“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.
