
and my buddies ride here all the time.
We are in third place right now and we have about four minutes so far on
the guys behind us.”
The four-minutes part caught
my attention. “That’s cool. What class did you say you were in?” I asked.
“Three Man Sport. You?”
“Three Man Sport.”
About that time Jones came
sprinting out of the brush. I let out a
“WOOOOOO” and my new friend said “If that’s your guy, then you just took over
third.” I stared at him for a second,
memorized his kit, and answered “Yep, gotta go”.
Jones is fast. Not many sport class riders can keep up with
him. He had picked off the third place
guy, but I had no idea how much of a cushion he had given me. I tore out across the opening straight,
nailed the bridge drop dead center, and commenced the brake-pedal-brake dance.
I lost our podium spot about
forty minutes in. I was still having
trouble carrying momentum through the turns when White Sleeves caught me coming
out of a particularly twisty section.
“I’ve been looking for you” he told me as he took a clean line around me
on a slight rise. I finished that lap a
few minutes behind him and slumped off to our tent to eat some Ramen noodles
and pout. I still felt strong but I
couldn’t find anywhere on the course to apply power. Save for a few climbs and couple of
downhills, the whole course was laid out like a pile of spaghetti. I had to figure out a way to get through the pile
faster.
I ate some chips, drank some
Gatorade, and then stretched out for a bit.
Joe finished another strong lap, Jones headed out to make up the time I
had lost, and I fiddled with my seatpost.
I moved toward the starting line again when something caught my eye; a
flash of color buried deep in my gear crate.
I fished around and came up with the lucky rock that my little boy had
made for me. He had melted a bunch of
crayons in the sun onto a little chunk of sandstone and had given it to me for
Fathers Day last year. I carried it in
my pocket all that weekend and did pretty well, then I had dropped it into a
box and had forgotten about it. Maybe it
still had a little mojo left in it. I
put it into one of my jersey pockets and rolled over to the starting pen, ready
for lap 3.
White Sleeves was already there,
looking cool and confident. Rightfully
so, all he had to do was keep beating the scrub with the big “C” on his chest
and his team was assured a podium spot.
I would have been confident too, after the way he had ridden me down
last lap. We lined up beside one
another and waited to see who would get the head start this time.
A blue flash erupted from the
brush. Jones had beaten his man again. A quick exchange of the baton bracelet and I
was off. Out the flat, up to the
clearing, past the camp, back and forth and back and forth. I came to the spot where my nemesis had
caught me on the previous lap. I could
hear his freewheel clicking behind me, but he never made a move. I never saw him until he crossed the finish
line, about ninety seconds behind me. I
handed the baton to Joe and rolled on over to the tent, my head held high.
You might still beat me, pal,
but it’s going to hurt.
One last rest, one last
drink, one last lap. In the dark. Again Jones beat his guy to the line and sent
me out of the pen before the competition.
“See you soon!” shouted White Sleeves.
The last lap had done nothing to shake his confidence. Why should it? It was dark.
He was in his own backyard and all he had to do was catch the hillbilly
in black.
I expected him to come
ripping by me at any second. I tried to
stay calm and knew I would hear that clicking hub at any moment and then it
would be all over. I tried to imagine
the disappointment. I knew my teammates
wouldn’t lay it on me, but if we slipped off the podium, it would be my
fault.
Trees, bugs, roots, bridges,
uphill, downhill. The miles brushed
by. Into the home stretch. This might actually happen. I had ridden fast and clean. Was it enough? One more move across a narrow board. Swing out wide, line it up, pick a spot on
the other side…
Boom. Rear wheel comes flying up and over. I hit hard on my side. My teeth crack and my vision goes
blurry. I lay there for a few seconds,
talk to the first rider to come by, then start pedaling again.
Still no clicking hub behind
me.
Still nobody with white
sleeves in front of me.
I roll across the finish. My headlight blinds everybody in the waiting
zone. I hand my baton in, turn off my
headlight and declare “257 IS DONE!”
High fives and fist
bumps. Ham it up for the camera a
bit.
I wait for the fourth place
guy to finish but the wet clothes, cold night, and exhaustion begin to make me
uncomfortable. I head back to my tent,
change into something dry, kiss my lucky rock, and sound my barbaric yawp over
the rooftops of the world.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
The Dragon's Tale
I've been a little remiss in my blog updates, so here's a little somethin' before the onslaught of blog entries this summer.
I've always considered myself a great hiker...hell, I used to hike for a living, guiding troubled youth through various and sundry wilderness areas across this great country all the while carrying a backpack with over 100 lbs of gear. Rarely did that get the best of me. But it was during the 37 mile Dragon's Tale mountain bike race, that I painfully realized I am no longer the hiker I used to be. In fact, it was all I could do to just push my bike up the next to last "hill" of the tortorous race course, let alone pedal up the stupid thing.
The notion of racing the Dragon's Tale started in January of 2012 as I stared at the computer screen trolling for crazy adventures that would push me to the limits of my ability. The Dragon's Tale looked to fit the bill perfectly and it was really early in the season for the length and amount of climbing. The course involved 37 miles of racing, over 7,000 feet of elevation gain...half of which occurring in a 1.5 mile climb that racers would ascend twice. This promised to be a tough one!
I was paid up, better-trained, and had the plans finalized to make my down to New Castle, VA to race this last April. My mother's heart attack and immediate quadruple bypass had other plans for my weekend. I contacted Chris from Shenandoah Mountain Touring and let him know the situation and he generously offered me an entry into the 2013 edition of the Dragon's Tale to make up for my inability to race in 2012.
The Dragon would have to wait another year.
Fast forward 12 months. I confirmed with Chris that his offer still stood and made plans to stay with my in-laws who live less than an hour away from the race venue. I loaded the bike, helmet, shoes, team kit, food, hydration, and everything else I might need in the car and meandered my way down winding country roads and over two mountain ridges to fight the dragon.
I arrived in New Castle in plenty of time to confirm I was indeed on the list to race this year, grab my race packet and load the gallon-size ziploc bag with goodies that I would pick up an aid-station set up on the race course. As the grassy field serving as a parking lot began to overflow with cars, bikes and people, it became abundantly clear that some racers were taking this very seriously, and by the looks of some of them, were there to win. I was just hoping to finish.
I parked immediately across the field from the finish line so if necessary, I could crawl to the car after crossing the line. I suited up, checked the bike over one last time, warmed up, then chatted with other racers at the starting line. The start was uneventful. I and the mass of other racers followed the lead truck through the sleepy town of New Castle, down several miles of paved road, and then as the lead truck pulled off at the start of the dirt forest service road, those truly there to race hammered it.
We cruised the dirt road for several more miles, until we came to the first of many stream crossings. We all churned up the waters of the freezing mountain stream and carried on. Some of the crossings were casual affairs that could be ridden through, while others where thigh-deep and required bikes to be carried as we forded across. The stream crossing took a very quick toll on my left pedal. I must have had a bad bearing seal and the water caused my pedal to seize up on the spindle. I pulled to the side and watched at least 20 riders speed past. The pedal wouldn't budge, so I grabbed the nearest stick and began wailing on the pedal to break it free so it would spin...success...not perfect, but success.
Back to riding, I finally made it to the first checkpoint at mile 13, where the support trucks and volunteers were ready to fill water bottles, hand out sandwiches, bananas, cokes, and words of encouragement. It was here the course left the dirt road, took a violent turn upward and began the 1,500 vertical feet ascent to the top of the dragon's tail. It took over 25 minutes of relentless climbing to reach the crest where we turned right onto the ridge for a mile, then dropped off the ridge back down to the paved road. The descent was almost as bad as the climb, with tight turns and steep dropoffs that made you wonder how far you would tumble before stopping if things went wrong.
The course stayed on the dirt road back to the first support station. I stopped at this one, filled up my water bottle and hydration pack, ate 1/2 a pb&j samich, shotgunned a coke, then tried to oil my pedal so it would spin more freely, but no go. The course repeated itself up the steep climb to the ridge once again, this time a tad slower and broke left at the top. The local forest ranger was on hand to shout encouraging words and direct racers to the correct direction on the ridge. This is where the misery began. I'll take a gut-wrenching climb any day compared to what I was about to endure. The rocky, steep, soul-stealing demon that lived on that forsaken ridge was out to play, and I was too naive to recognize the signs.
The ridge was the next mountain ridge north of the Appalachian Trail. Sounds awesome doesn't it. Well it wasn't...at least for me during the race. I was already tired from the amount of climbing I'd already done, and I wasn't even to the half-way point yet. The ridge from a distance looks relatively benign, but up close it reveals it's true nature. The miles and miles and miles of ridge riding were interspersed with gargantuan rocks, steep downhills, steeper uphills, flowing knife-edge singletrack through stands of mature forest, and many naturally beautiful features inherent with anyone's picture of a wild forest.
In the beginning of the ridge I found myself enjoying the views and the riding. The trail was rocky and often challenging, not from a fitness aspect, but from a "holy crap I hope I don't fall of off that ledge onto those pointy rocks" or "DON'T CRASH...DON'T CRASH...DON'T CRASH...DON'T CRASH...WHEW THAT WAS CLOSE!" aspect. After 4-5 miles of this I was physically and mentally worn out. There were so many spots I had to walk the bike that it became a chore. It was on several of these sections I thought of my buddy Nate who raced this on his singlespeed bike the previous year and how impossible it would be for me to ride without my easy gears to fall back on.
Toward the end of the ridge, the climbs seemed to grow taller and steeper. I began to crack on one of the last climbs, but as I began to whimper I caught sight of some other racers up ahead, so I found a small nugget of motivation to pick up the pace of my crawl to a slow walk as I pushed my bike up the rock ledges to catch up with the group. When I caught them, we all agreed we were ready to get down off the ridge and to the finish, but I would soon realize that descending off a high ridge down a steep rocky trail at my current state of mental and physical acuity would prove the most difficult. The descent seemed to take forever and I could feel my brakes lose power as the brake fluid heated up from the constant friction. The descent spit racers out at the 2nd and last support station, where I shook out my forearms, which were pumped from squeezing brake levers for the last 15 minutes, filled up on water and fig newtons, topped off my water bottle and was off again.
I've learned that the longer I spend at support stations, the worse I feel when I get back on the bike, so I try to keep stops to under 2 minutes. Just after the support station the course jumps back into the woods and I felt great for another few minutes as I hurled my bike up a low-grade climb, passing racers already walking their bikes. In my mind, the race was nearly over and I was ready for it to be over, but the course had one last diabolical twist. As I pedaled up the trail, I could see the images of racers well above me struggling up the 1 mile climb to the next ridge top. I was warned of this climb by another racer, but I couldn't remember how big it was. It turns out the climb is over a mile long and steep in many places. I got to a point very early in the climb where my legs refused to pedal any further. "FINE!", I said to myself, I'll just push my stupid bike up this last stupid hill and get this stupid race over with. After all, I used to hike for a living and my bike is much lighter than a 100lb. backpack.
Walk, walk, walk, push, push, push, breathe, breathe, breathe, repeat!
At the time, I had no clue how long this climb was. It felt I had already been walking forever. I began to really crack at this point. My legs were like rubber, my ankle hurt from walking in my bike shoes up the off-camber slope, and my back was tightening from being in a bent position for close to 5 hours at this point.
It was there, halfway up a climb in the middle of nowhere that I realized I was no longer a great hiker...not even mediocre...in fact I sucked at pushing a bike while walking and hated every miserable second of it. I stopped, draped myself over the handlebars and prayed for a pack of coyotes, bear, mountain lion, or in my weakened state, even a surly chipmunk, to clamp it's fangs into my neck end my suffering. Sadly, no killer chipmunk appeared and I was destined to push this bike up this hill for eternity.
But push I did and I caught up with another racer who was also pushing his bike. He was on a rigid (no suspension) singlespeed and so had a good reason to be pushing. We chatted up the remainder of the climb until the grade mellowed out enough to try pedaling again. He was off first and I followed. I passed him on a rocky section and made it a hundred yards up the trail when both legs seized up and sent me off the side of the trail in agony.
Normally, when cramps set in during a race, I have to keep pedaling to keep them away, but this was different. I sat on the side of the trail figuring dehydration had finally taken it's toll and slammed 2 GU Roctane energy gels and drained my hydration pack of what remained of my GU Roctane drink and climbed back on the bike to finish this horrible race.
The singlespeeder had disappeared down the other side by now and I tried to keep the torque to the pedals to try to catch him. Even though I was not a contender to win or place in this race, it was still a race, and I was racing the guy in front of me.
I really can't remember much of this part of the trail, only that it climbed over one more, albeit "smaller" ridge and descended back to the valley floor and began crossing this annoying little stream. I caught back up to the singlespeeder at one of the numerous stream crossings and we chatted some more. The trail finally flattened out and I hightailed it to the finish line.
I crossed the line in 5 hours 49 minutes, suffering through the 37 miles to 52nd place. Oddly enough, I was extremely happy with my placing and my effort. I don't think I could have ridden any faster or harder. I was in one piece and so was my bike. The awards for the top finishers had come and gone and the promoter was grilling hamburgers and had fresh kegs of beer on hand. I stayed long enough to take a picture of my standing posted on the race results and left New Castle behind me. I was proud of my effort and glad to have done the race, but I'm not sure I'll be back down, but the pain and suffering associated with hard races like this is soon forgotten, and new plans for tough races are always in the works.
I've always considered myself a great hiker...hell, I used to hike for a living, guiding troubled youth through various and sundry wilderness areas across this great country all the while carrying a backpack with over 100 lbs of gear. Rarely did that get the best of me. But it was during the 37 mile Dragon's Tale mountain bike race, that I painfully realized I am no longer the hiker I used to be. In fact, it was all I could do to just push my bike up the next to last "hill" of the tortorous race course, let alone pedal up the stupid thing.
The notion of racing the Dragon's Tale started in January of 2012 as I stared at the computer screen trolling for crazy adventures that would push me to the limits of my ability. The Dragon's Tale looked to fit the bill perfectly and it was really early in the season for the length and amount of climbing. The course involved 37 miles of racing, over 7,000 feet of elevation gain...half of which occurring in a 1.5 mile climb that racers would ascend twice. This promised to be a tough one!
I was paid up, better-trained, and had the plans finalized to make my down to New Castle, VA to race this last April. My mother's heart attack and immediate quadruple bypass had other plans for my weekend. I contacted Chris from Shenandoah Mountain Touring and let him know the situation and he generously offered me an entry into the 2013 edition of the Dragon's Tale to make up for my inability to race in 2012.
The Dragon would have to wait another year.
Fast forward 12 months. I confirmed with Chris that his offer still stood and made plans to stay with my in-laws who live less than an hour away from the race venue. I loaded the bike, helmet, shoes, team kit, food, hydration, and everything else I might need in the car and meandered my way down winding country roads and over two mountain ridges to fight the dragon.
I arrived in New Castle in plenty of time to confirm I was indeed on the list to race this year, grab my race packet and load the gallon-size ziploc bag with goodies that I would pick up an aid-station set up on the race course. As the grassy field serving as a parking lot began to overflow with cars, bikes and people, it became abundantly clear that some racers were taking this very seriously, and by the looks of some of them, were there to win. I was just hoping to finish.
I parked immediately across the field from the finish line so if necessary, I could crawl to the car after crossing the line. I suited up, checked the bike over one last time, warmed up, then chatted with other racers at the starting line. The start was uneventful. I and the mass of other racers followed the lead truck through the sleepy town of New Castle, down several miles of paved road, and then as the lead truck pulled off at the start of the dirt forest service road, those truly there to race hammered it.
We cruised the dirt road for several more miles, until we came to the first of many stream crossings. We all churned up the waters of the freezing mountain stream and carried on. Some of the crossings were casual affairs that could be ridden through, while others where thigh-deep and required bikes to be carried as we forded across. The stream crossing took a very quick toll on my left pedal. I must have had a bad bearing seal and the water caused my pedal to seize up on the spindle. I pulled to the side and watched at least 20 riders speed past. The pedal wouldn't budge, so I grabbed the nearest stick and began wailing on the pedal to break it free so it would spin...success...not perfect, but success.
Back to riding, I finally made it to the first checkpoint at mile 13, where the support trucks and volunteers were ready to fill water bottles, hand out sandwiches, bananas, cokes, and words of encouragement. It was here the course left the dirt road, took a violent turn upward and began the 1,500 vertical feet ascent to the top of the dragon's tail. It took over 25 minutes of relentless climbing to reach the crest where we turned right onto the ridge for a mile, then dropped off the ridge back down to the paved road. The descent was almost as bad as the climb, with tight turns and steep dropoffs that made you wonder how far you would tumble before stopping if things went wrong.
The course stayed on the dirt road back to the first support station. I stopped at this one, filled up my water bottle and hydration pack, ate 1/2 a pb&j samich, shotgunned a coke, then tried to oil my pedal so it would spin more freely, but no go. The course repeated itself up the steep climb to the ridge once again, this time a tad slower and broke left at the top. The local forest ranger was on hand to shout encouraging words and direct racers to the correct direction on the ridge. This is where the misery began. I'll take a gut-wrenching climb any day compared to what I was about to endure. The rocky, steep, soul-stealing demon that lived on that forsaken ridge was out to play, and I was too naive to recognize the signs.
The ridge was the next mountain ridge north of the Appalachian Trail. Sounds awesome doesn't it. Well it wasn't...at least for me during the race. I was already tired from the amount of climbing I'd already done, and I wasn't even to the half-way point yet. The ridge from a distance looks relatively benign, but up close it reveals it's true nature. The miles and miles and miles of ridge riding were interspersed with gargantuan rocks, steep downhills, steeper uphills, flowing knife-edge singletrack through stands of mature forest, and many naturally beautiful features inherent with anyone's picture of a wild forest.
In the beginning of the ridge I found myself enjoying the views and the riding. The trail was rocky and often challenging, not from a fitness aspect, but from a "holy crap I hope I don't fall of off that ledge onto those pointy rocks" or "DON'T CRASH...DON'T CRASH...DON'T CRASH...DON'T CRASH...WHEW THAT WAS CLOSE!" aspect. After 4-5 miles of this I was physically and mentally worn out. There were so many spots I had to walk the bike that it became a chore. It was on several of these sections I thought of my buddy Nate who raced this on his singlespeed bike the previous year and how impossible it would be for me to ride without my easy gears to fall back on.
Toward the end of the ridge, the climbs seemed to grow taller and steeper. I began to crack on one of the last climbs, but as I began to whimper I caught sight of some other racers up ahead, so I found a small nugget of motivation to pick up the pace of my crawl to a slow walk as I pushed my bike up the rock ledges to catch up with the group. When I caught them, we all agreed we were ready to get down off the ridge and to the finish, but I would soon realize that descending off a high ridge down a steep rocky trail at my current state of mental and physical acuity would prove the most difficult. The descent seemed to take forever and I could feel my brakes lose power as the brake fluid heated up from the constant friction. The descent spit racers out at the 2nd and last support station, where I shook out my forearms, which were pumped from squeezing brake levers for the last 15 minutes, filled up on water and fig newtons, topped off my water bottle and was off again.
I've learned that the longer I spend at support stations, the worse I feel when I get back on the bike, so I try to keep stops to under 2 minutes. Just after the support station the course jumps back into the woods and I felt great for another few minutes as I hurled my bike up a low-grade climb, passing racers already walking their bikes. In my mind, the race was nearly over and I was ready for it to be over, but the course had one last diabolical twist. As I pedaled up the trail, I could see the images of racers well above me struggling up the 1 mile climb to the next ridge top. I was warned of this climb by another racer, but I couldn't remember how big it was. It turns out the climb is over a mile long and steep in many places. I got to a point very early in the climb where my legs refused to pedal any further. "FINE!", I said to myself, I'll just push my stupid bike up this last stupid hill and get this stupid race over with. After all, I used to hike for a living and my bike is much lighter than a 100lb. backpack.
Walk, walk, walk, push, push, push, breathe, breathe, breathe, repeat!
At the time, I had no clue how long this climb was. It felt I had already been walking forever. I began to really crack at this point. My legs were like rubber, my ankle hurt from walking in my bike shoes up the off-camber slope, and my back was tightening from being in a bent position for close to 5 hours at this point.
It was there, halfway up a climb in the middle of nowhere that I realized I was no longer a great hiker...not even mediocre...in fact I sucked at pushing a bike while walking and hated every miserable second of it. I stopped, draped myself over the handlebars and prayed for a pack of coyotes, bear, mountain lion, or in my weakened state, even a surly chipmunk, to clamp it's fangs into my neck end my suffering. Sadly, no killer chipmunk appeared and I was destined to push this bike up this hill for eternity.
But push I did and I caught up with another racer who was also pushing his bike. He was on a rigid (no suspension) singlespeed and so had a good reason to be pushing. We chatted up the remainder of the climb until the grade mellowed out enough to try pedaling again. He was off first and I followed. I passed him on a rocky section and made it a hundred yards up the trail when both legs seized up and sent me off the side of the trail in agony.
Normally, when cramps set in during a race, I have to keep pedaling to keep them away, but this was different. I sat on the side of the trail figuring dehydration had finally taken it's toll and slammed 2 GU Roctane energy gels and drained my hydration pack of what remained of my GU Roctane drink and climbed back on the bike to finish this horrible race.
The singlespeeder had disappeared down the other side by now and I tried to keep the torque to the pedals to try to catch him. Even though I was not a contender to win or place in this race, it was still a race, and I was racing the guy in front of me.
I really can't remember much of this part of the trail, only that it climbed over one more, albeit "smaller" ridge and descended back to the valley floor and began crossing this annoying little stream. I caught back up to the singlespeeder at one of the numerous stream crossings and we chatted some more. The trail finally flattened out and I hightailed it to the finish line.
I crossed the line in 5 hours 49 minutes, suffering through the 37 miles to 52nd place. Oddly enough, I was extremely happy with my placing and my effort. I don't think I could have ridden any faster or harder. I was in one piece and so was my bike. The awards for the top finishers had come and gone and the promoter was grilling hamburgers and had fresh kegs of beer on hand. I stayed long enough to take a picture of my standing posted on the race results and left New Castle behind me. I was proud of my effort and glad to have done the race, but I'm not sure I'll be back down, but the pain and suffering associated with hard races like this is soon forgotten, and new plans for tough races are always in the works.
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