Ragnar Appalachians 2015

"First of all, its pronounced with a short "a" sound in the middle, like you're threatening to hit somebody with an apple.  'You keep on and I'm gonna throw this apple 'atcha.'  Like that.  Secondly, that lady you're complaining about from the Nats game was right; that was no way to talk in front of children and you SHOULD be ashamed of yourself."

Pretend conversation between me and the foul-mouthed runners camping next door notwithstanding, Ragnar Appalachia 2015 was off to a decent start.  Sunny skies and low humidity greeted my teammate and me as we staked out our spot.  Despite arriving a day before the race, we had to camp over a quarter-mile away from the starting line.  No problem though, we are trail runners, whats a little extra gravel?

Approaching bands of purple radar blobs.  I didn't even know purple was a radar color, but I don't watch TV weather much.

Pre-race steaks on the grill, feet up, cold beverage at the ready, life was just peachy.

Grill marks.  I does them.

A quick cruise of the venue, some last minute squaring-away and then nothing to do but get horizontal and rest up for the race.

A few moments after dozing off, wet nylon slapped me across the face.  Our tent convulsed in the wind like it was trying to vomit us out into the mud.  I raised out of my bag and shone a light through the flapping door into the fury.  Our team canopy was still there, quivering in place as all hell broke loose around it.

Pre-Armageddon picture

I squirrelled down deeper into my bag and tried to ignore the drops of water hitting my bald head.  I dozed a bit but woke again to screaming lightning.  I shone my little light out again to where the canopy should be.  Nothing there.  The winds had ripped it from the ground and sent it to who knows where.  Joe and I found what was left of it a short distance away.

Post-Armageddon, not much left

We skinned what was left of the canopy and lashed the bones down in place.  During the brief lulls in the storm, cries of defiance arose from the campground.  "Is that all you've got!?  Bring it on!"  We swamped our way back into our tent and tried to sleep for a few hours as the worst of the storm passed overhead. 

Night eventually faded into a hard grey dawn.  Clouds still pressed in upon us, but the rain had stopped.  Teammates started showing up.  Soon enough, we were at full Goat strength and ready to send out our first runner:

 

Hilly Billy Roubaix 2013

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“And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong. To measure yourself at least once. To find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions”  (Christopher McCandless)

For the past few years, the back roads and jeep trails around my house have hosted a peculiar kind of bike race.  Officially it’s classified as an “ultracross” race, meaning that you are supposed to ride a cyclocross bike and that you are supposed to ride it all day long.

I barely took notice the first year of its existence.  The second year, some of my riding buddies participated and told horror stories afterwards. 

 “Hardest race ever.” 

“I thought I would die.” 

“It crushes the soul.” 

By Year Three it had my attention.  I made some signs for the course and hung out with my biking friends before and after the race.  Again, they told terrible stories.  Endless climbing.  Kids with shotguns.   Heat.  Pain.

 

The promoter liked my signs and offered a free registration if I wanted to try it out in 2013.

 

“Thanks, I just may take you up on that.”

I filled out my race schedule for 2013 while sitting on my couch one night over Christmas break.  Coopers Duathlon, Lodi, Arrowhead, Cranky Monkey, Big Bear 2x12, Henry Clay 30K, Rocky Gap XTERRA. 

I was free June 22nd.  In the blank square I wrote “Hilly Billy Roubaix < 6 hours”.  I was going to do it, and I was going to do it in less than 6 hours.

I don’t have a cyclocross bike.  I have been riding seriously for about 5 years and in that time I have only ever ridden a mountain bike.  I’m getting better, but I still struggle with tight turns and technical terrain.  I go fastest and enjoy myself the most on stuff that’s a little more wide open and not full of rock-gardens.  

I had read that the winner from the previous year had ridden a hardtail mountain bike setup with ‘cross tires.  I could make that happen.  I also read the course description.  No rock gardens.  No uphill single-track switchbacks.  Gravel road climbs.  Pavement straightaways. 

  

Bring it.

Race day morning.  Frowning roadies from all over the nation.  Elite level cyclocross riders.  Mountain bike legends like Garth Prosser, Gerry Pflug, Gunnar Shogren.  Scrubs like me.  All rubbing shoulders in the mid-morning heat. 

 

A neutral roll out, down a paved hill, then into the maelstrom.  As soon as we hit the first climb, tires start popping.  The roadies can’t handle the gravel.  Walkers everywhere.   Up, up, up, up, and then down a loose gravel road.  I slalom in and out between the cross bikes.  The cross bikes can’t handle the descent.   

Out a short stretch of pavement, then into the crater-pocked mud alley of Little Indian Creek.  I take a straight line through the deepest of the holes, throwing rooster-tails of brown water high into the air.  I soak riders with white shoes and shaved legs. 

 

Welcome to West Virginia. 

 

Hardest race ever?  I don’t think so.  I’m having the time of my life.  I even latch onto a paceline just like danged ol’ Greg Lemond.  “It never gets easier, you just go faster.”  Damn straight. 

 

I roll through the first aid station without stopping.  I bomb all the hills and spin my mountain bike gears up the climbs.  I pull into aid station two, only to see two of the fastest guys I know still there.

 

This is going better than I dared imagine.   I down half a banana, half a peanut butter sandwich, fill my bottles and my camelback and start the climb out of the aid station. 

 

I climb alone for what seems like miles on the naked, shimmering pavement.  The heat, which had only been a suggestion earlier in the day, became a statement.  My camelback clutched my neck like a fat, sleepy toddler.  I forced myself to drink the warm water, if only to reduce its weight. 

Climb, descend, climb, descend.  I get into another paceline on the next pavement stretch.  Roadies with white shoes and shaved legs ride away from me.  Cross bikes leave me behind like a cheap, unwanted carnival prize. 

I flounder alone as coal trucks thunder by.  The race went from fun to not fun to survival in a few short moments. 

I soft pedal, walk, and coast into the final aid station.  Riders are lying everywhere, curling into every patch of available shade.  No one smiles, no one talks.  We are the unloved, the wretched.  A group of riders sit alone to one side.  They have given up and will wait for help.  I eat two peanuts and one M&M.  Then I get back on my bike.

 

Six and a half hours in.  Fifteen miles to go.  The heat is dirty and viscous, like used motor oil.  I limp across route 7 and enter familiar territory.  I have ridden these roads before, but never in this condition.   Up the horrible mountain, down the horrible mountain, out the horrible flats.  Dogs bark, sensing my weakness.  Their chains hold them back. 

    

I somehow manage to pedal up the last hill.  I collapse into the pavilion.  It is over.  I am broken.  I did not quit. 

  

Unedited start of the Cranky Monkey 2013

In case anyone wants to know what its like to get passed, repeatedly, before taking a wrong turn.

Cranky Monkey 2013

Cranky Monkey 2013.  Check it out

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.

6(ish) Hours of Arrowhead

Today I did the 6 Hours of Arrowhead race.

The end.

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.