tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25412004687840538002024-03-14T02:33:55.525-04:00Remembering JaronAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-78502056237484878032018-04-09T21:58:00.001-04:002018-04-09T22:00:46.988-04:00Back to Big Savage in Search of Solace<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A version of this article appeared in <u>American Randonneur</u> Magazine (Winter 2017)</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">It was a straight-up revenge mission, or maybe a search for redemption. Exactly two years before, after years of ultracycling and randonneuring – always on the lookout for the mountainous routes that brought with them panoramic vistas and exhilarating downward plunges to reward honest effort – a friend and I had taken a crack at the new, daunting frontier known as the “Super Randonneur 600k.” The course was <i>Big Savage SR600k</i>, a route of Bill Beck’s device featuring the sawtooth grades of western Maryland, the verdant Lost River State Park in West Virginia, and Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. It was the best the Mid-Atlantic had to offer, but we’d have to earn it: 42,000 feet of climbing in 375 miles told the story. Or so we thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">The risk of looking for a challenge is that one might find it. In retrospect, I wasn’t remotely prepared: a nasty fall earlier in the year had sidelined me for two months, after which I’d spent far more time planning my wedding than logging miles. Thus, my 2015 crack at <i>Big Savage</i>had essentially been a bachelor’s party only a randonneur could love, complete with self-inflicted debacles and no small sense of relief at surviving the ordeal. It was the toughest 43 hours of my life; indeed, at the first control -- 60 miles and 8,000 feet of climbing in -- I’d found myself staring into the middle distance, dazedly trying to ingest a Frito and wondering where my life had taken a wrong turn. The remaining 315 miles were little better. Ultimately, it was only my riding companion’s persuasive powers and refusal to indulge my self-pity that convinced me to attempt the second half of the ride instead of aborting the mission. My blog post afterward honestly recounted my view that, if one were thinking of attempting an SR600k, the best plan was to lie down until the sensation passed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">And yet, I couldn’t quite let it go. Surely things would have been different if I’d prepared appropriately. Possibly. So, while outwardly vowing never again to toe that masochist line, I thumb-tacked a mental note next to <i>Big Savage</i>that read: “Not done here.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">By September 2017, two years later, I felt ready to even the score. In 2016, I’d cruised through the <i>Lynn Kristiansen Memorial SR600k</i>on Skyline Drive with no undue drama, although tropical storm remnants ensured that it was a thoroughly soggy adventure. Then, in the spring of 2017, I’d joined the roles of <i>Cyclos Montagnards R60 </i>honorees<i>. </i>With my wife overseas for a week, the scene was ripe for revenge served Savage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Life, however, has a way of resisting even the best-laid plans. Two weeks out from the scheduled attempt, my father went into coronary arrest and septic shock. Odds were against his survival. I spent the next ten days in the florescent glare of an ICU ward, doing little but sitting, awaiting test results, and conversing with palliative care staff before collapsing each night more tired than if I’d run a marathon. Bike ride? Who cared?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Improbably, after more than a week of unconsciousness, my father woke up and began what would be a long and uncertain process of recovery. The situation having stabilized at least somewhat, I returned to D.C. three days before I’d signed up to attempt <i>Big Savage</i>. It was tough to imagine worse preparation for such an endeavor, and I debated whether to be conventionally sensible and focus on putting my life back in order. Equally, though, I thought that nothing would be better than losing myself in the mountains and sunshine and letting my mind wander with the winds. Call it a celebration of life and triumphing over adversity: if my father could defeat septic shock, I could fight a battle in my own way. I resolved to give it hell, exhausted or not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Mentally, I started the ride with an audacious goal: to ride <i>Big Savage </i>straight through. I’d timed my ride start to fit with such a plan, and I hadn’t made a hotel reservation at the halfway mark in the hope that it would be easier not to stop that way. Thus, heart full, eyes clear, and self-delusion abundant, I easily conquered the first hundred yards of the ride before launching myself up the first climb – a three-mile, thousand-foot spike known as Sideling Hill, the bane of weary RAAM riders dreaming of Annapolis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Three hours into the ride, I’d traveled barely thirty miles. The first sixty miles traveling west from Hancock, MD, boast an elevation resembling the results of a particularly incriminating polygraph test: climb for three or four miles, plunge down the backside, and season to taste. Despite my attempts to remain enthusiastic, my legs weren’t responding. My heart and mind remained in a hospital a thousand miles away, and each time my phone rang I feared the worst. Endurance challenges are profoundly mental, and I felt my resolve fading as the grades steepened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Two thoughts drove me onward. First, I’ve found that there are few troubles that a day in the sunshine won’t improve; whatever my emotional state, the saddle was the place to work through it. Second, the fact is that the first sixty miles of <i>Big Savage</i>may be the toughest of any randonneuring route in the United States. It’s a remarkably difficult stretch regardless of circumstances, beginning with thousand-foot spikes and culminating in a punishing 2,500-foot ascent of the eponymous Big Savage Mountain. I reasoned that the goal was just to stay in the game and continue moving forward, and that life would look better from the summit. A bag of Bugles had my name on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">And so it proved. The course meandered along the Big Savage ridgeline, twisting through scenes that contrasted centuries, crimson barns and antique tractors presaging a regiment of wind turbines spanning distant peaks. The roads were in perfect repair, but some ancient houses were little more than scaffolds of timber dejectedly yielding to fate. The deer divined no threat in my whirring wheels, nor did the massive black bear that regarded me skeptically from atop a railroad embankment. A bald eagle carried its victim out of my path on the plummeting descent down Big Savage. Only too soon, I arrived at the top of the “Westernport Wall,” a regionally famous hill in Westernport, MD, whose grade exceeds 30%, and which is paved with bricks immortalizing the riders who have conquered it during the annual Savageman Triathlon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">From Westernport, it was an easy spin through small-town Appalachia to Keyser, West Virginia, scene of the sadly departed Stray Cat Café, a previous culinary highlight of the route, then a turn southbound on the 40-mile rolling stretch toward Moorefield. The cycling gods signaled their favor in the form of 20 miles of brand new, glassy-smooth tarmac, and an expansive valley stretched for miles to the east before the ridgeline I knew I’d have to summit eventually. Just before Moorefield came the deceptively brief but severely steep 1.2-mile Patterson Creek Mountain climb, which is easy to miss in the elevation profile only due to the monsters on either side of it. Its 8% average grade testifies to the lie of averages, and around each of its twists one meets the depressing reality: “Not yet.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">But all things must end, and from the summit, a breakneck descent carried me into Moorefield and the control at Fox’s Pizza. Calories, sodium, and air conditioning were all that this savaged randonneur could ask, even if my mere presence put Fox’s at risk of flunking a health inspection. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Fox’s location is a mixed blessing: it’s just what you need and when you need it, but it comes immediately before the biggest beast of the course, the climb up South Branch Mountain. Eat too much and you risk giving some of it back in short order – five miles at an 8% average grade is grim in the best of times, and the last half-mile’s 14% grade qualifies as obscene. The only blessing is a guardrail that provides a convenient seat from which to contemplate the nature of despair and the potential availability of mountain bike gearing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">The eventual summit proved that hard work pays dividends, offering infinite views of the rugged West Virginia countryside and the encouraging realization that it was all downhill from there. I quickly entered Lost River State Park, a mid-Atlantic cycling mecca of wild landscapes where one’s far more likely to encounter a bear than a cell signal. At its heart lies one of the best controls in the randonneuring world, the Lost River Grill, an oasis of booth seats, great cooking, and pie slices as big as the cog I wished I’d had on South Branch Mountain. The wait staff are so familiar with cyclists and their peculiar needs that I’ve had them preemptively swipe my empty water bottles from the table and bring them back full of my beverage of choice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">The only downside of Lost River Grill is that it’s nearly impossible to leave, especially when one’s facing twilight and the knowledge that more climbs await. By this time I’d abandoned any notion of riding straight through; indeed, I was sufficiently shattered that I’d tentatively decided to call it quits at the overnight control 30 miles away. My legs had been leaden all day, and as much as I tried to prevent it, my thoughts were with my father instead of the road ahead. And, with the nature of an out-and-back course, it’s only too evident what topographic monsters lurk on the return journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">But what a final 30 miles! The climbs through Mill and Wolf Gaps are arguably the sweetest riding in the mid-Atlantic, all sparkling tarmac snaking through the George Washington National Forest. At night it’s a starry wonderland, the sounds of crickets, spokes, and rushing waters combining into a sonnet for the intrepid rider. On the far side lay the bed into which I collapsed without setting an alarm, content that I’d had a soul-cleansing day in the saddle and needn’t push my luck with another the next morning if I didn’t feel compelled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Ten hours later, I stumbled out of bed confident I’d qualified for membership in the Rip van Winkle society of SR600k riders, looked out the window, and contemplated my choice: a 60-mile leisurely spin back to the car, or a 188-mile assault on the return leg of <i>Big Savage</i>. While I enjoyed a leisurely hotel breakfast, I received encouraging news about my father’s health and immediately felt an emotional cloud lift. I realizing I’d be a fool not to celebrate by spending as much time as I could beneath the sun and amidst the trees. Bring on the reverse route!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">The return to Hancock was as joyous as the first leg had been arduous. Climbing back through Wolf Gap, a bobcat flashed across the road not ten feet in front of me, as exotic a sighting as one will find on a bicycle. A quick slice of pie at the Lost River Grill fueled me over the much gentler side of South Branch Mountain. So, too, the Patterson Creek Mountain spike and return climb up Big Savage Mountain seemed friendlier with the knowledge that I wouldn’t have to see them again the next day. The final 30 miles, with their thousand-foot climbs and descents, were as tough as I remembered their being two years earlier, but no journey worth retelling would end on a whimper. The <i>Big Savage SR600k </i>admits defeat only after a suitably mighty roar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">More than most, randonneurs grasp in their souls that reward is proportionate to effort, and in that respect, the SR600ks are crown jewels. With their new 60-hour time limit, they are within reach of anyone with the audacity for the attempt and the planning to make the dream happen. The <i>Big Savage SR600k</i>is not for the faint-hearted, but it earns that highest of accolades: it’s utterly unforgettable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";"><i>Final time:</i> 41h, 12m</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Strava file for Day 1:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Strava file for Day 2:</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-3817700708229469052017-07-04T22:45:00.003-04:002017-07-09T10:19:32.979-04:00The Four Amigos: Diabolical Double 2017 Recap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's rides like the <a href="http://www.garrettcountygranfondo.org/">Garrett County Gran Fondo's</a> "<a href="http://www.garrettcountygranfondo.org/diabolical_double.htm">Diabolical Double</a>" that sold me on cycling. I bought a bike in 2005 to train for an Ironman in 2006, and after finishing that in one piece, I found myself drawn inexorably to the long, painful, and stupid. Whereas in my first year of cycling a rolling hill constituted a daunting challenge, by 2007, I found myself signing up for <a href="http://www.mountainsofmisery.com/">Mountains of Misery</a>, a ride in Blacksburg, VA, over Memorial Day weekend that started in a valley and ended on top of the most ridiculous climb in the world (and the filing location of <i>Dirty Dancing</i>!). MoM offered a 100-mile route with two awful climbs and a 125-mile route with four, so I chose the longer one because it was longer than the shorter one. Sound logic.<br />
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That first year of MoM was a blast. I didn't know anyone else riding, but I met a colorful cast of folks along the way who knew what they were doing. Too dumb to know better, I rode faster than I should have but somehow held it together, thus finishing both my longest and hilliest ride in one swoop. In the final miles of that ride I met a guy, Kyle, and his girlfriend, Laura, who seemed to be riding pretty hard. When we got to the base of the final climb, a 3-mile monster that ascended at an average grade of 12% or so, Kyle quickly vanished up the road. I remarked to Laura that he seemed to be a strong rider, and she agreed before dropping me as well. Sheesh.<br />
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In future years, MoM became a mainstay on my calendar -- every Memorial Day, I talked a different group of friends into giving it a go, and most of them came back for more. I rode it seven years consecutively, and only in the last year, 2013, did I crank out a quick time as I was chasing my buddy Mike around like a dog after a frisbee. He's Canadian, so he doesn't get tired, apparently.<br />
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Sometime around 2010, Kyle, whom I'd first met on MoM a couple of years earlier, apparently decided that MoM wasn't hard enough and that he could do better. He had a house on Deep Creek Lake in Garrett County, near Wisp Mountain in far western Maryland, and he advertised a 125k ride that would make MoM look like child's play. The first year was a "beta" year, <i>i.e.</i>, one in which the ride organizer was still perfecting things, so he invited riders to come out and give it a whack in exchange for gaining a new perspective on the concept of suffering. I toed the line with Max, Mike, and perhaps Seb, and we trundled our way through never-ending grades of 15% or more, followed by descents that weren't much more relaxing. At one point we found ourselves in a valley with 50 miles to go, looking at a digital board that proclaimed the temperature to be 95 degrees, and facing a series of miles-long climbs in the brutal sun. The only way home was forward. Grim effing business.<br />
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The gang and I rode the Diabolical Double two or three more times in the ensuing years, often camping near the start. Each time was memorable, but when I stopped racing triathlons and joined the ultra-racing scene, I found that each year the DD coincided with the National 24-Hour Challenge in Michigan, the biggest of the American 24-hour races, so I didn't make it back for a little while. <br />
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2017, then, was the return of the prodigal moron. Due to work commitments, I couldn't make it to Michigan, and besides, I learned that the DD had innovated in my absence. In 2013, it had been a 125-mile sufferfest with little to shoot for except survival, but in the last year or two, it had started keeping track of riders' times up certain climbs and ranking riders' performances afterward in connection with "King of the Mountains" and "Queen of the Mountains" awards. That sounded intriguing. Better yet, 2017 was the pilot edition of a team competition wherein teams of at least four riders would compete over about a dozen climbs scattered throughout the day. <br />
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I put a team together consisting of the ever-enthusiastic Sebastian; a local climbing superstar, Chris; and one of his friends, Matt, whom I didn't know. I looked forward to a social ride, because I haven't had many of those lately. Between the R60 chase on the randonneuring front, which had me riding solo off the front for 6-20 hours at a time; ultracycling races, which are monastic by nature; and my usual indoor training regimen, I realized I'd been something of a cycling hermit. The beauty of the DD's team competition was that we could ride together all day, enjoy the plentiful aid stations, and then work hard on the designated climbs before regrouping at the summits. A perfect summer day on a bike! If only Max hadn't been in Europe.<br />
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I wasn't sure what to expect performance-wise. I felt like I was in pretty good shape after <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2017/05/maryland-endurance-challenge-2017.html">my win at the Maryland Endurance Challenge</a> 12-hour race a month before, and my base fitness was unquestionable after my springtime randonneuring exploits, but the Diabolical Double's KOM competition was an entirely different beast. Ultracycling and randonneuring, like Ironman racing, prize long, steady efforts that, while uncomfortable, never require anything approaching an all-out effort at a given moment. Climbing steep grades as fast as one can is just the opposite: you find a highly uncomfortable place and force yourself to live there until you reach the top. It's something I don't train for in any direct sense, and I hadn't done much hard climbing this year. Indeed, I hadn't ridden these notoriously difficult climbs in several years. So, I eyeballed the Strava times for the relevant climbs, reviewed my past times, and took a stab at some goals I hoped to be able to reach. Off we went!<br />
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Because I'm me, the night before the DD brought a tropical storm to the area that dumped All Of The Rain on the course, washing gravel across the road in certain places and generally making a muck of the first couple of hours. <br />
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<b><u>KOM Climb 1: Overlook Pass (0.7 miles, 12% grade)</u></b><br />
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Fortunately, we didn't have to wait long: the first time climb, Overlook Pass hit us at mile 2.5 or so. It was a steep effort of 0.7 miles, so I revved it up and let it rip. About halfway up, I realized this was going to be a long day, but the result was a pleasant surprise:<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QTSlz7u8J14/WVw4ePSy-VI/AAAAAAAAFTw/7ZAucj_JQEMSUQwOkbGwQCDLyrGXVduBQCLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B8.52.21%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="972" height="205" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QTSlz7u8J14/WVw4ePSy-VI/AAAAAAAAFTw/7ZAucj_JQEMSUQwOkbGwQCDLyrGXVduBQCLcBGAs/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B8.52.21%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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My previous best time up the climb was 6:31, and my ambitious goal was 5:25. My actual time was 4:59, with an average power of 365 watts. What a result! Maybe I could climb after all. Of course, that's easy to say on the first hill of a 125-mile day with 16,300 feet of climbing, but a good start was better than the alternative. My lungs and legs burned. Le ouch.<br />
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<b><u>KOM Climb 2: White Rock Road (0.9 miles, 10% grade)</u></b><br />
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We didn't have to wait long for our second shot at glory: White Rock Road awaited us just a few miles later. I walked across the wet metal grate bridge just in front of it -- fool me once, and all that -- and Chris, who'd started behind us, met us on the other side. At last I'd be able to ride with the legendary Chris, the climbing hero and cheerful masochist about whom I'd heard so much, but with whom I hadn't ridden. I imagined he'd dispatch me easily when the grades pitched up, but we'd see. White Rock Road was just as advertised: a little longer, a little less steep, but with lactic acid still flooding the muscles from the past effort. Oh, well, up and at 'em. <br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Vpe2CBAjI-k/WVw6QbrdfuI/AAAAAAAAFT0/AXNEf1GF6wAOYTwrtgzUna3kqH5dVwlWwCLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B8.57.57%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="967" height="203" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Vpe2CBAjI-k/WVw6QbrdfuI/AAAAAAAAFT0/AXNEf1GF6wAOYTwrtgzUna3kqH5dVwlWwCLcBGAs/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B8.57.57%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Previous best: 7:28. Goal: 6:53 (looking back on it, could I possibly have been more arbitrary?). Time: 6:41! Victory is mine, at least over me. Plenty of folks beat me, but at least I beat past me. That guy sucked. And an average power of 360 watts for 6:41, another personal best, and an even stronger effort than the first climb (5 watts more, but 1:42 shorter). This was fun! And completely awful. Seb found me doubled over the handlebars wondering if we could go home now.<br />
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After White Rock's torture, we enjoyed a leisurely ride to the first aid station. I got to know Chris a little, made fun of Seb (because that's what one does on a bike ride), and caught up with a bunch of local triathletes I hadn't seen in too long. It was refreshing not having time spent at aid stations count against us in any sense -- I ate a sammich and some M&Ms in leisurely fashion, then off we went, to infinity and beyond!<br />
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<b><u>KOM Climb 3: Limestone Hill (3.5 miles, 5%)</u></b><br />
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Infinity wasn't very far at all. In fact, it started about 1/4 mile after the aid station. This one was longer: 3.5 miles at a relatively reasonable average grade of 5%, but is there a more misleading statistic in cycling than the concept of average grade? In this case, it meant extended sections at 10% punctuated by brief descents and lengthy flattish parts that would have been relaxing if ridden slowly, but ridden hard were anything but. I took off like a flash, leaving Seb, Chris, and Matt behind, and I was feeling pretty good about myself for a couple of miles, at which point Chris came cruising past me and flew into the distance, beating me handily. Wow. Hats off, the guy can ride.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UcfRAIZY3cI/WVw-WFgExYI/AAAAAAAAFT4/3M0emXxQfa4wlI0xEBjmYrfEsdlwRoShwCLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B9.14.01%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="954" height="242" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UcfRAIZY3cI/WVw-WFgExYI/AAAAAAAAFT4/3M0emXxQfa4wlI0xEBjmYrfEsdlwRoShwCLcBGAs/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B9.14.01%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'd never ridden Limestone Hill before, so I had no past times to compare it to. My educated goal was 20:04 (again, there must have been some reason for this), but I spanked it with a 17:57 effort at a healthy 310w average. Chris and I both recorded top-10 overall Strava times (<i>i.e.</i>, rankings against everyone who's ridden the climb), with him pipping me by 5 seconds. I was delighted with my time, but I was feeling like my quads had been run over by a semi. Red wizard needs food, badly. (Sorry, 80s video game reference.)<br />
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<b><u>KOM Climb 4: Sam Friend Road (1.3 miles, 8% avg grade)</u></b><br />
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Not friendly at all. I was still pretty cooked from Limestone Hill, and Chris was bobbing over distant hilltops effortlessly. Sam Friend wasn't going to be pretty. It wasn't. Just get it done somehow. How long could 1.3 miles be, after all? (Answer: 1.3 miles too long.)<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FfXYz4IO2wY/WVxAZ_CDo2I/AAAAAAAAFT8/JtD_3cYtv9IV_sGRmpAJEuxpCPZFyJrZACLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B9.23.46%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="738" data-original-width="967" height="305" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FfXYz4IO2wY/WVxAZ_CDo2I/AAAAAAAAFT8/JtD_3cYtv9IV_sGRmpAJEuxpCPZFyJrZACLcBGAs/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B9.23.46%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Again, no past times against which to compare my performance, but at least I handily beat my goal of 9:27, chalking up an 8:34 with a 319w average power. Hardly disastrous, but I was feeling thoroughly sorry for myself at that point. Chris had plenty of time to wait at the top while deciding how sorry for me he wanted to be -- he beat me by nearly 30 seconds. At this rate, he'd have to save me a beer at the finish line, and perhaps drink it while I laid in a ditch somewhere.<br />
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My only solace lay in Chris's assurance that the next aid station came before the fifth KOM climb. I intended to sit down for awhile and suck down Coke while I collected myself before taking on the next climb, which was a 4.7-mile slog. And then, just where I thought the aid station would be, I saw a timing mat. Well, crap.<br />
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<b><u>KOM Climb 5: Keyser's Ridge and Pig's Ear (4.7 miles, 3% avg grade)</u></b><br />
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Again with that average grade. Sure, the average was 3%, but nothing on it was 3% -- it was hundreds of yards at 10% or more, then meandering flats and mild descents on which we had to push the pace because we were being timed. It was a combination of climb and time trial on legs that wanted to be anywhere else. Meanwhile, Chris had missed a turn at the start, so I was pretty sure he'd be buzzing past me at any moment. It never quite happened, but by the time I reached the top (and the long-sought aid station), I was shattered. I'd never climbed that hard so many times in succession.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yfx06vdKcmw/WVxDk6_MphI/AAAAAAAAFUA/EbPGK2DWF6c7huKFQwvvRv-XvRXIorOdgCLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B9.37.55%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="960" height="271" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yfx06vdKcmw/WVxDk6_MphI/AAAAAAAAFUA/EbPGK2DWF6c7huKFQwvvRv-XvRXIorOdgCLcBGAs/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B9.37.55%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Still, not a disaster! Out of 3 previous efforts, my best time was 23:20, and I'd set an audacious goal of 21:46. My actual time was a sprightly 19:47, good for 18th overall. Wattage of 285 wasn't anything to brag about, but I was tired and there was a downhill section where it was hard to push the pace, so I had to be pleased. Whether I could climb anything else, though, was far from clear.<br />
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<b><u>KOM Climb 6: Bowman Hill (1.6 miles, 9% average grade)</u></b><br />
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Bowman is notoriously nasty. I'd ridden it several times before, and it was always the <i>piece de resistance </i>of an incomparably difficult set of challenges. You know it's bad when one aid station is only 11 miles after the previous one -- it's guaranteed that nothing good will happen in those 11 miles. And it didn't. Bowman is efficient in that it just goes straight up the mountainside with no thought for mitigating the grade through switchbacks. This presented an additional challenge in that riders ahead of us were drifting back and forth across the road in a desperate attempt to stay upright. Gah. I wasn't sure what I had in me, so I just sat down and cranked until the cranking was done.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ypCq5vIWIrk/WVxFfQAWEHI/AAAAAAAAFUE/hPQdB4wRXawmhHkYjOqJOcIRtYLUFKwTQCLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B9.48.16%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="966" height="206" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ypCq5vIWIrk/WVxFfQAWEHI/AAAAAAAAFUE/hPQdB4wRXawmhHkYjOqJOcIRtYLUFKwTQCLcBGAs/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-07-04%2Bat%2B9.48.16%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Woof! Previous best - 13:08. Goal: 12:31. Actual time: 11:36. My power meter didn't register for some reason, but heck, who cares. I was alive and had kept alive my streak of beating every goal time with flying (ok, slowly disintegrating) colors.<br />
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Bowman was the penultimate KOM "chip timed" climb, and the seventh and final one lay some 40 miles down the road. Of course, that section wasn't flat by any stretch -- it's just that the climbs would only count toward the team competition, not the individual KOM. There's the famous Killer Miller, a climb I'd tackled many times before with times ranging from 10:01 to 11:20. This time, I chalked up an 8:18. There was the Michael Road route up Big Savage Mountain, which comprised the final 0.6 miles of a 4.3-mile climb... and it averaged 12% grade. It was the closest I'd come in years to unclipping and lying down on the ground, but merely by surviving it I snagged a top-10 Strava result:<br />
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<b><u>KOM Climb 7: Dry Run (2.8 miles, 7% avg grade)</u></b></div>
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Finally, after about 105 miles, we came to the final King of the Mountains chip-timed climb, a hard 3-mile charge up Dry Run Road. I had nothing left to give -- I just wanted to make it to the beer at some point. Somehow, though, when I saw that timing mat, I sucked it up and recorded an entirely solid effort:</div>
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Goal time: 18:19. Result: 17:01 at 315w average power. I have no idea where it came from -- there aren't many times in my life I've ridden that hard for that long, much less with so much stress in my legs. In fact, that's a higher power than I've ever recorded in the Computrainer challenges I've taken part in at the old Multisport Expos, and I tackled those on fresh legs. Hot damn! The end couldn't some soon enough, but I will say that Dry Run is simply a delight. How could you not ride well under a forested canopy with a river rushing past you? Paradise on earth, apart from the pain.</div>
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The remaining 20 miles were a relatively tame victory lap that unfolded without incident, apart from a couple of unwelcome "team competition" hills that came out of nowhere. Somehow I managed to snag the day's best time and 5th overall on Meadow Mountain, an 0.8-mile, 9% kicker from hell. And, in an inexplicable turn of events, I took the Strava overall KOM on the final significant climb of the day, a 1.1-mile, 5% ascent up Negro Mountain Road:</div>
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I don't have many KOMs -- I'm not that kind of rider, and this ride had some folks far faster than I am -- so all I can guess is that I didn't fall apart as much as some others. 330+ watts for 5 minutes is, for me, miraculous at that stage of the day. And what a sign-off for the ride!</div>
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<b><u>Final Thoughts</u></b></div>
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I had more fun on that ride than I've had in a long time. The companionship was a huge part of it: Chris, Seb, and Matt were great company -- talented riders who didn't take it too seriously. I realized I miss riding with friends on events like these. I used to do it pretty regularly, but it's been far too long, and I hope to have chances again soon. Perhaps it's an argument against ultra-racing, although there are arguments in favor of that, too. (Give me a minute. Let me get back to you.) But there's really something to be said for an event that lets you disregard overall time, work really hard for segments, relax the rest of the time, and finish up the same day you start. It's almost... normal, although frankly, nothing about the Diabolical Double course is normal.</div>
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My performance here surprised the heck out of me. I finished in the top few riders over 40 and top 10 overall out of many hundreds, and this isn't the sort of thing I train for. It makes me think I could hold my own outside of ultracycling races, although who knows in what. </div>
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In the meantime, I'm not sure what's next on the radar. The Diabolical Double was an unexpectedly great capstone on an entirely successful spring season, complete with the win at the Maryland Endurance Challenge and R60 completion. I hit all my targets, which I suppose means there's nowhere to go but down, but I'm hoping to build on my newfound strength and push on. Maybe I have more surprises left in me yet.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-24369811946490614212017-05-24T10:06:00.000-04:002017-05-24T21:27:37.555-04:00Maryland Endurance Challenge 2017: Better than Bridesmaid<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S0ejdtlhrIE/WSTLG4FjrHI/AAAAAAAAFQs/aVc2cd3nvkYXKKAePH99LV1I-QTHaSKcgCK4B/s1600/Bike_05_20_17_586_eDxo_print.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S0ejdtlhrIE/WSTLG4FjrHI/AAAAAAAAFQs/aVc2cd3nvkYXKKAePH99LV1I-QTHaSKcgCK4B/s400/Bike_05_20_17_586_eDxo_print.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's so... pretty in pink.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Cycling-wise, the past six months have been the best and worst of times. Since November, I've been training more consistently than ever, using both new equipment (out with the Computrainer, in with the Tacx Neo), and a different training system (TrainerRoad). I've never worked so hard, and I looked forward to trying to push some personal boundaries at Sebring in February. Unfortunately, a serious throat infection hospitalized me for several days; instead of doing hot laps on an F1 race track, I was intubated at Johns Hopkins and looking forward to the day when I was allowed to consume ice chips. I was off of the bike for more than a week, and I felt distinctly weak for far longer than that. It was disheartening, but at least I lived through it. And, hey, few better ways to lose those extra pounds than an impromptu ICU vacation.<br />
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With no racing on the near-term agenda, I refocused myself on putting together a serious randonneuring season, which featured a sub-20 hour 600k and receipt of the Cyclos Montagnards R60 honor for completing a 200k, 300k, 400k, and 600k brevet in under 60% of the allotted time. At times it was tough to stay afloat: at one point I'd completed rides of 300k (190 miles) or further on 5 weekends in a 6-week stretch. It's tough to balance (i) resting for such rides, (ii) recovering from them, and (iii) putting in the hard intervals necessary to get faster at the same time. I'm not sure I did it perfectly, but I certainly did the best I could. It said a lot about my mindset that I worried excessive randonneuring would derail my training; I forced myself to remember that I train in order to have adventures, and not for its own sake. <br />
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Through hook or crook, I came into the first race of the season stronger and lighter than I've ever been. But I hadn't done much racing in a long time: my last competitive event was Race Across Oregon in July 2016. Before that, I'd had a fairly disastrous National 24-Hour Challenge in which I succumbed to heat issues and called it a day before darkness fell. <br />
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My first race of 2017, at the inaugural Maryland Endurance Challenge 12-hour event, would pit me against several extremely strong riders. One of them, Billy Volchko, crushed me in that 2016 National 24-Hour Challenge with a ride of over 500 miles on a miserably hot day; he'd also won a couple of 12-hour races. Another racer, Ken Ray, was new to the ultra-racing scene but was at the pointy end of training for the TransAmerica Race, a 4300-mile self-supported coast-to-coast event, and he'd been riding 25-30 hours per week since last fall in preparation. Plus, I've found that usually an unknown-to-me superman shows up unannounced. It would be no time to have an off day.<br />
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The race was run out of the beautiful grounds of Mount St. Mary's University near Thurmont, Maryland -- north of Frederick and almost into Pennsylvania. That area is a cycling mecca with everything one could want, from flat cruising up to Gettysburg to climbs in the Gambrill Park region that threaten cardiac events. It even has covered bridges!<br />
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Duncan, the race director, had designed the course to display what the region has to offer. It wasn't hilly per se, but at 40 feet of climbing per mile in the form of constant rolling hills, it posed a monumental challenge -- many ultracycling events are flat drag-races, or at least have a couple of hills that one can conquer before relaxing. This one, though, would require a little bit of everything and would offer few opportunities to relax. Moreover, it was a draft-legal race, which introduced a strategic dimension that one doesn't face in the "put your head down and pedal" races like Sebring. Working cooperatively can help everyone go further, but that won't necessarily help you cross the line first.<br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="500px" src="//rwgps-embeds.com/routes/21091265/embed" width="100%"></iframe></div>
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The 12-hour race featured two loops. The first was a 34-mile "long" loop that we'd ride 3 times; it featured a solid half-mile climb, several punchy rollers that exceeded 10% grade, twisting country roads, covered bridges, and the Catoctin Mountains in the background. <br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="500px" src="//rwgps-embeds.com/routes/21091274/embed" width="100%"></iframe></div>
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The second was a 6.4-mile affair that we'd whip around until either we got dizzy and fell over or 12 hours had passed. It was slightly less hilly than the long loop but still far from an easy cruise, particularly when you're tired and riding aggressively.<br />
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One enjoyable thing about 12-hour races is that they're ridden in daytime -- no overnight freezes, lights to deal with, or attacks of the sleepies. But offsetting that convenience was a challenge: unlike in many races, I was self-crewing. I've mostly been fortunate to have friends or family handing me food, bottles, and other sundries; without that help, I'd have to figure out how to keep moving. My solution was to pre-mix about 20 bike bottles with various concoctions, mostly Infinit, and stack them in a milk crate for easy grabbing. Beyond that, I had a box of Clif Bars, and the night before I'd gone by Whole Foods and raided their junk food section for croissants, donuts, cookies, and pastries, and I'd also found some Red Bull in case the going got bleak. Unfortunately, when I got to the race site, I realized I'd forgotten the goody bag, so Infinit, water, and Clif Bars it was. Oh well; at least I wouldn't have anything interesting to tempt me to stop for a bite. Coulda used something salty, though.<br />
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I met Billy at the start and said hello to his sizable crew, which included his sister, girlfriend, and another guy, each of whom had more energy than I could imagine for early on a Saturday morning. They promised to ring the cowbell for me and made good on it throughout the day.<br />
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The day was conducive to riding -- overcast and mid-60s -- but it wasn't without its challenge in the form of a flag-snapping wind out of the north. A group of about 50 riders lined up a little before 8:00 a.m., and a rifleman sent us on our way with a single shot, doubtless to the neighbors' delight.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Billy, me, and Georgi Stoychev of D.C. Randonneurs fame, heading out.</td></tr>
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Almost immediately, Ken (of "training for TransAmerica" fame) pulled away from the peloton and began to ride into the distance. A few of us looked at each other with expressions that said, "Nope, not gonna be that easy" and closed the gap, thus creating a paceline of 5-6 riders that stayed together through the opening miles. Things fractured when we summited the 1/2 mile hill at over 400 watts; by then, it was down to me, Billy, and Ken, the x-factor. <br />
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The three of us traded pulls through the 20-mile point, after which I turned around and noted a distinct lack of Ken. Victim of a cougar attack? Who could say? At least it simplified the logistics: Billy and I agreed to trade pulls every 2 miles in order to keep things fair, and we made very quick time almost to the end of the first loop.<br />
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Unfortunately, our reward for being at the head of the pack was that we were first to miss a turn that was marked inconspicuously, if at all. We didn't realize our mistake until we'd gone 3 miles past it. Groaning, turning around, and pulling out our cell phones with Google Maps, we found our way back to the turn and corrected our error. Along the way we passed a passel of other riders who'd made the same mistake, including Ken. Oh, well -- it was frustrating because we were making hellaciously good time, but we're responsible for knowing the course at the end of the day, and at least most people seemed to have suffered a similar fate. On subsequent loops, the turn was marked sufficiently obviously that the space shuttle could have navigated by it, so the organizers were on the ball.<br />
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The second long loop flew by without incident, and by the end, we were still averaging well over 23 mph -- enough for a 270-mile day if we kept it up. Still, I confessed to Billy that I wasn't sure I could keep pushing 265 watts for 12 hours, and he admitted that we were pushing hard. In my mind, I reasoned that if he was strong enough to keep doing that all day, I'd have to face reality at some point and do my own thing.<br />
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The third loop was a fairly painful ordeal. The rolling hills seemed to be steeper than before, and although I felt solid, I was putting out more effort than I ever had before for that long, and it was of a spikey nature that's largely foreign to time trialists. With TTs, the name of the game is to hold the highest <i>steady </i>output you can. With a draft-legal race in rolling hills, though, this one felt more like a road race -- constant surges up hills, relaxing down the backsides, pushing hard when in front, and relaxing a little when drafting. My wattage was all over the place, but on average it was pretty darn aggressive.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finishing up Loop 2.</td></tr>
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We came through the century mark in 4:19. I've gone a couple of minutes faster over a century before, but nowhere near it on a course this hilly and windy. Toward the end of the third long loop, I noted gratefully that Billy had stopped riding quite so hard when taking his pulls at the front, which allowed me to regroup a little bit and contemplate the short loops ahead.<br />
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At the 110-mile mark, I quickly swapped my water bottles for the first time. Not sure how I pulled off that stunt; I guess on a cool day, it's possible.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off we go to figure out what the short loops have in store.</td></tr>
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The first short loop veritably flew by -- there's nothing quite like having something shorter and a little less hilly to attack. We kept with the 2-mile-plan, but I was feeling stronger by the mile. After we completed our first short loop, the course grew more crowded as the remaining 12-hour riders began to circle along with the 6- and 3-hour groups. On the second short loop, Billy and I joined forces with 4-5 other solid riders, which made time and miles pass quickly: instead of pulling half of the time (with a 2-person paceline), we could do relatively little work and still make pretty good time. I pondered this fact as we finished the second loop and started the third, at which time we were joined temporarily by Henrik Olsen, an accomplished local randonneur and ultracycling racer who'd come out to join the festivities for a little while. <br />
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The dilemma was one endlessly familiar to road racers but a bit novel to me, coming from a non-drafting triathlon background. We'd ridden hard for 5 hours, leaving 7 hours to go. We were part of a solid paceline making good time, and it would have been straightforward to be satisfied with that and to let the day unfold. The problem was that Billy and I were the two strongest riders in the group, which means we weren't working very hard. And, at the end of the day, only one of us could win, which meant that I'd have to try to break away at some point. Finally, I got the sense that I was feeling a little better than he was at that point. The time could be right to make a move, but if I was wrong, I'd expend a ton of energy doing something stupid.<br />
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Note: I'd done exactly that stupid thing on my first trip to the National 24-Hour Challenge, where I solo'd off the front as hard as I could from miles 75-125, only to find that I'd been ridden down by a group of strong riders, each of whom hadn't had to do nearly as much work as I had. It was a fiasco.<br />
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Still, fortune favors the bold. I figured that if I had a strength after my long season of hard randonneuring rides, it was in riding long distances solo; I was less confident about my ability to sit in a pack and then sprint toward the end. So I decided to gamble a little. When my turn came at the front of the paceline, I accelerated gradually and then went extremely hard up a medium-length hill and down the other side. When I turned around, only one rider was left -- Ken, who'd stuck on my wheel but was a lap behind. The others were some distance back.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exiting the turn-around onto short loops. Photo credit to Andrea Matney.</td></tr>
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As I exited the turnaround, I saw Billy and the remainder of the peloton coming into it, which meant my lead was 20 seconds or so. To me, that was confirmation: I had an opportunity, but to seize it, I had to bury myself to build on the lead -- I wanted to be far out of sight. So I resolved to ride the next two short loops all-out to build whatever cushion I could.<br />
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I don't think I've ever ridden so hard for a 45-minute period. I cut back on greeting people I passed because I was gasping for air a lot of the time, and each time we turned north into the gale, I tucked down into my aerobars and tried my best to hang onto my gear, even if it meant my wattage going through the roof.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cruising in to finish a loop. Photo credit to Andrea Matney.</td></tr>
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The strategy appeared to work: by the end of my surge, I saw no sign of the chasers. The problem was, it was a loop, so I couldn't tell whether my lead was shrinking or growing, and I had... 6.5 hours left to ride. Good grief. Lots can go wrong in that time period, especially when self-crewing. I had to stay on top of my speed and nutrition and just keep focused on moving forward quickly and efficiently.<br />
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Ultimately, it was one of those days when everything came together -- I never did see Billy again, and Strava suggests that we spent the last half of the race orbiting opposite sides of the loop from one another. Every now and then I asked his crew how he was doing, and they assured me that he was rolling along well and a few minutes back. I'd have loved to know more about what "a few minutes" meant, but I didn't press my luck. ;-)<br />
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My splits for the remainder of the ride were:<br />
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300k (188 miles): 8h 26m<br />
200 miles: 9 hours<br />
400k (249 miles): 11h 22m<br />
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At the 173-mile point, some 7.5 hours into the ride, I stopped to swap out my bottles and realized that it was only the second time I'd done so, meaning I'd ridden that entire distance on 6 bottles. Again, having a cool day really helped matters.<br />
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Eventually, after having ridden a little over 10 hours, I began to feel the finish line: at a rate of 19 minutes per loop, I'd only have to ride 5 more -- I could understand that, and made each one its own interval. 4, 3, 2... finally, with one more loop to go and no sign of Billy at the turnaround, I knew I only had to keep the bike upright to finally win a race after five years of coming close. No problem! Done and done. I even slowed down a bit to say hello to some chickens.<br />
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One thing that looped races have to decide is how to handle the "remainder" portion of a loop at the end. Specifically, if you finish a loop and don't have time to ride another complete one before the race ends, are riders to stop, or should they keep going to get credit for part of the last loop? Most races are in the former camp, but this one was in the latter, and I hit the tape with 12 minutes to go -- more than enough time to get in a few more miles. So I removed my visor and enjoyed a victory lap as the sun descended behind the mountains, reflecting that I felt oddly great. I'd never gone through a weak spell. Maybe my simplistic diet and lack of a crew had been enabling in some weird sense, allowing me to get lost in my head and just get things done.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winner winner, Dorito dinner!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyclists in medal are wearier than they appear.</td></tr>
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Looking back over my race, it's obviously the strongest ride I've ever had.</div>
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I've ridden further in 12 hours, but only on the flat drag-race course in Sebring -- nothing like the hills and wind of Maryland. In fact, my wattage profile looks more like a road race than a time trial: I spent more than an hour in Zone 5 and higher, which is something I'd have thought impossible for me.</div>
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I was on the bike and moving for 11:57:38 out of 12:00, which is about the best one can hope for in a self-crewed event, and certainly much better than I've done in the past.</div>
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From the preliminary results, it looks like I finished about 9 minutes in front, which isn't much after 12 hours of riding. Almost all of it came during the "surge" of a few short loops mid-race. Here are the first several loops (3 long loops, the first one with extra miles, and the first short loop). It was neck-and-neck.<br />
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My surge came at the end of the 3rd short loop (Lap 6), and carried through the next few laps. In retrospect, it looks like I banked about 8 minutes there, a gap that didn't grow much at all in the remaining 5+ hours in Laps 11-23. My gamble paid off this time.<br />
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At the end of the day, the race was a terrific way to put a capstone on a satisfying spring of riding. I'm not sure what event is next for me -- it's looking unlikely that I'll be able to make the National 24-Hour Challenge this year, a particularly sad fact considering that this might be its last iteration after a 35-year run. For now, though, I need to let my mental and physical batteries recharge a bit; I've been pushing hard for many months straight. Maybe it's time to relax for a couple of weeks and watch the TransAmerica and RAAM competitors gear up to go. </div>
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As for the Maryland Endurance Challenge, I can't recommend it enough. It's pretty in a way that few UMCA looped courses are, and it provides a challenging course far different from the flats that one normally encounters. For that reason, it's not a "personal record" kind of event, but I think it's a true test of everything you can do. It was run splendidly, especially for a first-year event, complete with electronic timing and modern touches like Strava segments. And, arguably best of all, it's run for charity, supporting homeless youth in Frederick, MD. I'll be back next year!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-83489207885127696642017-04-16T22:00:00.001-04:002017-04-17T20:06:20.248-04:00Fighting Big Flat: 2017 D.C. Randonneurs Frederick 300k ride report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Frederick 300k (188 miles) is an institution on the D.C. Randonneurs' rotation, having first been ridden back around the turn of the century, near as I can tell. It was my very first 300k back in 2012, and I vividly remember fighting 95-degree heat throughout the afternoon and wafting in on fumes in just under 14 hours. Back then I was definitely of the mindset that a 300k might as well be a ride across Siberia -- I was posting periodic Facebook updates to let people know I was still alive, and my bike was weighed down with about 15 pounds of energy bars, most of which went uneaten. It took me a couple of years to realize that, as rides get longer, the only thing that really changes is clothing. </div>
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Another thing I remember about that ride is having my first encounter with a climb called "Big Flat." The first word is accurate; the second, less so. But I'd only had the one crack at it, and I wanted a second.</div>
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One great thing about the D.C. region is that, depending on which way you go, the character of the rides changes fundamentally. Head east toward the shore, and you'll never find anything flatter, with windswept beaches and wildlife preserves. To the southwest is Virginia, where nothing is flat -- there are more rollers than a Broadway production of <i>Hairspray</i>. To the west are mountains of varying degrees of seriousness. Finally, to the northwest and north, in Maryland, there's a little bit of everything, and that's what this ride had to offer -- three solid climbs broken up with some Amish country and cornfields.</div>
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The goal was straightforward: finish under 12 hours, and thus complete the third of four requirements for <a href="http://cyclosmontagnards.org/R80Rules.html">R60 qualification</a>. To do that, I'd need to shave nearly two hours off of my 2012 attempt, when Max and I finished in 13:56. Egads! Fortunately, the weather called for a perfect range of 50 degrees at the start to 78 mid-day, so if it was going to happen, today was the day. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ride start, pretty in pink! Photo credit: Ed F.</td></tr>
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Of course, I'm a moron -- that's the first rule. When faced with a ride more than an hour from home starting at 5:00 a.m., many sane people stay at a local hotel at the start/finish and make sure to get to bed early. My version of this was going to a nice dinner with Amy in D.C. on Friday evening, then to after-dinner cocktails, and then to after-cocktails dessert with another cocktail, such that I got to sleep at about 12:30 after drinking all evening and woke up a little more than 2 hours later for a 190-mile ride. Part of the story is that I'm stubbornly short-sighted, but the slightly longer version is that I recognize doing these rides knocks out a big chunk of the weekend that I'd otherwise be available to socialize. I'm exhausted and useless when I get home, so it seems unfair to block off Friday night as well as Saturday and Saturday night -- cycling's not the only thing in life. Of course, there's a healthy dollop of self-loathing when that alarm goes off in the middle of the night, and I'm not getting any younger. I'm sure I'm sacrificing some performance with this tragic habit, but I like to think it adds a "degree of difficulty" score, like Olympic diving. </div>
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Also, there's something vaguely weird about getting in an elevator at 3:00 a.m., fully bedecked in spandex, and nearly running headlong into someone smelling of booze who's getting home after an evening of revelry. Worlds colliding.<br />
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The ride itself began at the Days Inn in Frederick, MD, as made famous by absolutely nothing. On the plus side, it has a Waffle House attached to it. We rolled out parade-style through the deserted streets of Frederick, which is always enjoyable in one of those "different ways of seeing the same thing" ways that cycling sometimes presents. It's certainly better than returning through the same streets on Saturday evening, a pleasure we'd have later. </div>
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I was the only rider with a time-based agenda, so I began to press the pace after an hour or so, when we reached the beautiful 5-mile climb up Foxville-Deerfield in the Catoctin Mountain Park. It's one of the best climbs in the mid-Atlantic: peaceful, great pavement, a gradual slope through the forest, and a river rushing along next to you. Soon after beginning the ascent, I found myself alone with Eric Willams, one of the stronger riders in the group, and someone who rides probably twice the miles that I do. He climbs like a goat, and the two of us made great time to the summit -- I climbed it in 21:41, compared to my 29:07 in 2012. A promising start!<br />
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More promising for me than Eric, though. The poor guy had decided that, despite a ride start temperature in the high 40s, he'd head out with a short-sleeve jersey and no gloves. A descent that was wonderful for me probably brought him no end of misery. Oh well -- as he said, he knows better. This is pretty much the first time I can remember on a bicycle when I wasn't the cautionary tale.</div>
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As the two of us plowed north toward Pennsylvania, Eric realized that cycling could be enjoyable rather than an exercise in self-flagellation, and accordingly drifted off the back, where he eventually joined up with a chase group of riders who had a thoroughly reasonable day. I pressed on, trying my best to make it home in time for a wine tasting that Amy was hosting at our place that evening.</div>
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Next up was the featured attraction: Big Flat. Below is the elevation profile for this ride: pick out the least flat part of it, and you've found it. To be helpful, I've highlighted it.</div>
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It's not the toughest climb out there, but it's solid work, climbing about 1300 feet over nearly 7 miles. In 2012, I'd trudged my way up it in 46:35, but I guess I've gotten stronger: this year it was 34:42, good for 8th overall on Strava. (I'm sure I'll be getting that pro contract any day now.) It was a tough effort, but I consoled myself with the notion that it was almost literally all downhill from the summit.</div>
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I'll say this: the Michaux State Forest was a gorgeous place in full bloom, with bursts of whites, purples, reds, and yellows speckling the dark green backdrop. Probably the perfect place to film an ad for Claritin, actually.</div>
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After the epic, swooping 9-mile descent into Shippensburg, PA, the mountains receded and Amish country beckoned. Buggies, farmland, and sketchy roads unfolds for dozens of miles on end, and the sun came out to teach us a lesson. Many people love these roads, but I found myself in that awkward mental position of having ridden a hard 80 miles and remembering that there's still more than a century to go. Fortunately, the second half of the ride was relatively flat, so I anticipated making good time. Maybe a sub-11:00 finish was in the cards?</div>
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To make a long story short, it wasn't. And, come to think of it, the story wasn't that long: we were riding a huge clockwise loop beginning on the southernmost point, which meant that the last 80 miles or so were heading south and then southwest, directly into one of the most diabolical headwinds I can remember. I was working my butt off just to go 17 mph. Usually loop courses at least afford the dignity of benefitting and suffering from the same winds, but not in this case -- they picked up throughout the day, so it was just plowing ahead and hoping for respite that wasn't forthcoming. At some point I decided that the goal was sub-12:00, and it wasn't worth wrecking myself for an attempt at a sub-11:00 finish that wasn't in the cards that day. I just wanted a nap.</div>
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Ultimately, I rolled back into Frederick a little after 4:00 pm, having done what I needed to. And, in fairness, I'd done well: my 2012 moving time was 11:55, and I'd taken 2 hours off of the bike, for a finishing time of about 13:55. This year, I was moving for 10:36, and I was off the bike for only 35 minutes, for a final time of 11:10. That's progress. <a href="https://www.relive.cc/view/943833795">Enjoy the video!</a></div>
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Next up is the flèche, a 24-hour group ride that promises lots of eating. I plan to P.R. at least one ice cream sundae. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-79866444255256189752017-04-09T13:52:00.001-04:002017-04-11T11:08:10.243-04:00Mike Hall Memorial 600k: Ignoring Limits<div style="text-align: center;">
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Sometimes awful things pile up and there's no way forward except to go smash something. After three months of the hardest training I'd ever done, <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2017/02/surviving-scare.html">a calamitous throat infection</a> knocked me out of the 24-hour race at Sebring. I'd never felt stronger, but instead of clicking off hot laps, I was intubated and bludgeoned with every high-powered intravenous antibiotic they could find. Things turned out "well," if by well one means losing weight I couldn't afford and struggling to complete a 1-hour easy spin.</div>
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Fortunately, after a substantial training adjustment in which I dropped the high-watt intervals in favor of extended sweet-spot sets, I started coming around after a few weeks. In mid March, I DNF'd a 200k brevet when my routing went horribly awry, but I still felt good. I decided to test things by leaping straight into a 600k (375-mile) brevet out of Lumberton, North Carolina, on April 1. It was a flattish and unremarkable course apart from 30 miles of riding along the beach, but I figured it would be a good chance to test out a new saddle and hopefully check off a big box on one of my 2017 projects, <i>i.e.</i>, a <a href="http://cyclosmontagnards.org/R80Rules.html">Randonneurs Mondiaux R60</a> designation. </div>
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Apart from the <a href="https://rusa.org/societecharlymiller.html">Charly Miller Society</a>, which requires that a rider finish the quadrennial Paris-Brest-Paris 1200k in under 56 hours and 40 minutes, the R60 is probably the toughest honor to achieve in the randonneuring world. It requires that one complete a Super Randonneur series (200k, 300k, 400k, and 600k), each in under 60% of the allotted time. That makes the requirements as follows:</div>
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200k (125 miles) -- 8:06</div>
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300k (188 miles) -- 12:00</div>
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400k (250 miles) -- 16:12</div>
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600k (375 miles) -- 24:00</div>
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I'd finished a couple of 200ks well under the required time, which left the longer rides to attempt in the remainder of 2017. My personal best on a 600k brevet was 25:40 or so, so I'd have to go faster, but on the other hand, my previous 600s had been on considerably hillier terrain and an older bike. In 24-hour races, which are on fully-supported loops, I'd knocked out 600k in under 19 hours, but randonnees tend to be slow -- routing, controls, and the rest of it just tend to add up. I hoped for 22 hours and thought it possible.</div>
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Unfortunately, only two days before the ride, the cycling world received the devastating news that Mike Hall had been <a href="http://deadspin.com/endurance-cycling-legend-mike-hall-killed-by-car-driver-1793898930">hit and killed by a car</a> while racing the Indian Pacific Wheel Race across Australia. Mike was a legend in the ultracycling world at the young age of 35: he held multiple records including fastest on a bicycle around the world and course record holder in the 4,300-mile, self-supported Trans America race. He was one of the featured riders in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt4340740/">Inspired to Ride</a>, a Trans America documentary well worth anyone's attention.</div>
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How completely sickening. We're now forced to add his name to those of Jure Robic (6x RAAM winner), Bob Breedlove, Claudio Clarindo, Anders Tesgaard, Matthew O'Neill, Lynn Kristianson, and many others avid ultracyclists who've been killed by cars in recent years while doing what they love. For me, this is one of the top reasons I do so much of my riding indoors: I love to be outside on two wheels, but the more one does it, the more likely it is that the odds will get even. Thus, I choose my battles carefully. In Mike's case, from all accounts, it sounds like some of the roads the racers traversed were anything but safe, and that there were a number of uncomfortably close calls before the fatal incident. It's utterly gutting to lose anyone that way, but particularly such an inspiration. </div>
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In all, it wasn't a great mindset to take into a 600k solo ride on unknown road, but then again, maybe it was. There's something to be said for the knowledge that we're privileged to be able to attempt these feats at all, and it's a gift we should celebrate. </div>
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And so it was that I reported for duty at 6:00 a.m. in the parking lot behind a Super 8 hotel in Lumberton, North Carolina, looking pretty out of place. Especially on longer events like 600ks, randonneurs tend to favor traditional setups with plenty of cargo capacity, but I looked more like a Martian, complete with disc wheel, Zipp 808 deep-rim front wheel, and aero helmet. Perhaps overkill, but I figured that, if I wanted to go fast, there's no reason to leave the go-fast gear at home. </div>
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To hit my goal of 22 hours, I'd have to average 17 miles an hour, which isn't generally a problem in terms of <i>moving</i> speed, but it also includes all of the stops and snafus along the way. I'd probably have to average more than 19 mph while moving in order to do it, which isn't trivial over the span of nearly an entire day. My best 24-hour race time is 20.5 mph, but that was fully supported, draft-legal, on a looped course where it was impossible to get lost, and on fully tapered legs. Here, none of those things was true. (It technically was draft-legal, I suppose, but as there was no one to draft off of, it was an academic point.)</div>
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One of the things that made me slightly nervous was that I'd be riding on a new saddle, the <a href="https://selleanatomica.com/products/c-series">Selle Anatomica C Series</a>. I'd ridden on the traditional S-A leather saddles for years, but they're heavy as bricks and the leather needs to be re-tensioned periodically, and the carbon version promised to address both issues. It's a beautiful thing, although, as a crowd-funder, I'd had to wait about two years to get it.</div>
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So, off we went! With a 6:00 a.m. rollout, I hoped to be done between 3:00 and 4:00 a.m. on Sunday morning and sitting comfortably in a booth at Denny's across the street. We'd have to see.</div>
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For once in my randonneuring life, things went remarkably smoothly. Tony Goodnight's route was a joy to follow, with turns only every 10 miles or so in many places, and relatively few control points that forced one to stop. But that came with challenges: with highs pushing 80 degrees and scheduled stops only every 60-70 miles, it was important to keep on top of the nutrition and hydration. For me, it was a mental struggle between the desire to stop as infrequently as possible and the knowledge that the whole thing could go down the drain if I didn't eat and drink constantly. I resolved that dilemma by ignoring my desire to stop more often, and never even slowing down between controls -- go big or go home. The result was that, on a few occasions, I went 4+ hours between stops, which had me pretty much parched and ravenous by the time the next stop rolled around.</div>
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I've learned a couple of things about randonneuring nutrition over the years. First, if you're in trouble on a hot day, there's little better than massive ice cream sandwiches -- cold, caloric, and satisfying. Second, if you need a blood-sugar rush, those huge Rice Krispy Treat bars are about as close to rocket fuel as you can find. Third, Bugles! Enough said. Rules to live by.</div>
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One of the big challenges in a ride this long is finding something to hold the mental focus. Sometimes the zen silence is enough to set the mind wandering, but I've found that, as one fatigues and things start to get sore, the zen dissipates into something closer to self-resentment. So, music is key some of the time, but podcasts and audiobooks also are great. On this occasion, I made my way through <i>S-Town</i> the new release from the makers of <i>Serial</i>, a fair chunk of the latest John Grisham book, a couple of episodes of Freakonomcs, and some Judge John Hodgman. And lo, the hours did pass.</div>
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The course itself was nothing to write home about -- flattish, quite windy (constant 15-20 mph), and largely along country roads lined by pine trees. At one point we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway before riding 15 miles along the barrier islands to Atlantic Beach, and then back again. The roads were the highest of highs and lowest of lows, mostly great but with the occasional stretch that would have insulted a cheese grater. </div>
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It was largely a mental game. With the wind at the back, rolling at 22 mph felt effortless, but the price was a couple of stretches of 20+ miles into headwinds that felt like a sick joke. My power meter was on the fritz, registering zeroes randomly when I was pushing darn hard, but I gave up trying to fix it after awhile.</div>
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In terms of moving speed, things went amazingly well for the first half:</div>
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100 miles -- 4:53</div>
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200k -- 5:59</div>
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300k -- 9:25</div>
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Each of those was a personal best for me on a brevet by a considerable margin. By halfway, I was on pace for a sub-19 hour finish, but I was self-aware enough to know that such extrapolation is dangerous. Riding at night tends to be slow, and with fatigue being what it is, stops tend to get longer and the average speed tends to drift south.</div>
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There's a mathematical issue I've noticed on these events that never ceases to throw me for a loop. (Many people doubtless know this already -- I'm willing to embrace the fact that it's my issue.) The issue is this. Given my spectacular speed over the first half, I'd dared to adjust my target down from 22 hours to 20 hours. 10 hours in, my average speed was about 20 mph. I knew that a 20-hour finish required an overall average speed of 18.6 mph, so I reasoned as follows: since I've gone 20 mph for the first half, I can go 17.2 mph for the second half to achieve an average of 18.6! (17.2 + 20)/2 = 18.6!</div>
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Except the math doesn't work. After riding for 10 hours at 20 mph, I'd gone 200 miles, which meant I had 175 miles to go in the second 10 hours. 175/10 = 17.5 mph, not 17.2. Sigh. Not that the 0.3 mph delta was huge, but when things are falling apart at the end of a ride, things like that matter.</div>
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After a 9:25 first 300k, a sub-20-hour finish required a 10:35 second 300k. That's an hour slower, but it was still <i>way</i> faster than my 300k personal best heading into this ride, and much of it would be riding at night. To make matters worse, I encountered a road closure with a massive traffic jam due to an accident with fatalities, and I got turned around a couple of times where the route crossed over itself. And, of course, there was the challenge I encountered at mile 300, where I completed an 80-mile stretch completely empty of water, calories, and hope. That prompted an extended break in the welcoming embrace of an Exxon station.</div>
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Ultimately, though, I've rarely felt this strong. I finished in 19:38, fully six hours faster than my previous best at the distance. After my 9:25 opening 300k, my second 300k had clicked off in 10:13! Thus, my best and second-best 300ks were ridden back-to-back, which has to say something positive about my training.</div>
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I'll confess I'm pretty over-the-moon about this outcome. As far as I can tell, it's the third-fastest official 600k brevet ever ridden in the United States -- the first is a 19:30 and the second a 19:34, so I was just a handful of minutes away. Part of me thinks that, given that I was stopped for about 1:50 over the course of the ride, I surely could have gone 10 minutes faster, but I had no idea I was so close to the record, and frankly, who knows. As a statistical matter, this graph puts things into perspective:</div>
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This shows the official 600k completion times in the United States from 1999-2011, and the chart begins at 20 hours, with the median up in the mid-30s.<br />
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I'm also happy to report that the Selle Anatomica Carbon Series saddle worked perfectly -- I think it's a keeper. It's noticeably harder than the leather hammock that the traditional S-A offers, but it never was uncomfortable. This may be because of the Mummy Tape I apply to my sitbones before all long rides, but whatever the case, it was nice to finish a 600k and be able to sit down comfortably.</div>
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So, mission accomplished! I felt strong virtually the entire way, and I truly loved finishing before 2:00 a.m. and thus avoiding the witching hours that come later in the morning. It's been a very long time since I've been at a Denny's at 3:00 a.m., but such was my reward. Next up, trying to get my legs working again and recalibrate myself toward an upcoming 300k, where I'll try to put the next brick in the R60 wall.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-32349719118653023162017-02-15T14:14:00.002-05:002017-02-15T17:07:04.481-05:00Surviving a ScareIt's been awhile since I've posted anything, but I've had irons in the fire. Work and travel demands caused me to take almost two months off of the bike after Race Across Oregon in July, and when I emerged in mid-October, my fitness was in Nowheresville. But, for the first time in nearly a decade, I renovated the Pain Cave both physically and virtually. <br />
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On the physical front, I picked up a Tacx Neo smart trainer to replace my 2006-era Computrainer, and I've been using the heck out of it. In my mind, the direct-drive setup is categorically superior to the older wheel-on technology, and the Neo is a beautiful beast.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j0S30V4T7U8/WKST3NZXjeI/AAAAAAAAFLo/hF7DL6aD1G4UKXBYueoP8wfDoBXA6HlgwCLcB/s1600/tacx-neo-smart-trainer-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j0S30V4T7U8/WKST3NZXjeI/AAAAAAAAFLo/hF7DL6aD1G4UKXBYueoP8wfDoBXA6HlgwCLcB/s320/tacx-neo-smart-trainer-01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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On the virtual front, I signed on with Trainer Road and Zwift, following a structured training plan for the first time in recent memory. I've gotten to be reasonably proficient at prescribing workouts for myself over the years, but there hasn't been much periodization to it, and overall things had just gotten a bit stale. Between October and late January, I was able to ride 6 days a week with consistency, recording about 700 training stress/week, which is about 50% more than in years past. And the result showed: my power/weight ratio jumped from ~3.8 to ~4.4, which was the highest it's ever been -- an auspicious place to be in January -- and I was getting stronger by the week. <br />
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All told, although nothing is ever guaranteed, I was confident that I could put in a serious showing at Sebring. I'd initially planned to ride the 12-hour, but I was feeling so strong that I'd mentally committed to switching to the 24 and taking a shot at that magical 500-mile day. I started my taper late, putting in a hard weekend only a week out with the idea that I'd take it easy for a few days and then give it a go. The Sunday before the race was my last long ride, a 5-hour trainer session that I entered tired but knocked out with no problem. Then it was off to a Super Bowl party to enjoy the fruits of months of discipline.<br />
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The following day (Monday), though, I found myself feeling like I had a bit of a cold. I do get the occasional head cold, and it's common to feel a little under the weather during a taper, so I didn't think much of it. The hard work was done, and a scratchy throat was nothing to be concerned about. <br />
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Tuesday brought no improvement -- I was definitely fighting something. What had been a mild, generalized sore throat had become more focused in an area in the back corner of my throat, and it was acutely raw when I swallowed. Still, I figured, no big deal. I even knocked out a 3x15' sweet spot session on the trainer as planned, and did so without drama. I reasoned that the workout might even help clear out my head and throat. The workout wasn't easy, but I *was* in taper mode with the fatigue it entails, and nothing about the experience suggested anything more than a cold.<br />
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By Wednesday, I'd put myself into the category of sick, as much as I hated to draw that conclusion. I'd busted my butt for months to put myself in a position to try to win Sebring outright a few days later, and the idea of being sick for the first time in years was unbearable. I was blowing my body weight in snot on an hourly basis, and when I swallowed, it felt like there was a spiked golf ball in the back of my throat. It turns out that we swallow a considerable volume of saliva and mucus each day, and when swallowing is to be avoided, you become pretty disgusting, because it has to go somewhere. I bought some cough drops and made the best of it, even dropping my bike and supplies with a friend for transport to Sebring. That evening, though, I had a fever for the first time, felt achy, and the rest of it. (Crap.) Still, my philosophy was that all I needed was a solid night's sleep and I'd be on the mend.<br />
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Unfortunately, Wednesday night brought almost no sleep. I felt like I was drowning -- imagine the worst cold in the world where you can't swallow without an explosion in your throat. Amy slept on the couch that night, but I didn't even notice until the next morning. Pretty much sums up how out-of-it I was.<br />
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By Thursday morning, it was becoming increasingly clear that Sebring was a stretch. (Many people would doubtless say "of course" at this, but I think endurance athletes are used to just working through challenges in a way that alters how you view things.) Amy and my parents thought I might have strep throat; I was undeniably miserable. Awkwardly, I had to go to work on Thursday because I had a hearing in court that afternoon that I felt I needed to attend. By this time, I couldn't really talk without coughing spasmodically, and swallowing was almost entirely out of the question. I managed to communicate to the judge that I was sick, and that was pretty much all that was required of me that day, but I went straight from court to a primary care doc to see what the heck was going on.<br />
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The nurse practitioner saw me quickly, noted that my tonsils were swollen, and performed a strep test that everyone expected would be positive. But it wasn't -- negative as could be. She consulted with some other folks in the office and recommended that I go to the ER based on the fact that <i>something</i> was clearly wrong, but there was no obvious answer as to the "what" of it. By then, things were so bad that I dialed Amy's cell and asked the nurse to tell Amy what she'd just told me, because I couldn't speak more than a couple of words at a time. <br />
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Amy met me at home about an hour later; I took that time to stand in a hot shower and just try to stop shivering. We drove to Sibley Hospital ER, where I was admitted about 8:00 p.m. on Thursday night. I got a CT scan, which showed several large peritonsillar abscesses (essentially pus-filled pockets of infection) in the back of my throat, some of which were dangerously low in my neck and thus close to my vocal cords and chest. Also, I had a 103-degree fever. After hours of deliberation, the folks at Sibley determined that I needed surgery immediately but that they weren't equipped to do it -- given the scope and location of the problem, the ENT docs needed a full-fledged facility that could deal with collateral chest infections that might arise from the initial surgery. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, it took hours for Sibley to find another hospital that could take me. <br />
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During this time, which stretched until about 1:00 a.m. on Friday morning, we'd decided it made sense for Amy to go home to try to get some sleep. I promised I'd let her know where they took me for surgery and when it was scheduled to happen. I didn't see the point in her destroying herself to sit in an E.R. indefinitely while nothing happened.<br />
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Ultimately, in the middle of the night, Sibley decided to send me by ambulance all the way to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. It was a pretty surreal scene staring out the back window of the ambulance as it bounced through deserted streets as I was tranquilized on morphine. The only comparable instance was nearly 2 years ago -- coincidentally, in connection with another 24-hour bike race, in Texas, following a particularly nasty crash. At least this time I was headed to a real hospital. I let Amy know that I was in Baltimore with surgery scheduled for Friday morning. Communicating that was about all I could manage between my misery and narcotic haze.<br />
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I don't remember much from that point until Saturday afternoon. The surgery apparently revealed problems significantly more severe than the surgeon had anticipated. Among the several infected abscesses was one that was about 4" long -- one of the largest the surgeon had ever seen -- and it was necrotic, meaning that the tissue was dying. It also was in a particularly sensitive area. They had to remove a tonsil just to get to it, and it was very close to the nerve that controls my vocal cords. The doc was alarmed that such an extensive problem had developed so quickly, and feared that I may have contracted a flesh-eating bacteria. The phrase "necrotic fasciitis" was thrown around.<br />
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I vaguely remember a conversation with the doc after the surgery in which he expressed concern that he might not have taken care of the entire problem. Scans showed additional swelling further down my neck, and if the infection continued to spread, more surgery would be required. My hazy recollection of that conversation involved my telling the doc to do what he needed to do -- if was another surgery, it was. But my memory is pretty hazy, as I was on several different kinds of potent painkillers, had a breathing tube down my throat, and could barely even write on a board, much less talk.<br />
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Amy's experience was even more alarming. Apparently the doc told her that the next surgery could require going into my neck from the outside, through the vocal cords, which meant that I'd never talk again, assuming I survived it in the first place. He asked her the odd question: "Is Damon risk-averse?" and also whether being unable to talk would significantly impact my career. As a lawyer who appears in court regularly, I think the answer to that is pretty damn clear. I have no memory of this. <br />
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Meanwhile, the bacteria were being cultured to try to identify what had attacked me, and everyone was watching my white blood cell count to see whether it was moving in the right direction. I was on four different kinds of high-powered IV antibiotics because no one was certain which one might prove effective. <br />
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I was only vaguely cognizant of this stuff. I like to think I was at least partially lucid at the time, but I can't remember much of what happened. At one point, I scrawled on a white board: <i>I feel like post-Trump America.</i><br />
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For me, the most alarming part of things was that I'd gone to the doctor thinking I'd get just get some antibiotics. From there, I'd learned I needed surgery, perhaps even a tonsillectomy, and the thought of spending a weekend in the hospital was nightmarish. But now, no one could tell me much with certainty except that I'd be intubated for the foreseeable future and my hospital stay could last for <i>weeks</i> if things didn't play out in my favor. A week-long stay was the best I could hope for.<br />
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Fortunately, things broke in my favor, and I recovered more swiftly than the doctors' most optimistic estimates. I think my relative youth, good health, and strong immune system counted heavily in my favor. The antibiotics succeeded in driving out the infection over the course of a few days. I was intubated until Sunday, moved out of the ICU on Monday, and released on Tuesday -- 5 days after admission.<br />
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From here, it's going to be a bit of a road to recovery. I'm on a liquid-only diet for several more days, and I'm exhausted and weak. Given the blood I lost during the surgery and over the course of hourly tests, my hemoglobin levels are through the floor, and I wasn't able to sleep for more than half an hour at a stretch for 5 or 6 days. ICUs are terrible -- loud, beeping machines, a tube down your throat, 800 wires and IVs connected to you, and nurses who poke you, draw blood, change drips, and ask you how you're doing literally every hour. Several times I managed to fall asleep, only to be awoken by a nurse who just wanted to know if I was okay.<br />
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Ultimately, given the background terrible luck that put me in the hospital in the first place, I think I'm pretty fortunate. The primary care nurse sent me to the ER rather than sending me home, which isn't an inevitable call to make for someone who presents with a sore throat and fever during flu season. Had she done otherwise, I think my life could look significantly different going forward, because the infection was ballooning in a nightmarish area. I also found myself at Johns Hopkins, which is about the safest place one could be; in many parts of the country, that wouldn't have been an option. I had a tonsillectomy, but that's an afterthought in the grand scheme of things.<br />
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It's hard to know what conclusions to draw from this. It's easy to say: "If you're sick, go to the doctor," but I'm almost never sick, and when I am, it tends to last about 12 hours. Moreover, I think I have a high pain tolerance -- the sorts of athletic events I'm drawn to suggest as much -- and an allergy to drama. Put it together and it translates into a philosophy of "there's nothing wrong with me that a little sleep won't fix." I suspect many endurance athletes share some or all of these traits, so maybe this story will provide a cautionary tale to someone out there. <br />
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It'll take time to get my strength back, catch up on work, and get life back to normal. Obviously there will be a lot of rebuilding needed on the bike, although hopefully it won't be a return to zero. It's amazing how much strength you lose from being confined to a bed for only a few days.<br />
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On the whole, I'm a lucky guy. Amy was an incredible trooper at a time when she really couldn't afford to be given her situation at work, and I had a steady stream of friends visiting me in the ICU from D.C. and Baltimore. I had more messages and well-wishes than I could hope to respond to. <br />
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Perhaps this is best placed into the category of a near-miss. Life is full of those, whether we know it or not. Ten years ago, my brother Jaron -- for whom this blog is named -- presented at a primary care doctor with a headache. His experience was the opposite of mine: he was prescribed pills and sent home, and then the same thing happened again when he went to the E.R. a day or two later. No one even performed a CT scan. By the time someone took him seriously, it was too late, and a treatable cyst in his brain had become fatal. From what I'm told, my situation could have headed in that direction if my caregivers had been less concerned and diligent, and if my treatment had been delayed much longer. <br />
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We all rely on other people in life, whether we want to admit it or not, and regardless how recently we've read Ayn Rand. Life is about making the most of the opportunities and gifts we have, but it's also about being lucky in countless ways -- from having a caring family and educational opportunities to people who look out for us when we desperately need it, even if we don't know it at the time. I'm happy to say I've been deeply fortunate in all of the ways that matter. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-47023480976310879282016-07-24T14:22:00.004-04:002016-07-25T09:24:17.686-04:00Chasing a Canadian: Race Across Oregon 2016 Race Report<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MQ3NJpvJi8A/V5J2ED0Gq1I/AAAAAAAAFF0/7X5dDez06kMhz14yQyYJuFvq0n8yCyegQCK4B/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-07-22%2Bat%2B3.37.15%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="375" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MQ3NJpvJi8A/V5J2ED0Gq1I/AAAAAAAAFF0/7X5dDez06kMhz14yQyYJuFvq0n8yCyegQCK4B/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-07-22%2Bat%2B3.37.15%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is my pet elevation profile. His name is Spike.</td></tr>
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The <a href="http://www.raceacrossoregon.com/">Race Across Oregon</a> bills itself as the "best qualifier to prepare you to compete in [the Race Across America," and the defense of that theory is that it's the toughest event you can find in the 500-mile range. People think of Oregon and imagine hipsters, pinot noir, and verdant forests; those are to be found, but not on this course. RAO starts in The Dalles, which is about 90 minutes east of Portland on the Columbia River, and it's the beginning of the end as far as green goes. George Thomas, the race director, is an institution in the ultracycling world -- he hosts several endurance-cycling podcasts and often serves as the finish line announcer for RAAM. RAO has been his insidious plaything for the last 19 years; next year, for the 20th anniversary, it sounds like he's planning a "difficult" version. God help us.</div>
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The thing is, this race is a beast from the first mile to the last -- 520 miles and 42,000 feet of climbing, some 13,000 more than the peak of Mt. Everest is above sea level. Commercial airliners cruise at 39,000 feet. The <a href="http://www.the508.com/">Silver State 508</a>, which I raced in 2014, is 10 miles shorter and "only" has 20,000 feet of climbing, <i>i.e.</i>, less than half as much. Complicating matters further are the temperatures and winds. RAO is notorious for having 100-degree climbs without a tree for 50 miles in any direction, and you ride through some of the largest wind farms I've ever seen, which suggests something about the breezes one might encounter. The combination of distance, climbing, heat, and winds makes this about the toughest "single day" ride around, not that anyone can actually finish it in a single day.</div>
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Why race it? It's gorgeous in an "I hope I don't die out here" kind of way, and sometimes it's fun to go primal and see what you're capable of conquering. Plus you get to experience the third grader's dream of eating literally whatever you want for a couple of days, assuming the unlikely premise that you're capable of keeping food down. Who <i>wouldn't</i> sign up for that in a heartbeat?</div>
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I'd signed up for RAO in 2015, but my losing encounter with a wet metal bridge in Texas derailed that plan. This year, though, I was focused on it and about as prepared as I'd ever been for anything. So far this year I'd taken on 2 separate 24-hour races (<a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2016/02/dancing-in-coral-shoes-24-hours-of.html">Sebring</a> and <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2016/06/blinded-by-light-n24hc-2016.html">National 24-Hour</a>), ridden a 200k, 300k, 400k with 18,000 feet of climbing, and <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2016/06/solo-super-6-lynn-kristianson-memorial.html">SR600k</a>, and most recently, I'd cranked out 450 miles with 45,000 feet of climbing over the course of a week in the desert heat of Corsica. All told, I'd ridden 5+ days a week, week-in and week-out. RAO could bring its worst.</div>
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Oddly, though, it didn't seem inclined to. I'd been visualizing riding inside of the world's largest and steepest hairdryer for 520 miles, but the weather forecast was disquietingly non-disquieting. Highs in the low 80s, lows in the high 40s, and winds of... 7 mph. I couldn't quite believe it, so I checked every location on the course I could find for a week or more out, but they all told the same story. So, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I packed my deep-rim racing wheels, reasoning that if I can't handle them in 7-mph winds, I need to turn in my man card. But I did bring along a backup set of conventional wheels from one of my crew members, because if there's one thing I've learned in my years of riding, it's that I'm the cycling version of the Bad News Bears.<br />
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Speaking of crew, my two crew members were Max and Sam, the same pair of brothers who'd endured with my nonsense at Silver State 508 two years ago. As ultracyclists and bike mechanics, they were the perfect guys to know what I needed before I did, which is the ultimate help on a ride like this.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W-wSXKf_Fjs/V5F6KOy8AJI/AAAAAAAAE_k/2UfLLsUOBWkSEV66VXwY_s-Wp20-F0jwACK4B/s1600/76.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W-wSXKf_Fjs/V5F6KOy8AJI/AAAAAAAAE_k/2UfLLsUOBWkSEV66VXwY_s-Wp20-F0jwACK4B/s400/76.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My pre-race serenity glare.</td></tr>
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As the race field shaped up, it looked like there were three favorites to win, in one order or another. Mick Walsh, a past winner and veteran ultracyclists from Ireland by way of Seattle, was one of them. The second was a Canadian randonneur, Nigel Press, about whom I knew little; I gathered from the pre-race meeting that he was a vegetarian, so I asked my crew to surreptitiously spike the route with beef jerky fragments. The third was me, but let's be serious here -- I've found ways to finish third in solo training rides.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zqM_HPQox9M/V5F32_DPEXI/AAAAAAAAE9U/b91u6CWjDuA6-uzdYvHS8_LhvCJ6jy44QCK4B/s1600/79.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zqM_HPQox9M/V5F32_DPEXI/AAAAAAAAE9U/b91u6CWjDuA6-uzdYvHS8_LhvCJ6jy44QCK4B/s400/79.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making sure my GPS wasn't going to guide me to Corsica.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tldgQ4RaZyM/V5F36IYm7kI/AAAAAAAAE9c/mhF3pPiqLFMP1qik49Nu1ALS-nK0HBgigCK4B/s1600/78.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tldgQ4RaZyM/V5F36IYm7kI/AAAAAAAAE9c/mhF3pPiqLFMP1qik49Nu1ALS-nK0HBgigCK4B/s400/78.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mick Walsh and Nigel Press, probably debating the best arm-sleeve color.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3pBPe3hGXdc/V5F3Kqskf9I/AAAAAAAAE8M/kp1KkX6dE4EZmLyC3GH1y6vCX0gyPZxrACK4B/s1600/99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3pBPe3hGXdc/V5F3Kqskf9I/AAAAAAAAE8M/kp1KkX6dE4EZmLyC3GH1y6vCX0gyPZxrACK4B/s400/99.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone's feeling good about their chances of a top-10 finish.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EWStLEJR894/V5F3NGXAffI/AAAAAAAAE8U/14R9FNNis-IJNjBJ4I9CPw5SNJSE7UXkQCK4B/s1600/107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EWStLEJR894/V5F3NGXAffI/AAAAAAAAE8U/14R9FNNis-IJNjBJ4I9CPw5SNJSE7UXkQCK4B/s400/107.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So far, so good. But not very far.</td></tr>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Start to TS-1 (Almost Tygh Valley)</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">57 Miles; 5,275 feet of climbing</span></b><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wWV2GEQuEyg/V5JvjATefxI/AAAAAAAAFD8/eTU78wEKGscs_ODY_eAW5jr1_fynXEV_wCK4B/s1600/Start%2Bto%2BTS%2B1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="81" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wWV2GEQuEyg/V5JvjATefxI/AAAAAAAAFD8/eTU78wEKGscs_ODY_eAW5jr1_fynXEV_wCK4B/s400/Start%2Bto%2BTS%2B1.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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The race started with a 22-mile appetizer loop to the northwest of The Dalles, running along the Columbia River before swinging inland, climbing Sevenmile Hill, and bombing back down past the Dalles before heading onward toward, well, who knew. We spun merrily through a perfect 60-degree dawn, enjoying the neutral start before George unleashed us onto the course (or vice-versus). About 50 yards into the first climb -- perhaps mile 7 -- Nigel cruised past me and moseyed on into the distance. I was holding a steady 250 watts or so, which was about the most I was interested in doing in the first 20 minutes of a 520-mile ride, so I felt confident that Nigel was getting a little over-enthusiastic. For me, the mission at that point was singular: go easy, keep the heart rate down, and eat every damn thing I could get my hands on.<br />
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Then Mick passed me, too. Well, crap. By the top of the first 500-foot climb, Mick was about 50 yards ahead, and Nigel was... actually, it wasn't clear. But nowhere that I could see. I had mental images of mushroom clouds. The 4-mile, 1000-foot climb up Sevenmile passed uneventfully, with Mick pulling away steadily.<br />
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Max and Sam had pre-ridden this 22-mile beginning loop the weekend before, and on our scouting drive, they'd warned me that the wind had gotten a little squirrelly on the 4-mile, 1700-foot descent from the Sevenmile summit. Things felt pretty still to me, but as I noted, I was riding Zipp 808s, which aren't the most stable wheels I could have chosen. I resolved to be safe above all else. My speeds crept up into the mid-40s, but with wide, sweeping turns, all was well.<br />
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Then it suddenly wasn't, in a very big way. When Oregon weather forecasts say "7 mph winds," they must mean an average of 7 mph. Thus, the winds were 0-2 mph, except for brief periods when they kicked up to about 60 mph without warning. I found myself going 40 mph down a hill into a sudden malevolent swirl, and it induced something I've since learned is called "speed wobble." It isn't nearly as much fun as it sounds. The wind twisted my front wheel sideways, and then when the bike corrected itself, it overcorrected and flipped the wheel to the other side where the wind caught it again, and so forth. The end result was that suddenly my front wheel was whipping back and forth as the bicycle shook violently. I was 100% sure that I was going to crash, and was in the state of wondering how best to fall so as not to wind up back in the emergency room.<br />
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Here's what speed wobble looks like from behind on a descent slightly less technical than the one I was on. Watch the full first 45 seconds, but the 30-second mark is where it gets lively:<br />
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Speed wobble is just terrifying, and mine lasted easily twice as long as the episode in the video. The mental process was: "Holy crap, the whole bike is shaking... front wheel bucking... can't steer... going to flip over handlebars any second, how do I survive this... help... haven't flipped over yet, so at least it will constitute a valiant effort... I'm running off of the road because I can't steer, but maybe that will make the landing less painful... maybe if I relax a bit... bike shaking less... whoa, stay on road... brake... I'm still alive, but I have no idea why... ok, I've got it." 7-mph winds, my *ss. </div>
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Meanwhile, Mick was well out of sight as I rode my brakes to the bottom of the hill, where George was waiting with his camera. He seemed happy to see me, but I was far happier to see him, or really anything except stars.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TJsebTLQPKs/V5F2xMlutRI/AAAAAAAAE7s/SwtT2wVIs7wo4CfW2-FGwwQmpkFjOWlrgCK4B/s1600/98.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TJsebTLQPKs/V5F2xMlutRI/AAAAAAAAE7s/SwtT2wVIs7wo4CfW2-FGwwQmpkFjOWlrgCK4B/s400/98.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside: stoic. Inside: abject terror.</td></tr>
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Well, this wasn't going to plan so far, but I was still on my feet (so to speak), and I linked up with my the crew to cruise through The Dalles in pursuit of a Canadian and an Irishman across the high desert of Oregon. Call it the Ultracycling Theory of Globalization. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zvGefcnVI64/V5F6DDZ4k5I/AAAAAAAAE_Y/Yo4pYHs5l1M3nFQjDdlX8_P2__veM65XwCK4B/s1600/86.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zvGefcnVI64/V5F6DDZ4k5I/AAAAAAAAE_Y/Yo4pYHs5l1M3nFQjDdlX8_P2__veM65XwCK4B/s400/86.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Needless to say, the route did not take us to "Friend." </td></tr>
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As we headed south from The Dalles, we shortly began a climb that couldn't decide whether it was a false flat or a protracted slog. The cue sheet said "generally ascending for next 21.5 miles/2300 feet," but I didn't have that in front of me. All I knew was that I was going nowhere fast, and very occasionally going fast toward nowhere. At some point I rolled past Mick as he took a nature break, but he slotted in right behind me and was riding well.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b8JckMngaXE/V5F4KiQfzyI/AAAAAAAAE9k/ecMremBysZYdT0wc5R0hxYWfHcPxEqFFwCK4B/s1600/82.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b8JckMngaXE/V5F4KiQfzyI/AAAAAAAAE9k/ecMremBysZYdT0wc5R0hxYWfHcPxEqFFwCK4B/s400/82.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what passes as an action shot in the ultracycling world.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hB_LZ-14b_Q/V5F3uJAJ7jI/AAAAAAAAE9I/L62B8aNMPV4seizNq06jx3Rhq3HVHgshQCK4B/s1600/91.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hB_LZ-14b_Q/V5F3uJAJ7jI/AAAAAAAAE9I/L62B8aNMPV4seizNq06jx3Rhq3HVHgshQCK4B/s400/91.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A splash of coral and air of indignation... must be Damon.</td></tr>
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Max managed to catch me hoofing up the climb with Mick in hot pursuit.<br />
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Eventually we reached the Tygh River Summit at mile 49 and began the long, gliding descent toward the first time station. By all rights, this descent should have been a blast -- little traffic, great visibility and pavement, and a shoulder to keep one out of harm's way -- but I found it incredibly stressful. In general, there was little wind, but especially after my earlier bout with speed wobble, it became apparent that any break in the hills would bring a vicious crosswind from one direction or another. Also, there were large trucks and semis passing at 50 mph or so; they weren't close enough to be dangerous themselves, but they created strong, swirling gusts that would play havoc with my front wheel about 5 seconds after they passed. </div>
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In general, I started to think of the wind on this course as an invisible ninja who'd attack unpredictably and from a random direction. (To those who protest that ninjas are always invisible and unpredictable, I salute your wisdom. Namaste.) I'd be riding on my merry way, then suddenly my bike would be possessed by demons. At that point I began to realize that, if the pattern kept up, my wheels were a categorical disadvantage: they were heavy, so they weren't the right choice for climbing; there was nothing flat, period, ever, to make use of their benefits for time-trialing; and on descents, any aerodynamic advantage they might have conferred was negated by the fact that I had to brake constantly to control the bike in the swirling winds. You know it's a perverse situation when you're looking forward to the next climb because at least then you'll be safe. </div>
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I hit the first time station and turned east toward Moro. Nigel the Canadian Vegetarian(TM) was long out of sight, and although I'd hoped to pull away from Mick a bit, he was firmly on my tail. Still, wind issues aside, I was executing well by keeping my heart rate firmly in check and my wattage in the "comfortable" range. All of the food was gettin' in mah belly. 55 miles down and about 465 to go. </div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 2: Moro</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">48 miles; 3,300 feet of climbing</span></b></div>
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Stage 2 began the long eastward portion of the route's clockwise loop. We were now in the region where there are roads, but it's not clear why -- there is virtually no civilization, unless you count the periodic hyper-toxic-looking snake sunning itself on the road. It's pretty, though: the trees finally yielded completely to wild grasses, and we had the horizons to ourselves. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m5P46afdGdA/V5GExzJKRPI/AAAAAAAAFCY/22QahlUgm-sFjbo8TBRfK01fQR5jFe3mACK4B/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m5P46afdGdA/V5GExzJKRPI/AAAAAAAAFCY/22QahlUgm-sFjbo8TBRfK01fQR5jFe3mACK4B/s400/14.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A snake rancher, I think.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i3TbRLfXpf0/V5GEzeV1wHI/AAAAAAAAFCk/8CM0WfI4AhQTjSSWs4ng6Kli9SR0yH5ygCK4B/s1600/15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i3TbRLfXpf0/V5GEzeV1wHI/AAAAAAAAFCk/8CM0WfI4AhQTjSSWs4ng6Kli9SR0yH5ygCK4B/s400/15.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parking opportunities on the route were... plentiful.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kInfQIN0eLM/V5GEd3hTKBI/AAAAAAAAFB8/kKU1pTsTz1gf52dHGF4AhhJ3unOivzs5ACK4B/s1600/102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kInfQIN0eLM/V5GEd3hTKBI/AAAAAAAAFB8/kKU1pTsTz1gf52dHGF4AhhJ3unOivzs5ACK4B/s400/102.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When we saw rushing rivers, we invariably went the way the water didn't.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qvoUwJz9qCM/V5GESB_PHvI/AAAAAAAAFB0/k6S8sskpLqM5UKUjyerx5aZsEd7xC_EeQCK4B/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qvoUwJz9qCM/V5GESB_PHvI/AAAAAAAAFB0/k6S8sskpLqM5UKUjyerx5aZsEd7xC_EeQCK4B/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great roads, green rivers, good times.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v9LsO8STdUk/V5GE3DGobFI/AAAAAAAAFCs/5aVnqG27jCMJ1-Xc8fp6vMX0HqgLt8N4ACK4B/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v9LsO8STdUk/V5GE3DGobFI/AAAAAAAAFCs/5aVnqG27jCMJ1-Xc8fp6vMX0HqgLt8N4ACK4B/s400/16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Around that curve is the exact same view.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xt0X0eYBPdw/V5GErXWHGfI/AAAAAAAAFCQ/OppN3uII-MA6vwkjDZIChMhHajzkrmbUgCK4B/s1600/24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xt0X0eYBPdw/V5GErXWHGfI/AAAAAAAAFCQ/OppN3uII-MA6vwkjDZIChMhHajzkrmbUgCK4B/s400/24.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max allegedly found a tree. I suspect Photoshop sorcery.</td></tr>
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At mile 5, we met the Dechutes River and began the 4.5-mile, 1350-foot "Grass Valley" climb, which ascended the walls of a rocky canyon. Due to the narrow roads, no support was permitted on this stretch, so the crews hung out at the bottom while riders wound their ways skyward. It was a meditative, solitary hike, punctuated periodically by glimpses of Mick's neon-yellow arm sleeves on lower switch-backs. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ETcu_Pu2TBI/V5GEhrACnDI/AAAAAAAAFCI/WhyHVPAxeTIya1aA3Bdv_iqqCBSI6ucmQCK4B/s1600/105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ETcu_Pu2TBI/V5GEhrACnDI/AAAAAAAAFCI/WhyHVPAxeTIya1aA3Bdv_iqqCBSI6ucmQCK4B/s400/105.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisa Bliss, a female solo rider, takes on the Grass Valley climb.</td></tr>
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Upon summiting Grass Valley at long last, we felt we had the world to ourselves, and it was pretty spectacular. Mt. Hood's snow-capped peak towered in the distance, adding a layer of disconnect between it and the parched desert foreground.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EEc3M5NlHOw/V5GEHnE9bbI/AAAAAAAAFBk/_WgInaUwEFYqOeNs604teGnhAt80ro_5QCK4B/s1600/100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EEc3M5NlHOw/V5GEHnE9bbI/AAAAAAAAFBk/_WgInaUwEFYqOeNs604teGnhAt80ro_5QCK4B/s400/100.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skiing in July? Apparently so, on Mt. Hood. Not for us, though.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IXv9mJqlgcw/V5F4YPezl7I/AAAAAAAAE90/fVHBrYqmGg0_IIn_gO2yY18rMJd8NrwmgCK4B/s1600/1%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IXv9mJqlgcw/V5F4YPezl7I/AAAAAAAAE90/fVHBrYqmGg0_IIn_gO2yY18rMJd8NrwmgCK4B/s400/1%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My drafting shot. Oh, relax -- there's no one in the stationary van.</td></tr>
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One thing I hadn't realized was how visible the "Ring of Fire" peaks are from interior Oregon. Mt. Hood was ever-visible, but it's only one in a string of volcanic peaks on the horizon. To its north was the dome of Mt. St. Helens.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-90CDKOQcQ_c/V5GEMQoW76I/AAAAAAAAFBs/zHD6b5tzriEPQfNukc0vT-VKU71_rAYdQCK4B/s1600/101.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-90CDKOQcQ_c/V5GEMQoW76I/AAAAAAAAFBs/zHD6b5tzriEPQfNukc0vT-VKU71_rAYdQCK4B/s400/101.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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At the tops of certain grades, we could see all the way to Mt. Rainer, near Seattle. At one point, from right to left, I spied Ranier, St. Helens, Hood, and Jefferson, reminders all that there were tougher climbs to be found.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vXi7ym-OKk0/V5GDab5c64I/AAAAAAAAFAk/HTz2A8djtnIV1v2tWDFQbkQyJGOa40AjACK4B/s1600/25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vXi7ym-OKk0/V5GDab5c64I/AAAAAAAAFAk/HTz2A8djtnIV1v2tWDFQbkQyJGOa40AjACK4B/s400/25.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A glorious solitude.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WJgTR6_Lsrg/V5GE_541b7I/AAAAAAAAFC0/7wjwFWQ5NUYjRy4Fo3-nDWakUEqUVVx7gCK4B/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WJgTR6_Lsrg/V5GE_541b7I/AAAAAAAAFC0/7wjwFWQ5NUYjRy4Fo3-nDWakUEqUVVx7gCK4B/s400/8.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just solitude. And chip seal.</td></tr>
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Somewhere along the line, Mick Walsh's support vehicle stopped overlapping me, which I took to mean he'd dropped back a little bit. It was just me, trying to catch the Canadian.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 3: Condon</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">43 miles; 3,971 feet of climbing</span></b><br />
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Stage 3 continued our eastward trek toward Condon, legendary on this route for the fact that it has a gas station. On the way, though, was what the route book describes as a "generally ascending 21-mile, 2600-foot climb." Sweet! At least it was shady, right? Well, not so much.<br />
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What this section did have was wheat and wind farms the likes of which I'd never seen.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y1z9a5mX29Y/V5F3guVx7XI/AAAAAAAAE84/8UEi07JJvVE-h910badc15Pxe78f2KyCgCK4B/s1600/103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y1z9a5mX29Y/V5F3guVx7XI/AAAAAAAAE84/8UEi07JJvVE-h910badc15Pxe78f2KyCgCK4B/s400/103.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Families of fan blades.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Zy6qHGKZZSs/V5F6QI4v0nI/AAAAAAAAE_s/KQ278C6S61UKD-fWVMpL89n_vvH4ys3FwCK4B/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Zy6qHGKZZSs/V5F6QI4v0nI/AAAAAAAAE_s/KQ278C6S61UKD-fWVMpL89n_vvH4ys3FwCK4B/s400/11.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I tried to keep things in perspective. </td></tr>
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Having passed the 200k point and getting progressively baked in the sun, I started to think of the clusters of wind turbines as lonely colonizing families on an inhospitable planet, gazing stoically into the distance and pining for companionship. It's possible I was projecting. Still, the turbines were my only friends out there, and I wondered: do wind turbines dream?</div>
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Things were getting strange. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LdOWnR2zN5w/V5GDRzeoBiI/AAAAAAAAFAU/rInJHGDvx8Yrco7pUwU3OJ05RnIOmGb6ACK4B/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LdOWnR2zN5w/V5GDRzeoBiI/AAAAAAAAFAU/rInJHGDvx8Yrco7pUwU3OJ05RnIOmGb6ACK4B/s400/4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing in the aerobars, because I figured I should use them for something.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oLSmZEiCcyI/V5GDdBmt_YI/AAAAAAAAFAs/ZkMM2__0qa08_REr_tUavqhvK0Lwh9IPgCK4B/s1600/26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oLSmZEiCcyI/V5GDdBmt_YI/AAAAAAAAFAs/ZkMM2__0qa08_REr_tUavqhvK0Lwh9IPgCK4B/s400/26.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Hood recedes, but never disappears.</td></tr>
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Eventually it became clear that this whole region was ruled by farmers and their rolling hills of golden wheat.</div>
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The wind turbines created odd studies in perspective. At one point, on a distant hilltop, I saw a vertical shaft with what looked like dozens of spikes shooting out of the top of it from all angles, like the world's deadliest flower. I couldn't quite imagine what it was, but as I continued on, I realized I'd seen a row of wind turbines aligned so perfectly that they looked like a single column. And, because the turbines were pointed in slightly different directions, the blades appeared to thrust from all sides of the top of the spindle.</div>
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Finally, about 100 miles in, I'd had enough of invisible wind ninjas. I'd handled an 808 front wheel in all sorts of conditions, but never in a situation where there were <u>zero</u> clues about when the wind would hit you or from which direction. Of course, wind is always invisible unless you live in Beijing, but usually you have trees or grass to give you some idea of what's going on. Not here -- I'd get violently buffeted but the scrubby shrubs were models of placidity. So, swallowing my pride, I asked my crew to switch out my front race wheel for one that wasn't an EMT full-employment device.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nAw_CQ8J1ME/V5GFDwV3GPI/AAAAAAAAFC8/W1vsJwxh1NQh2FnS7QfSU7rtj1N5aNuPACK4B/s1600/17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nAw_CQ8J1ME/V5GFDwV3GPI/AAAAAAAAFC8/W1vsJwxh1NQh2FnS7QfSU7rtj1N5aNuPACK4B/s400/17.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">I read somewhere that unzipping your jersey on a climb looks pro. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ki7Sw9SG5OQ/V5GFG7y35GI/AAAAAAAAFDE/v9VIx5urteUfjjs9hGdl61cQQPj_89yXgCK4B/s1600/18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ki7Sw9SG5OQ/V5GFG7y35GI/AAAAAAAAFDE/v9VIx5urteUfjjs9hGdl61cQQPj_89yXgCK4B/s400/18.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">On the other hand, pairing a Zipp 808 with a shallow aluminum front wheel is not pro.</td></tr>
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As I approached Condon, the crew darted ahead of me to take advantage of the gas station and other indicia of civilization. But just after they left, I noted something I couldn't quite understand. In a field to the left of the road, about half a mile in front of me, was what looked like a geyser shooting hundreds of yards into the air from the middle of a field. At first I thought it was smoke, but it had an odd motion to it. And, as I drew closer, I saw that parts of bushes were swirling upward within the column, and the column itself appeared to be moving toward me, looking like nothing so much as a small tornado. It was my first encounter with a dust devil.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WU4UteR1A_k/V5JyUw8A2nI/AAAAAAAAFEk/pRoYDwsQbk08LGP-aV1LZGZzpl6sDyhNQCK4B/s1600/Dust_devil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WU4UteR1A_k/V5JyUw8A2nI/AAAAAAAAFEk/pRoYDwsQbk08LGP-aV1LZGZzpl6sDyhNQCK4B/s400/Dust_devil.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my picture, but one identical to what I saw.</td></tr>
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As I barreled down the road, the dust devil swung across the field to intercept me. Finally, wanting no part of colliding with it, I stopped on the side of the road as the mini-twister crossed about 20 yards in front of me, jumped up an embankment, and continued on its way. Wild!</div>
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After about 145 miles, I reached Condon, where I found Max and Sam refueling. I shouted something about a dust devil as I rode by, and Max replied with a look that said, "Why aren't you pedaling harder?" Point taken, I plowed onward toward Heppner, the northeastern corner of the route.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WzBOS2AtpIc/V5JyXYkM9pI/AAAAAAAAFEs/wzwTwiR00W4ZTkDYd1c3oVTZ6J6hZ7E3QCK4B/s1600/42.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WzBOS2AtpIc/V5JyXYkM9pI/AAAAAAAAFEs/wzwTwiR00W4ZTkDYd1c3oVTZ6J6hZ7E3QCK4B/s400/42.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 4: Almost Heppner</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">42.5 miles; 3,289 feet of climbing</span></b></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yx76e_DCrf0/V5Jxvg6_QsI/AAAAAAAAFEY/xQQ6N5oxxFUtGv0rgVUiJnZjW4t_kAthQCK4B/s1600/TS3%2Bto%2BTS%2B4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="101" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yx76e_DCrf0/V5Jxvg6_QsI/AAAAAAAAFEY/xQQ6N5oxxFUtGv0rgVUiJnZjW4t_kAthQCK4B/s400/TS3%2Bto%2BTS%2B4.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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By now things were getting toasty. Nothing I couldn't handle, and I still felt solid, but I took my first shot of <a href="https://www.skratchlabs.com/products/hyper-hydration-mix">Skratch Hyper Hydration</a>, which is like gold powder on hot days. It's a 1700-milligram nuclear blast of electrolytes, but it doesn't taste the least bit salty.</div>
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As the wind turbines faded into the distance, I realized I hadn't seen another rider for hours, and mentally I began to shift from racing to the randonneuring mindset of clicking off miles as efficiently as possible. No more pedaling the descents -- I was happy to cruise down them on my new non-alarming front wheel. When I'd see Max and Sam standing down the road, the "heat lakes" rising from the pavement made them look as if they were walking on water in the least likely of locales.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zJfyD4SM74s/V5GDVSHsq2I/AAAAAAAAFAc/Blk9aY3gsc8uvIDG0eEyKjaLAhf8rgVcgCK4B/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zJfyD4SM74s/V5GDVSHsq2I/AAAAAAAAFAc/Blk9aY3gsc8uvIDG0eEyKjaLAhf8rgVcgCK4B/s400/5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rollin' on the river. Just need a river.</td></tr>
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This segment of the route was far from flat, but the stand-out features were two climbs of about 3.5 miles each with not a drop of shade to be found.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_9lIM0rrmwA/V5GDhb8PjKI/AAAAAAAAFA0/KQilrlCQ0-U5vH0d7jpZdxL3YbotQIcVwCK4B/s1600/34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_9lIM0rrmwA/V5GDhb8PjKI/AAAAAAAAFA0/KQilrlCQ0-U5vH0d7jpZdxL3YbotQIcVwCK4B/s400/34.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crew waits for me to climb. That white speck is a van.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hFUt4NrAMyg/V5GDjH44KDI/AAAAAAAAFA8/2oOzyb5SUSE6jsGfdLffSz2c0XSRT6EGwCK4B/s1600/35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hFUt4NrAMyg/V5GDjH44KDI/AAAAAAAAFA8/2oOzyb5SUSE6jsGfdLffSz2c0XSRT6EGwCK4B/s400/35.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've got it made in the shade, sort of.</td></tr>
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The crew prudently started icing the water, which made a substantial difference. I was drinking so much that nature breaks were beginning to eat into my progress, which I decided was the lesser of evils.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rb9wWOf8OWE/V5GD0eX4fwI/AAAAAAAAFBQ/JqNroFVf9EwvAou5g7CDxWU5YNVw7S_jgCK4B/s1600/51.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rb9wWOf8OWE/V5GD0eX4fwI/AAAAAAAAFBQ/JqNroFVf9EwvAou5g7CDxWU5YNVw7S_jgCK4B/s400/51.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r9oTyICFk8o/V5GFdBALtzI/AAAAAAAAFDQ/Azcm68egdNE2683qhZ4TIRpDLBkwSzs-ACK4B/s1600/36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r9oTyICFk8o/V5GFdBALtzI/AAAAAAAAFDQ/Azcm68egdNE2683qhZ4TIRpDLBkwSzs-ACK4B/s400/36.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The turbines are still visible on the horizon.</td></tr>
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Not a tree to be seen, and not a cloud in the sky. Just me, the open road, and if I'm honest, probably snakes.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1AkRbqPMIzw/V5GDvHx2TdI/AAAAAAAAFBI/2TwiN41DFNgNnnlaZs621ii8kLq6CB7EACK4B/s1600/37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1AkRbqPMIzw/V5GDvHx2TdI/AAAAAAAAFBI/2TwiN41DFNgNnnlaZs621ii8kLq6CB7EACK4B/s400/37.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perfect pavement, if flawless chip seal is your thing.</td></tr>
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Toward the end of this segment, I began to realize why this race is so tough mentally. I was prepared for climbing, but the terrain on this ride never really gave you a good idea of where you were climbing <i>to</i>, or how long it might take to get there. There are no mountaintops or ridge lines in sight; instead, you just find yourself grinding upward and realize it's been a long time since you've done anything else, and there's little sign of when the situation might change.</div>
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I reached the 300k point, "Almost Heppner," after 10 hours and 45 minutes, having climbed about 15,000 feet. More than 1/3 of the way there! <br />
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<b><span style="color: #f1c232;">Stage 5: Dale</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #f1c232;">60 miles, 4600 feet of climbing</span></b><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Wqf3Ieq5RyI/V5JyuWaw3FI/AAAAAAAAFE4/iJhlN1JeTMgpXHiT8tGetMMsHqDlJgllwCK4B/s1600/TS%2B4%2Bto%2BTS%2B5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="83" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Wqf3Ieq5RyI/V5JyuWaw3FI/AAAAAAAAFE4/iJhlN1JeTMgpXHiT8tGetMMsHqDlJgllwCK4B/s400/TS%2B4%2Bto%2BTS%2B5.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Just when I'd begun to wonder if I'd ever see a tree again, things changed on a dime as I turned onto the Scenic Byway and approached the Blue Mountains. The brush gave way to gorgeous Ponderosa pine forests. I vaguely recalled something about a climb in this region, but I didn't realize what a climb it was -- 24 miles, gaining 3300 feet. But I felt great, and with gentle grades ascending into verdant woods, there was no place I'd rather have been. I kept up a happy spin and enjoyed the scenery, climbing for nearly two hours straight to the summit at 5300 feet.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lBPETWER5rQ/V5F5qLAnyGI/AAAAAAAAE_M/uyrxK5f-4TYDEhx23eXnDwwvC6up6UUBwCK4B/s1600/45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lBPETWER5rQ/V5F5qLAnyGI/AAAAAAAAE_M/uyrxK5f-4TYDEhx23eXnDwwvC6up6UUBwCK4B/s400/45.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0ArEDEnTp3k/V5GDC0o1k8I/AAAAAAAAFAM/mYedfIXcxAEn2M8OI4vppSwIYQkcMXWMACK4B/s1600/54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0ArEDEnTp3k/V5GDC0o1k8I/AAAAAAAAFAM/mYedfIXcxAEn2M8OI4vppSwIYQkcMXWMACK4B/s400/54.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The only thing more fun than this climb was the descent, a sweeping, gliding affair entirely without crosswinds due to the buffering trees. The only trick was the cattle grids, which were more frequent than I'd have liked, particularly given my heightened sensitivity to such things following my 2015 wreck. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FFwDK7W4yvI/V5F5kKuKtKI/AAAAAAAAE-8/NcSSySsLG5YiYH5lvneKMxOZSVlsjLzBwCK4B/s1600/48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FFwDK7W4yvI/V5F5kKuKtKI/AAAAAAAAE-8/NcSSySsLG5YiYH5lvneKMxOZSVlsjLzBwCK4B/s400/48.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cattle grid, ahoy!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7GKbMmQKIho/V5F5dmmRRCI/AAAAAAAAE-0/JtiDzp0iPow7IFLfI-di7CTwT9EmBd1DgCK4B/s1600/44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7GKbMmQKIho/V5F5dmmRRCI/AAAAAAAAE-0/JtiDzp0iPow7IFLfI-di7CTwT9EmBd1DgCK4B/s400/44.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those cattle must be as big as railroad cars.</td></tr>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3O9mZ6LtS4A/V5F5XuzCwUI/AAAAAAAAE-s/fAY16bburEQv0ZluzGIigRRvJ5GHD3jKgCK4B/s1600/55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3O9mZ6LtS4A/V5F5XuzCwUI/AAAAAAAAE-s/fAY16bburEQv0ZluzGIigRRvJ5GHD3jKgCK4B/s400/55.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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The descent took us east to Ukiah, where we turned south toward Dale, and the road evolved into one of the most glorious I've ever ridden: a twisting descent for miles along a river. No need for brakes, no cars in sight -- what a world apart from the ordinary.<br />
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At one point, as I was sweeping along at 45 mph or so, I glimpsed in the road ahead a flock of doves doing nothing in particular. All but one fled as I approached, but that daredevil stuck to its guns until I was about 10 feet from it. I went left to avoid it, but the dove sprung into action in exactly the wrong manner, darting right in front of me. It flew directly into my left shin, and the crew (in direct-follow mode by then) reported a cartoon explosion of feathers. In the sort of thing that can't be made up, I then noted that my music mix had rolled over to Prince's <i>When the Doves Cry</i>. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3X2cTXxLdI/V5F5P2w7_SI/AAAAAAAAE-g/EOi8wxXoCPgO3AwXqFjeqHIlHQG2QFzcwCK4B/s1600/62.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3X2cTXxLdI/V5F5P2w7_SI/AAAAAAAAE-g/EOi8wxXoCPgO3AwXqFjeqHIlHQG2QFzcwCK4B/s400/62.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Central Oregon looks flat from 5,000 feet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We reached the mountain non-town of Dale shortly after sunset fell. 248 miles ridden and more than 20,000 feet climbed in 14 hours and 15 minutes -- a solid 400k any day of the week, and on pace for a 30-hour finish. I was riding as strong as I ever had; in fact, my normalized power was well into the 220s, when at prior races it had been under 200 by that point. In fact, I was riding more powerfully than I had in my best Ironman, and that bike segment had only been 5 hours long. There was no sign of Nigel, but by then I knew that it was out of my hands. He'd blow up or win in a remarkable time, and all I could do was what I could do, so that's what I did, dude.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 6: Mt. Vernon</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">54 miles; 4,850 feet of climbing</span></b><br />
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<br />
Mt. Vernon is gas station-town at the southeastern point of the loop, and also Mile 300 or so, both of which represented mental milestones, so I was looking forward to getting there. In retrospect, I don't remember any tough climbs, just the first nighttime hours of riding. Upon review, though, I must have been suffering from the ultracycling version of Stockholm syndrome, because the stage was anything but flat. It featured, among other things, a 3.7 mile, 1200-foot climb (6% grade) that the route book describes as "formidable" and over 11% grade in spots, as well as a 5.7-mile, 1600-foot grind (5% grade). Sometimes nighttime is your friend -- if you can't see what you're climbing, you just deal with things as they come and spare yourself the drama.<br />
<br />
Although I continued to feel strong, I was beginning to think I needed to dial it back a bit effort-wise: I was over 15 hours in, and still with watts well into the 220s. It felt like one of the best rides I'd had, but perspective is key: I wasn't even halfway done, a fact I couldn't quite wrap my head around. Thoughts like that are better to suppress.<br />
<br />
With the crew in direct-follow mode, I was living in the headlights, which is a rare treat for overnight cyclists. So often, in nighttime brevets and 24-hour races, your world shrinks to a corridor in front of your relatively meager bike headlight, which can have a trace-like effect. The situation is different when the world is floodlit from behind, particularly on descents, where the follow vehicle would move left a bit and I'd stay to the right, thus ensuring that my shadow wouldn't be cast in front of me to obscure hazards. The key for the crew is to stay alert so that if the cyclist has an issue, they have time to hit the brakes. That was necessary on at least one occasion when I spied a pair of eyes in the darkness to the right of the road and made the universal "slowing!" sign, when a massive elk lumbered across the road not 15 yards ahead. It made out better than the dove did.<br />
<br />
We stopped briefly for gas at the Mt. Vernon mini-mart, which had long closed. Unfortunately, due to a miscalculation, we'd neglected to fill our thermoses with hot water for overnight coffee or chicken soup, but we hoped for the best. 300 miles in the bank!<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 7: Mitchell</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">61 miles; 3,100 feet of climbing</span></b><br />
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The first 30 miles of the westward stretch toward Mitchell were a flat-out drag race, a false-flat downhill where a rider could pin the ears back, get low, and hammer toward home. I had no sense of how far ahead of me Nigel might be, but I figured that, if he were close, this was the stretch where I'd be able to make up the ground. I held 28 mph or so for an hour, feeling like suddenly this race was a reasonable thing to undertake. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chasing a Canadian!</td></tr>
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At one point on this stretch, I blew past a tree to the right that was distinctly odd-textured, seemingly with objects hanging off of it in every direction. With the headlight glare, I couldn't quite make them out -- bats? Barnacles? (Beets?) Strange. After the race, I realized the unidentifiable objects had been shoes!</div>
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Eventually, all good things must come to an end, and the road pitched back upward. Because I didn't have the route book in front of me, I didn't quite realize what I was in for: a 25-mile climb. Going forward, that's the sort of thing I need to make sure I understand, because the following conversation took place at about 1:30 in the morning, after I'd climbed a 5% grade for about 45 minutes.<br />
<br />
<i>Me, to crew</i>: "Is there any possibility that the top of this climb is nearby?"<br />
<br />
<i>Max, after ominous pause</i>: "Um, it looks like about 14 more miles."<br />
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<i>Me:</i> "*$%!@!@#$"<br />
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<i>Max:</i> "But it looks like it isn't all this steep."<br />
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<i>Me [thinking to self]</i>: "Less steep -- great. Fine, Max, you have a bike in the car. Let's trade and you go ride it."<br />
<br />
Upon reaching the top, I put on another layer of clothing for the descent, then picked my way down the mountain toward Mitchell. Despite my grumbling, I was holding it together.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 8: Fossil</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">43 miles; 4300 feet of climbing</span></b><br />
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George describe the 43-mile stage to Fossil as the hardest mile-per-mile of the ride. It's a "net downhill," but that's surely the most misleading term in the cycling world. <br />
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On one of the initial 500-foot climbs, I simultaneously had both pleasant and depressing realizations. The positive was that, at the 375-mile point, I'd ridden a 600k with more than 30k feet of climbing, <i>i.e.</i>, about as much as a "Super Randonneur 600k" like the ones I'd ridden in 43 hours in September 2015 and 35 hours in May. This time -- albeit with a support crew -- I'd knocked it out in 22 hours and 40 minutes. That's moving!<br />
<br />
On the other hand, this toughest stretch of the course also came at exactly the worst moment, <i>i.e.</i>, those hours between 3:00 and 5:30 a.m. when the body just wants to shut down. That's just what mine was doing. I was managing to stave off the drowsiness for the most part, but I just couldn't put out any power. Climbs that I'd been crushing in my big ring were suddenly grinding affairs in my smallest gear, and looking back on the prior 23-24 hours, I realized that I'd spent probably 80% of the time climbing. That's the deceptive thing about hilly courses -- in terms of mileage, it might be 50% uphill and 50% downhill, but because you cover the downhill portions so much faster than the uphill portions, in a truer sense such efforts boil down to "climbing with periodic breaks." <br />
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The bottom line was, I had all the tell-tale signs of bonking. I was eating everything I could, from fruit bars and apples to croissants with turkey, plus drinking plenty of carb mixes, but after so long in the saddle, small periodic calorie deficits are enough to bring the needle down to empty, and that's where I was. For me, the surest sign of bonking is a sudden black mood -- whereas all day it had been "Climb! Ok, no problem, knock it out," now it was more like, "George, I get it, Oregon is hilly, but this is completely stupid and ceased to be interesting a long time ago." <br />
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Eventually I got off the bike and announced to the crew that I was going to sit in the car and eat a damn meal -- if Mick caught me, fine, but I needed to right my listing ship.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, after 24 hours. Be glad you can't smell internet pictures.</td></tr>
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Following my carb infusion, I waddled back to the bike and hoofed onward. Still not having fun. If this were a looped course, it's the point where it would have been very easy to say, "I've had enough riding, thanks," and punch the clock. In these 500-milers, though, there's a more tangible sense that the journey must be finished, and that was only going to happen by getting up the hills and rolling down the other side.<br />
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The stage finished with an 11-mile, 2150-foot climb, because of course it did. I craved sunlight. 407 miles ridden; "merely" 115 to go, including something called the "Clarno climb," which sounded just swell considering that none of the climbs to that point had had names worth mentioning.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 9: Imperial River Company</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">68 miles; 5400 feet of climbing</span></b><br />
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The penultimate stage had 4 distinct challenges. The first, a 5.5-mile, 1000-foot climb, was a gradual affair that brought the dawn with it. Oddly, it was only in these early daylight hours that I truly started getting drowsy. Caffeine had long since ceased having any effect except upsetting my stomach, so I was simply holding out for the sun and circadian rhythms to bring my system back online. The other challenge was that the temperatures were in that awkward low-50s range where climbs make you sweaty and long descents bring shivering. Sunlight was great, but I wanted the sun on me for heat. I'd soon get my wish.<br />
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The second challenge was the 0.7-mile attack on "Totally Useless Hill," so called because that's exactly what it is. It interrupts a terrific descent for reasons that no one can justify, then drops you straight onto the base of Clarno, which was billed as the toughest climb of the route. Naturally, it came at mile 426.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing toward Clarno, where there would be clarnage.</td></tr>
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Clarno was an 8.3-mile, 2500-foot ascent, which is enough to make it a Cat 1 on Strava. At 6% grade, it wasn't the steepest thing I'd ever ridden, but it was totally exposed to the sun and came at a post-bonk time when I didn't have much left to give. Happily, though, my energy was coming back, and I spun up Clarno with no problem at all. I couldn't get my heart rate over about 110 BPM, but that's typical after riding a bike for more than a day; the key thing is that, when I reached the top after an hour or so, I realized I could easily have done it again. If I'd have felt that way for the previous few hours, there's no telling how far up the road I'd be.<br />
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Finally, after Clarno, there was one more to go: a 4-mile, 1000-foot grade. Easier than Clarno, yes, but not easy, and mentally I found it even tougher because it was billed as an afterthought to Clarno. In fact, it was plenty challenging in its own right, but Max knew me well: he and Sam met me at the top with an ice cream cone they'd managed to find at a local shop. It was like being in Corsica all over again!<br />
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After finding the ridgeline, it was time for what was billed as a "17-mile, 1700-foot rollercoaster descent" down Bakeoven Road. And that road, my friends, is the epitome of nominative determinism, because an oven is just what it felt like, and bake is what it does to cyclists. Indeed, plowing into the headwind, I learned it's possible for a 1700-foot descent to feel like it's mostly uphill. Coming around one curve at about 40 mph, I hit a wind gust so strong that I was blown sideways; if I hadn't changed my front wheel, I'd have been toast before I knew it. <br />
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At long last, I reached the penultimate time station at the Imperial River Company, at mile 475. 45 miles to go! But before taking it on, I chilled out at a convenience store for 15 minutes or so, putting my legs up, eating Coke and more ice cream, and generally preparing myself for the last leg. If someone caught me there, that was fine; I was just making sure I had enough gas to reach the finish.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 10: Finish</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">40 miles; 3,050 feet of climbing</span></b><br />
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The last stage brought with it one goal: make it 25 miles, to mile 500, at which point it was downhill to the finish. The first climb, immediately out of the control, was a 5-mile, 800-foot affair that had no chance against my ice-cream-fueled enthusiasm. But the second one reversed the descent we'd first hit more than 24 hours before; I recalled its being long, but it turned out to be nearly 9 miles and 1600 feet. Sigh. I was feeling good and cruising up it, but frankly, I was long past ready for this whole thing to be over with. Max mentioned that a 35-hour finish was in the frame if I rode well, which itself was not so great given that I'd been on a 31-hour pace until a few hours before. But it was a goal, and I used it as an excuse to hammer to the extent I could. <br />
<br />
In fact, it looked like maybe I'd threaten the 34-hour mark, but I wound up flatting, for the first time in years, on the side of a relatively high-trafficked road. The crew leaped into action admirably, but they wound up having to change the tire a couple of times due to air leaking around the valve. I was happy to camp out on a guard rail and gaze into the distance, secure in the knowledge that the hard work was done.<br />
<br />
The last hour or so of the ride brought out my best -- back in the aerobars and pushing the pace at every turn, finally feeling like a bike racer again instead of a lost explorer being stalked by a van. Finally, 34 hours and 31 minutes after I'd set out, I reached the start once again, where George was waiting for me with a handshake, a medal, and bottle of local hard cider, and more good cheer than I'd thought possible. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dq5zV_iDz0s/V5F29xWJL3I/AAAAAAAAE8E/F01-DydbuKYqN0jFgNGwvOi6Nbhx8b2nwCK4B/s1600/97.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dq5zV_iDz0s/V5F29xWJL3I/AAAAAAAAE8E/F01-DydbuKYqN0jFgNGwvOi6Nbhx8b2nwCK4B/s400/97.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max, Sam, and me; it looks like I'm starting my nap early!</td></tr>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Conclusions</span></b></div>
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I wound up finishing second overall to Nigel, who really never had a weak moment from the look of things -- a 30:30 finish put him fully 4 hours ahead of me, and given that this course was longer and hillier than recent iterations of RAO had been, it's just a massive accomplishment, particularly for a guy racing his first ultra event. Not that he was inexperienced on long rides; I learned that he'd ridden hilly 1200ks in the 52-hour range before, which made me feel better about being owned so completely. Even when I was at my best, riding more powerfully than I thought possible for the first 23 hours or so, he was well out of sight, and I was never going to catch him. I fell off the pace a bit in the last few hours, although I probably could have finished mid-33's if I hadn't indulged in the ice cream stops and avoided the flat tire. It wouldn't have mattered in the final analysis, of course.</div>
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Still, I'm proud to have finished this one. It's my longest "single day" ride to date had had twice the climbing of my previous "single day" best effort. 42,000 feet is no joke. My time was an hour faster than the 375-miler with 33,000 feet of climbing that I'd done in May, so adding 150 miles and 9,000 feet of climbing while subtracting an hour represented an effort to which I'll happily sign my name.</div>
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Astonishingly, the one thing on my body that wasn't killing me was my feet. This spring I ordered a custom pair of <a href="http://www.d2shoe.com/">D2 shoes</a> with orthotic inserts, and they arrived a week or so before the race.</div>
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I only had a chance to do one ride in them before RAO, so I didn't feel comfortable racing in them for 500 miles, but I did pull the custom orthotics out and put them in my older shoes for the race. (I brought the older insoles in case of trouble.) And, man: 520 miles with no hotfoot issues or any other type of discomfort, period. Even with fairly exotic insoles, I've almost always suffered from hotfoot to the point that I've been forced to ride with my feet on top of my shoes for extended periods toward the end of ultra events. If the shoes wind up living up to the insoles, this is going to be my best upgrade in years.<br />
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As far as RAO goes, it's a heck of a race. The race field was on the small side for a variety of reasons, including the fact that the course is notoriously difficult, but George lives and breathes these events, and he does an amazing job of making everyone there feel like a legend.<br />
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Overall, compared to my expectations, I was struck not only by the consistent beauty of the course, but also by its variety. I'd expected 500 miles of high-desert desolation, and while there certainly were points where I was ready to stop seeing scrub brush, things evolved from wind farms and wheat fields to pine-lined mountain climbs and arresting canyons, always with snow-capped volcanic peaks on the horizon. It's a hard place not to love. Compared to Silver State 508, my other experience at this distance, there really is no comparison: RAO is an order of magnitude more difficult, but also offers another level of beauty and variety. I'd love to go back.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-49786193239101413952016-07-18T13:05:00.001-04:002016-07-18T13:05:21.778-04:00Cycling Corsica Day 5: Cap Corsica with Bonus Climb (115 miles, 13k ft climbing)<b>Day 5- Cap Corse with Extra Fun (110, 13k ft climbing miles)</b><br />
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On our last day in Corsica, everyone agreed that we should do what we most wanted to with our remaining time. For most it was, with apologies to Shakespeare, "Once more unto the beach!" But not for me -- I was still reminiscing about <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2016/07/cycling-corsica-day-3-cap-corse-95.html">my 95-mile circumnavigation of Cap Corse</a> a few days before. I wanted to do that again, but to spice it up by adding a second -- and arguably harder -- <i>hors categorie </i>climb along the way. If the day cooperated, I'd finish without a pedal stroke left in me.<br />
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The elevation profile of this ride left no secret as to where the challenges lay. In fact, the ride might have been called "Mountains for Breakfast," as it had 6,000 feet of climbing in the first 35 miles.<br />
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I've covered the first climb a couple of times: 7.7 miles at a grade of 7%+, with the final 2.5 miles a 10% kicker. But it turned out that this wasn't the hardest way up the mountain -- that honor fell to the climb to the summit from the east, in Bastia. So, after summiting from the west for a third time, I descended to Bastia, loaded up on some anonymous-looking treats called "Fenioux Energie Barres" at an Esso gas station, and then turned around and climbed back up to the tower from the other direction, the "Route Imperiale Col du Pigno."<br />
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Yikes -- on tired legs, not an easy task. That beast is 6.6 miles long at a 9% average grade, again with the last 2.5 miles at 10%:<br />
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But I survived, which is to say, I managed to outpace the cows wandering around near the summit. The eastern ascent is definitely the harder of the two, as it starts steeper and doesn't include any of the gentle stretches you get from the western side. Essentially it's slightly more climbing, but a mile shorter. You earn your Fenioux bars, and I have to say, those are easily some of the most delicious things I've ever had on a bicycle. If you're in France and not eating these, you're wasting your time.</div>
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They're so good I ordered a couple of boxes for Race Across Oregon -- hopefully I'll have some left by the time I get to the starting line.</div>
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The great thing about front-loading two HC climbs into a 115-miler is that the rest of it is a sheer joyride. I'd taken my pictures the last time around, so this time I just enjoyed the experience, making sure to stop by my favorite ice cream shops along the way. At the end of the day, it was 115 miles, 13,000-something feet of climbing, and utter perfection.</div>
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Looking back on it, I would say that at least 3 of my 5 most memorable days on a bicycle came on this trip. One can make an argument for riding through Denali at sunset in the Big Wild Ride 1200k -- nothing is going to top that. My 2014 ascent up Mt. Ventoux was up there, as was my cruise down the Pacific Coast Highway on the Central California Coast 1200k. But I have to say that I prefer Corsica to the PCH: the scenery is, if anything, better and more varied, and the traffic is comparatively nonexistent. Ventoux was memorable but comparatively brief. </div>
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The bottom line is, there may be a better place on this planet to ride a bicycle, but I've never seen it, and frankly, I doubt it. Mainland France and Italy have higher mountains for sure, but good luck finding them juxtaposed against the most beautiful oceans you've ever seen. The coastal <i>motif</i> is what sets Corsica apart, because the sheer jaggedness of the landscape means that rides are more like rollercoasters than meanders from one point to the next. Pair it with terrific local wine, the best produce you've ever tasted, spectacular beaches, historic villages, world-class hiking, and relative affordability, and I'm not sure why anyone ever vacations anywhere else. I give huge credit to Amy for dragging me here against my uncertainties. Just go.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-68307616270029502432016-07-14T14:45:00.003-04:002016-07-14T14:46:19.301-04:00Cycling Corsica Day 4: Hors Categorie Fun and Done (23 miles, 3.6k ft climbing)<b><br /></b><b>Day 4 - Hors Categorie Fun and Done (23 miles, 3.6k ft climbing)</b><br />
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On Day 4 of my Corsican cycling adventure, my time was pretty limited -- the gang was taking a boat to a legendary beach for the afternoon and I'd committed to joining them, meaning that I only had a couple of hours to ride before everyone was up and about. Fortunately, I knew just the thing to do for the most bang-for-buck: go for gold up the <i>hors categorie climb </i>I'd ridden at the beginning of my loop of Cap Corse two days before. And heck, my Garmin had died at the finish of that climb last time, so I wanted proof I'd actually done it.<br />
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This was the only ride in Corsica that I actually treated as a workout -- warmup, hard effort, cool down, and done -- as opposed to a way to explore the island by bicycle. The challenge is evident from the elevation profile:<br />
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It doesn't look like much, but that's a 7.7-mile, 3,000-foot climb with final 2.5 miles at a 10% grade. <br />
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In fact, those last 2.5 miles are, by themselves, a Cat 2 climb:<br />
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In all, I was pleased to push 270+ watts for nearly an hour on legs that were pretty fried from three huge rides in the six previous days. Climbing 3600 feet in 23 miles from your doorstep, all in under 2 hours, is an incredible luxury. I returned home soaked with sweat, grinning like a fool, and ready for a day in the sunshine. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-18083609485944660562016-07-10T11:29:00.005-04:002016-07-10T11:30:41.724-04:00Cycling Corsica Day 3 - Cap Corse (95 miles, 11k ft climbing)After another day of beach-sitting and wine-drinking, I set off on a circumnavigation of Cap Corse, starting from our house in Farinole, crossing east over the mountain range, and then following the rim road counterclockwise all the way back home. Would it live up to the ride from <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2016/07/cycling-corsica-day-1-calvi-round-trip.html">Calvi to Piana</a>?<br />
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Rolling out from Farinole down to the coast, this site lay outside my door.<br />
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One thing would be different from the start: beginning about 5 miles in, I'd take on an <i>hors category</i> climb from Patrimonio to the tower atop the ridgeline. It's that rather conspicuous spike on the left-hand part of the elevation profile, and it's a monster the likes of which are usually found only on the mainland. Nearly 8 miles at a 7.5% average grade, for a total elevation gain of 2800 feet. Not bad for a tiny island!<br />
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Legs limbered up with an easy spin, I took on the climb, which turned out to be a 5-6% grind for 5 miles, to the ridgeline. You then face a choice between heading down to the east coast or turning left onto a tiny road and continuing to the <i>real</i> top of the climb, some 2.5 additional miles away at a 10% grade -- quite the kick at the end. </div>
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By the top, I was dripping with sweat and glad to reach the tower that was visible from both sides of the island.</div>
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But in nearly-an-hour it had taken me to climb to the summit, something vaguely magical had happened: the clouds had rolled in from the east, and I was well above them.</div>
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Winding my way back down the mountain, the sky was clear to the west, where I could see all the way to Saint Florent.</div>
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Continuing yet further down the mountain, swinging back around to the east, the road disappeared into the clouds -- as close as one can get to flying without leaving the ground.</div>
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To the south, the road stretched into the distance as the clouds slowly crawled over the ridge line.<br />
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The descent to the east coast brought me into Bastia, which is as close to a metropolis as Corsica has to offer, with cruise ships in the docks and a cafe on every corner. This righteous dude kept everything on the level.<br />
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The roads around Bastia had some traffic, but it really was noticeable only compared to the complete lack of it everywhere else. Traveling north along the coast, I glided from one quaint seaside town to the next, and around each turn was a seascape to stir the poet's soul.<br />
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After an ice-cream-and-water stop in Macinaggio -- motto: Sailboats Ahoy! -- the road turned west and headed a bit inland over the ridgeline, were it passed under a phalanx of wind turbines standing sentinel far above.</div>
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Feeling a need for more ice cream and refuge from the 90-degree sun, I took a detour from the rim road to wind down to the shore once again, where I found Barcaggio, a one-street hamlet with a harbor of boats and views to die for.</div>
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Refreshment achieved, it was back up to the main road once again, where I continued around to the northwest corner of the Cape, where I again turned south toward Farinole and Saint Florent.</div>
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I will say this: if there is a better road in the world than the 25-mile stretch down the west coast of Cap Corse, I have never seen it. It is every bit as majestic as the stretch down the west coast toward Porto, but the pavement is perfect and traffic is lighter. I don't have the words -- the pictures will speak for themselves.</div>
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Despite the massive heat, all I wanted to do was turn around and ride it again. But that could wait for another day -- I climbed back up the Cat 3 to Farinole, took a shower headed to the balcony, and wondered why any cyclist lives someplace other than Corsica.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-6303138350423539522016-07-08T22:48:00.005-04:002016-07-09T14:37:34.681-04:00Cycling Corsica Day 2 - Calvi to St. Florent via Col di Battaglia (85 miles, 8.5k ft climbing)<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="https://www.strava.com/activities/623953675/embed/4639c6244703f4aa407ea6158a2af0576e19cb07" width="590"></iframe><br />
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After a day's rest/socializing/drinking/sleeping/recovering from my hike up and down the coast, it was time for the gang to move from Calvi, on the northwest coast, eastward to the cape just north of Saint Florent. It was supposed to be a couple of hours away by car, but I had a better idea: get up early and make my way there on my own, meanwhile finding a few needless detours over the inland mountains -- specifically, Bocca di Battaglia, a Cat 2 climb.<br />
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Amy and the gang wanted to meet for lunch halfway, in the town of Pigna, so I decided to ride the climb twice: once before lunch, and then again on my way to Saint Florent.<br />
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I imagined that the ride from Calvi to the base of the climb, in Speloncato, would be flattish, but this was Corsica, and I really should have known better.<br />
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The opening miles through the valley were a balmy 75 degrees, with distant towns ringed by what Corsica considers foothills.<br />
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Crossing over one of these "hills" -- something like 2 miles at 5% grade -- made me realize a central fact of Corsica: every town has its own church with a truly magnificent view.<br />
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The church wasn't the top -- up and up I went.<br />
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From the top of the climb, Calvi was visible in the distance -- it's the town on the far side of the bay.<br />
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A zoomed-in shot:<br />
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Continuing over the ridgeline to the east, inland Corsica opened up before me, and I meandered my way from town to town, each more picturesque than the next.<br />
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After 3 hours of winding my way through mountain roads and seeing more cyclists than cars, I came to what I thought was the base of the climb. Once again, a church marked the way.<br />
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And here was the base of the climb:<br />
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Whoops. This is what happens when you're a little cavalier with planning routes in other countries on RWGPS: the program showed a road, but if that was the climb, I wasn't doing it.<br />
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Happily, I was able to figure out where I should have been, and another 30 minutes of riding brought me to Speloncato and the beginning of the fun.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p68Loo6CZ9c/V3-dfMtlFFI/AAAAAAAAEv4/NbIlMaZg_TsNYkYg8LmyNd__blBMkPiJwCK4B/s1600/P1020325.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p68Loo6CZ9c/V3-dfMtlFFI/AAAAAAAAEv4/NbIlMaZg_TsNYkYg8LmyNd__blBMkPiJwCK4B/s400/P1020325.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bustling metropolis of Speloncato.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This sign might as well have said: "Hey, stupid cyclists -- this way."</td></tr>
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Bocca Di a Battaglia is a Cat 2 climb, ascending almost 2,000 feet over the course of 4 miles at an average grade of 9.5% grade, and with no shade at any point. It's a doozy, and I was to do it twice that day.<br />
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As grades approach 10%, it becomes harder just to grind up them, but I winched myself up it in no great haste, taking in the surroundings every few minutes. They didn't disappoint.<br />
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From near the top, Speloncato -- where I'd started the climb -- was visible in the distance.<br />
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Finally I reached the summit, where there's a small restaurant catering to almost exclusively cyclists, from what I could tell. I managed to convey my need for water, but my French for "ice cream" escaped me, so I just held up a Nestle placard, pointed to what I wanted, and looked apologetic. <br />
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As time was running short, I descended back the way I came rather than down the backside of the climb, and met up with Amy & Company for lunch in Pigna, a quaint medieval village (but aren't they all in those parts?). Unfortunately, my Garmin crashed just as I was reaching lunch, so I lost fully four hours of effort and my climb up the mountain. So much for Strava glory.<br />
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After lunch it was back up the Bocca Di a Battaglia -- I found it on the first try this time -- only this time in 90-degree scorching heat. From there I descended down the backside to the south, where I got my first glimpse of Mt. Doom. It's actually called Monte Cinto, but at 8,000 feet it's the highest peak in Corsica, and unlike many of the neighboring mountains, it has a distinctly jagged, sinister aspect.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It seemed to have its own weather.</td></tr>
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Unlike the 9-10% grade up the Battaglia from the north, the descent down the south side was a gentle, meandering amble through forests and around ridge lines -- a little of everything that Corsica has to offer. At one point I think I went 20 minutes without pedaling a radian. The only drawback was that parts of it were truly/madly/deeply rural -- as in, if you have a problem here, you'll need to build a house and start hunting boar, because no one's coming for you.<br />
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After making my way back north to the coast, I turned east toward Saint Florent, but to get there, I had to cross 20 miles of the "desert," an uninhabited inland region with scrubby brush and little else. I wasn't expecting much, and my low expectations were met fully when the first five miles were grinding up a Skyline-esque ascent. At the top, though, things improved markedly. To the south, the valleys extended to the horizon.<br />
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And to the north, the sea was visible over an ocean of rocks.<br />
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There were <i>some</i> inhabitants, whose beauty was enough to make one find religion.<br />
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Then, at last, it was time for the real show: the descent into Saint Florent, a postcard-perfect port town.<br />
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What a day -- it had been 80 hilly miles, and there were only a few to go. Amy mentioned that our house was actually in the town of Farinole, which was 5 miles north of Saint Florent, and she'd noted that it was "uphill" to get there. It turns out she wasn't joking: our house turned out to be at the apex of a Cat 3 climb that begins with about 100 yards at a 20% grade. Holy crap, Batman.</div>
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But at the end of the day, holy crap was right -- the view from the bedroom said it all.</div>
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After a blissful shower, it was time for rosé on the balcony. What an island!</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-13502354316617252592016-07-08T00:06:00.006-04:002016-07-08T00:09:24.192-04:00Cycling Corsica Day 1: Calvi Round Trip to Piana (110 miles, 10k(?) ft climbing)<div style="text-align: center;">
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Amy had been trying for a couple of years to convince me to vacation in Corsica, and she finally prevailed. We were there for 10 days or so along with 4 friends, which meant that while the gang was sleeping in and then heading to the beach, I could sneak out early every couple of days, explore the island by bike, and then meet up with everyone in the afternoon. I managed 5 days of riding spanning about 450 miles and more than 40,000 feet of climbing, and it was easily the most spectacular thing I've ever experienced on two wheels.<br />
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On Day 1, I rode south from Calvi along the coast to the <a href="http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/258">Gulf of Porto and then up to Piana</a>, a World UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization) site. I then retraced my steps northward, but branched inland to get in a tough mountain climb on the way home.<br />
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Heading south from Calvi, the road immediately began to snake upward with increasingly spectacular views of the bay in the morning sun, with scattered sailboats lightly bobbing in the cove before a distant lighthouse.<br />
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Pulling away from town and continuing to climb, the coast grew notably rockier, with every bit of the views that one might find on the Pacific Coast Highway.<br />
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Surely this couldn't last, could it? Unfortunately, no, at least not entirely. Circumnavigating some massive coastal hills required meandering inland for 10 miles or so, where the pavement degenerated into a sort of "best efforts" situation that was almost comically poor. This wasn't chip seal, but rather the sort of thing that breaks car axles if you're not careful. If there were cars, which there weren't, which is probably why no one has bothered to patch the roads since World War II. <br />
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But, I soldiered on in the hope of gaining the coast once again.<br />
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I didn't have to wait long, and the wait was worth it. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the town of Galeria nestled into the distant hillside. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panorama of Galeria.</td></tr>
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At this point, even the brief detours inland were some of the more spectacular I've seen, as 8k-foot peaks soared above distant valleys.<br />
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Finally, after a miles-long climb, I emerged into some of the most amazing scenery I've ever seen, and it would continue for hours.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rocks to the distant right glowed a bright red in the morning light.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the top of a coastal mountain, the road snakes into the distance.</td></tr>
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One thing about Corsica: there is <u>nothing</u> straight along the coasts. In the course of 110 miles, I don't think I went 100 yards without turning, and that is no exaggeration. Some of the roads looked like a planner accidentally dropped a wet noodle on a map and just decided to go with it. To the right, cliffs; to the left, solid rock.<br />
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As I approached the Gulf of Porto, the water turned an even deeper blue, rocks on distant shores grew more jagged, and the roads were so much fun that I had a stupid grin on my face for an hour.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking south across the Gulf of Porto toward Piana.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking southwest across the Gulf.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roads like this don't exist in the United States, but they really should.</td></tr>
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I rolled through the town of Porto knowing that I was almost to Piana, my turnaround point. Just five miles or so away -- no big deal, right?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surveying the beach in Porto.</td></tr>
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Well, wrong. It turns out that Piana is on the top of a mountain, and every foot between Porto and Piana takes you higher into the sky. But the Calanche of Piana -- well, what can you say? They're rocky outcroppings that simply defy adjectives.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you zoom in, you'll see a black speck on the road silhouetted against the rock. That's a car.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What would you pay to ride this road? Make sure you have good brake pads.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's hard not to love the place.</td></tr>
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Goodness grief. And it turns out that Piana itself is a lovely little town, complete with several restaurants, fruit stands, small hotels, and all of the ice cream one can eat. Which is a lot, in my case.<br />
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The only thing better than climbing up through the Calanche of Piana is descending back through it the other way, and then it was back up the coast. <br />
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One thing about these coastal roads: you just can't go quickly. I can't remember the last time I went so slowly over a distance of 100 miles. There were monstrous climbs, but the bigger issue is that the descents must be navigated with the greatest of care. It's sometimes difficult even to look at the scenery because, if you do so for more than about 5 seconds, you'll miss a turn in the road.<br />
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At one point with a couple of hours left, I plugged Calvi (the start and finish town) into my GPS, and was surprised to find it was only 17 miles away -- much closer than I'd thought. But, as I found to my detriment, it was 17 miles "as the crow flies," which meant more than 40 miles in Corsica.<br />
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The final miles were pretty, but brutal. Rather than taking the coastal road, I swung inland to take on a minor Col. By this time the temperatures were up around 90 degrees, and the inland passage lacked the coastal breeze that had been keeping me cool. I got right cooked, and that climb was tougher than it looked on paper.<b><br /></b>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking back south from the top of the Col.</td></tr>
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<b></b>In all, the ride was 110 miles and it took me about 7.5 hours -- and I wasn't slacking. Part of it is the curvy roads, but it's also insidiously and constantly hilly. My GPS calculated the climbing at about 8,000 feet, but that's a damned lie, if you'll pardon my French (which the French speakers generally were kind enough to do). RWGPS calculates it at 19,000 feet. That's also a lie; the truth is somewhere in between, and who knows where. But it was a solid morning and afternoon for certain.<br />
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In all, my first ride on Corsica turned out to be, mile-for-mile, the most spectacular I'd ever done. The passage through Denali at sunset on the Big Wild Ride 1200k might have edged it out, but it wasn't nearly as long. It was riding through a postcard, and I couldn't wait for more.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-47894763292269444752016-06-30T13:58:00.001-04:002016-07-01T14:34:52.336-04:00Blinded by the Light: N24HC 2016<div style="text-align: center;">
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On Father's Day weekend, my folks and I headed back to Middleville, Michigan for my second crack at the National 24-Hour Challenge (N24HC). In 2014, I finished 3rd overall with 488 miles, a result I haven't surpassed. 2015 was a bit of a lost year cycling-wise, given my long injury layoff, but heading into this year's N24HC I was in the best shape I'd ever been and ready to do battle. This wasn't my target race -- that honor was reserved for the Race Across Oregon four weeks later (500 miles, 42k feet of climbing, desert, almost certain doom) -- but it was an opportunity to see how things were shaping up for me.<br />
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The trick with this race is that, virtually uniquely among ultracycling events, drafting is legal. That introduces tactics in a way that long solo time trials usually don't -- on a flat course, the benefit to drafting is huge, which means that, if you don't work with others to share the burden and push the pace, you'll almost certainly lose out to those who find a way to cooperate. In 2014, I rode the first 12 hours with Scott Luikart and Collin Johnson, and we put together a 268-mile performance in the first 12 hours. But that year I made a rookie mistake by deciding to ride off the front of the pack from miles 70 to 120, a decision that wound up haunting me as I worked far too hard only to be reeled in by Scott and Collin, who'd worked together to close the gap.<br />
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This year I vowed to be smarter by riding with others for as long as humanly possible. I figured the contenders would come from some combination of Jessop Keene (480 miles in 2015, his rookie year), Chris Hopkinson (ultracycling veteran extraordinaire), David Baxter (tough Texan), Billy Volchko (Ironman racer and winner of the 12-hour Calvin's Challenge the previous month with 250 miles), and probably some hitherto unknown guys who'd make a run at it. I thought I could mix it up with the guys I knew, at the very least.<br />
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There was only one problem: the weather forecast. It's cheap and a little cliché to blame the weather for anything, but the East Coast's weather this spring has been cold and wet. I'm not sure I'd done a ride all year where the temperature broke 70 degrees for a significant period. N24HC was forecasted to push 90 and sunny, which was far from ideal, but everyone would face the same challenge.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The start scene, recumbents at the ready.</td></tr>
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A preview here: I'm a moron. Or, at least, I got deeply and inexplicably confused about certain fundamental logistical issues having to do with course length and aid station placement. As for course length, the first loop, <i>i.e.</i>, the "long loop," was -- I thought -- 124 miles. I knew there were three aid stations, and I somehow concluded that they were at miles 24, 50-ish, 80-ish, and 124 (back at the start). <br />
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This was not even remotely correct, and I paid for it.</div>
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In terms of racing, I executed my strategy well -- stay in touch with the front of the peloton for as long as I could while not "pulling" the pack any more than absolutely necessary. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ragtag N24HC peloton in the opening miles.</td></tr>
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In other words, I stayed in the race and got the benefit of the draft while not doing unnecessary work. The morning was a clement 65 degrees, so at mile 20 or so, I radio'd the crew that I didn't need a bottle refill at the first aid station at Mile 24, thinking I'd see them again in a little over an hour, at Mile 50-ish. But I began to get a little confused when Mile 24 passed, then 25, 27... 30, all with no aid station. We finally reached it at Mile 32, but I somehow adhered to the belief that the next one would come about an hour later. I declined any additional hydration and rolled on through, feeling good. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">N24HC lead pack. Photo credit to David Manning.</td></tr>
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Soon thereafter, the inevitable breakaway happened, and I found myself with Jessop, Billy, a third rider, and a couple of recumbents leading the way. It was exactly what I wanted: to push the pace, but with a group instead of solo. So far, so good. Wattage was solid, and pace was 23-24 mph average. Cruising!</div>
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By Mile 40, I was out of water and desperately looking for the next aid station at about Mile 50. I asked Jessop what mile marker it was, and he replied: 79. </div>
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Um. What? 40 miles away in temps that were already in the mid-80s? Crap-f'ing-tastic. It was my own fault, of course -- there's nothing more basic than knowing where the aid stations are -- but this was not good.</div>
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Still, we were making good time, so I decided that my only shot at winning this thing was to hang with the front group, do my share of the work, and tough it out. The option was to drop off and slow it down, but then I'd be doing 100% of the pulling instead of 33%, and the competition would be working cooperatively, so I reasoned that to drop off was to concede defeat, and I wasn't ready to do that by any stretch. I've ridden 40 miles without water, I'd just have to do it again. It wasn't trivial, though -- Jessop might as well have been a locomotive, and Billy had a tendency to crank up hills at 350-400 watts. </div>
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I was still feeling okay when we reached the aid station at Mile 79, grabbed a couple of bottles, and rolled out. By then it was down to me, Jessop, Billy, and the 'Bents, <i>i.e.</i>, the worst rock band name in history. And, although I was staying in touch through Mile 90 or so, my wattage was dropping and my heart rate was looking more like a threshold test than a 24-hour TT. I was getting cooked by the sun and competition; in fact, it was so bad that I fell off the back of the pace line and only caught up again when one of the recumbents took pity on me and pulled me back up to them. Yeesh.</div>
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About this time, I made my second boneheaded mistake. In retrospect, somehow I had the number "24" stuck in my head for this race. Jack Bauer would be proud, but my results would not. I think it all came from the fact that the second loop was 24 miles long; unfortunately, I also somehow understood that the first aid station was at Mile 24 (instead of 32), and that the first loop was 124 miles long. It wasn't -- it was 121.</div>
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So, at about Mile 120, I radio'd the crew and told them I'd be by in about 15 minutes and needed all of the cold, wet things in the world. Just after I hung up, I looked up and saw the aid station less than half a mile away. And, worse, I saw my crew in the car heading that direction. I'd beat them there by several minutes. Aargh!</div>
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Again, I had a choice: wait around at the tent for my crew to arrive and make sure I got what I needed, or press on with the lead guys, thereby staying competitive. I resolved to stick with them, but I wasn't entirely stupid: I filled my bottles quickly from a hose. No calories, but better than nothing -- at least until I realized that I'd filled my bottles with sun-heated water so hot it burned. Faced with the choice between drinking them and accelerating my overheating versus not drinking them and exacerbating my dehydration, I got them down slowly, but it was disaster. I managed to stick with Jessop and Colin through the first 24-mile daytime loop, but after that, I finally accepted that I was getting creamed, waived them on, and sought triage. We'd done 23 mph for 150 miles, but the temps were well into the 90s and I was not remotely ready for it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys, at Mile 150.</td></tr>
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As bad as things were going, my crew managed to keep me moving by providing an endless supply of something I'd never even though to ask for: cold Mandarin oranges. It's unclear whether they have any calories, but they made me happy, which is something.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going nowhere fast.</td></tr>
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Eventually I hauled myself back onto the bike, and for the rest of the afternoon, I trucked along solo on the 24-mile loops, moving steadily but not particularly quickly. I tried to enjoy them, but the sensation of being slow-roasted stayed with me, and my motivation waned the further I fell behind the leaders. I was struggling to hold 18 mph, which is a point I usually don't hit until well after midnight.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suckin' wind.</td></tr>
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As darkness approached, I rode a few nighttime loops, but I was shelled. I'd push as hard as I could for a minute, then look down and see that I was riding at 150 watts, which is what I normally do on a recovery spin.</div>
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My parents/crew remained ever-buoyant and encouraging, but I began to think things through and realized I couldn't come up with a good reason to race through the night -- at least not one strong enough to convince myself to suffer that way. Certain racers have that ability, <i>i.e.</i>, "I'm here so I'm racing until I fall apart no matter what," but I was asking my crew to stay up through the night, guaranteeing that I'd be an exhausted mess for days in a week where I was slammed at work, and vastly prolonging the amount of recovery I'd need before I could start riding hard again to prepare for RAO. All for a result that would probably be 430 miles, give or take (compared to 488 in 2014). I hung out with my parents for a little while and then cut the cord.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He wears his sunglasses at night. This is not my "motivated" expression.</td></tr>
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In all, I rode for about 16 hours and finished with 310 miles. Not a calamity, but far from what I was looking for. I woke up the next day hoping I wouldn't learn that everyone else had also cratered and that I'd actually remained in contention, but I needn't have worried: Jessop Keene won with a course-record 516 miles, and Billy Volchko racked up 509 miles in his first 24-hour race. Utterly phenomenal.</div>
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I suppose I'm disappointed in my performance, but as good as I felt my fitness was, the one element I didn't have was heat training under my belt. With a 92-degree, sunny day, that's a problem, and combined with my repeated mistakes about distances, I didn't put myself in a position to contend. Given it all, I think calling it a day at midnight was the right call -- there's no training benefit to riding for another 8 hours at that point, only added exhaustion. I'm back on the trail to RAO; this was just another payment on what I hope will be a great race in Oregon next month. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-60361510466321044332016-06-06T12:51:00.001-04:002016-06-07T18:31:37.658-04:00Solo Super-6: Lynn Kristianson Memorial (Skyline) SR600k<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Skyline Drive's legendary -- a national park often rated as one of the top 10 cycling routes in the United States -- and for those of us in the D.C. area, pilgrimages are frequent. It traces the ridgeline from Front Royal south to its terminus into the Blue Ridge Parkway 105 miles later. To the west lies the Shenandoah Valley, with its alpaca farms, meandering rivers, and verdant country lanes all juxtaposed against the sawtooth ridges of West Virginia.</div>
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The Virginia piedmont, with its rolling hills, unfolds to the east.</div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--suDxuvyCaM/V1RCTJ1CPnI/AAAAAAAAEZw/4BXEZ12ht6IVmEUoKKamEx7wPt5uO72wQCKgB/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--suDxuvyCaM/V1RCTJ1CPnI/AAAAAAAAEZw/4BXEZ12ht6IVmEUoKKamEx7wPt5uO72wQCKgB/s400/14.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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And so it goes, vista titration for over 100 miles of road with nary a flat foot to be found -- cruising on perfect pavement where cars are few and face a 35-mph speed limit. A paradise for climbers! And then it turns into the Blue Ridge Parkway, which is more of the same.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1nS8AwbLEtw/V1RGwzM7u8I/AAAAAAAAEaA/kppEzNukfIEOo-pdQP94hwOTs8H5ABqNwCLcB/s1600/elevation.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="86" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1nS8AwbLEtw/V1RGwzM7u8I/AAAAAAAAEaA/kppEzNukfIEOo-pdQP94hwOTs8H5ABqNwCLcB/s400/elevation.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skyline Drive elevation profile.</td></tr>
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Over Memorial Day weekend, I set out to tackle Gary Dean's Super Randonneur 600k, <i>i.e.</i>, the Lynn Kristianson Memorial SR600k, featuring those roads. A SR600k is, as it suggests, 600 kilometers long (375 miles), and it follows most of the usual rules of a brevet; the main difference is that, as a "permanent," riders arrange to ride it at a time of their choosing, rather than at the time the club puts it on the calendar. But there are 600k permanents that aren't SR600s; to be an SR600k, it must have more than 10,000 meters of climbing over the course of the route -- that's almost 33,000 feet. Another way of thinking about it is that it's a 10k road race straight up into the sky. Another is that it must have at least 4,000 feet more climbing than the peak of Mt. Everest is above sea level. Put simply, they are designed to be challenging, but they reward effort double-fold with scenery and adventure.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S8oKl1Uy4DU/V1TQoqeGITI/AAAAAAAAEc0/BjWOjB7gYlMTlFijqmkJ2HBNESkW4-RAgCLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-05%2Bat%2B8.24.33%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="81" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S8oKl1Uy4DU/V1TQoqeGITI/AAAAAAAAEc0/BjWOjB7gYlMTlFijqmkJ2HBNESkW4-RAgCLcB/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-05%2Bat%2B8.24.33%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woof!</td></tr>
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I'd ridden one SR600k before -- last September's <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2541200468784053800#editor/target=post;postID=7831696928057123944;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=3;src=postname">Big Savage SR600k</a> -- and it was pretty much the hardest thing I'd ever done in the endurance world. Part of my misery was doubtless that I was unprepared for it in every way, having gotten virtually no sleep in the previous days due to work obligations and not having done a ride over 200k since my bad wreck four months beforehand. I wasn't making that mistake this time: I'd been putting in the miles constantly for six months, and I'd been climbing like a maniac in preparation. On the other hand, due to an unfortunate injury to my would-have-been riding companion, I'd be riding this one solo. Sad panda.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VEL1NgHhAY8/V1SS1NHe-6I/AAAAAAAAEaQ/VaLV72O5A_UHU4RtdlM3aQR1xos5J2JrQCLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-05%2Bat%2B4.59.34%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VEL1NgHhAY8/V1SS1NHe-6I/AAAAAAAAEaQ/VaLV72O5A_UHU4RtdlM3aQR1xos5J2JrQCLcB/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-05%2Bat%2B4.59.34%2BPM.png" width="373" /></a></div>
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Taking a look at the map, the ride starts in the NE corner at Front Royal, cruises south the length of Skyline and then onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, where it continues south to Buena Vista. It then descends west into Buena Vista, loops back to the east, and then climbs back up to the ridgeline all the way back north to Rapine, where you descend to the west once again for the overnight stop. One challenge with this arrangement is that the overnight stop comes at mile 227, well past the halfway point, and almost inevitably well after dark. It makes for an exceedingly long and hilly first day, but at least the route is easy to follow!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZSSfOufDJU/V1SigCL1ubI/AAAAAAAAEa8/hm8M6fCQ6iE8tWZnvs2Pl04DQqcMI04sgCLcB/s1600/16%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZSSfOufDJU/V1SigCL1ubI/AAAAAAAAEa8/hm8M6fCQ6iE8tWZnvs2Pl04DQqcMI04sgCLcB/s400/16%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">7-Eleven breakfast for the win!</td></tr>
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I chose to begin my ride at 4:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, a stupidly early time, but my thinking was that, with an aggressive pace, I had a decent chance to finish the first day's ride by 9:00 p.m. or so, which would keep nighttime riding to a minimum. Sure, I'd be climbing in the dark for the first hour, but that's pretty much just a gentle climb up to the ridgeline, so it's as easy before dawn as it would be any other time. I had the road completely to myself for the first few hours, and I was treated to dawn breaking to the east in all its glory. As interested as I was in making good times, I had to stop for some photos.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-doNXc8lYoDo/V1Sg1QTTwaI/AAAAAAAAEak/OjcnM6s_a_QSEidO-8Sw3kwadyrWci1wwCLcB/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-doNXc8lYoDo/V1Sg1QTTwaI/AAAAAAAAEak/OjcnM6s_a_QSEidO-8Sw3kwadyrWci1wwCLcB/s400/16.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tP8acEsCD3g/V1Sg1ajbz-I/AAAAAAAAEag/F_wHYhwQnXcZbGP210XpvHoCdm84LpgKwCLcB/s1600/17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tP8acEsCD3g/V1Sg1ajbz-I/AAAAAAAAEag/F_wHYhwQnXcZbGP210XpvHoCdm84LpgKwCLcB/s400/17.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k2s9sNWbOFs/V1Q-5evQvBI/AAAAAAAAEY0/G5ZwEM6H254vannui9AnF2YywjdIZ1ixACKgB/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k2s9sNWbOFs/V1Q-5evQvBI/AAAAAAAAEY0/G5ZwEM6H254vannui9AnF2YywjdIZ1ixACKgB/s400/11.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red sky at night, randonneur's delight; Red sky at morning, Rando take warning.</td></tr>
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Things went without a hitch for the first several hours. In fact, despite my relatively heavy load, I set some Strava personal records in the early part of the southbound leg. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cFRMVxuiEUE/V1SiyYyUVSI/AAAAAAAAEbE/KrLTzNFlN34y9nvLnunrrUhDSSJrgZYSgCLcB/s1600/13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cFRMVxuiEUE/V1SiyYyUVSI/AAAAAAAAEbE/KrLTzNFlN34y9nvLnunrrUhDSSJrgZYSgCLcB/s400/13.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peaceful as you like.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KyDnKTsnljI/V1SiY_mPySI/AAAAAAAAEa0/EOW-Ph9r2L8dlWHf5oas2-KgMFFDT0CEgCLcB/s1600/17%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KyDnKTsnljI/V1SiY_mPySI/AAAAAAAAEa0/EOW-Ph9r2L8dlWHf5oas2-KgMFFDT0CEgCLcB/s400/17%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proof of passage: I had to take photos of my bike at certain locations.</td></tr>
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In fact, the first adversity of any sort I encountered was that I arrived at the Big Meadow Wayside about 15 minutes before it opened, so I made friends with a guy and his 10-year-old son, the latter of whom would entertain us by noting that a bicycle is like a robot that doesn't need electricity, and then laughing hysterically. I conceded the point.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GmKHmFxvHvw/V1SknMi83sI/AAAAAAAAEbQ/XRRYTqmwQ5YMr__MB8Sg2gZKHlJCrs9EwCLcB/s1600/7%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GmKHmFxvHvw/V1SknMi83sI/AAAAAAAAEbQ/XRRYTqmwQ5YMr__MB8Sg2gZKHlJCrs9EwCLcB/s400/7%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Meadow Wayside. On the other side of this building, there's a meadow whose size I can't remember.<span style="text-align: start;"> </span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IaomGlqsgPs/V1Spbwic7MI/AAAAAAAAEbg/9MbyqG8L7PQQ4u7P7fLhZwGzr--ms8kdgCLcB/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IaomGlqsgPs/V1Spbwic7MI/AAAAAAAAEbg/9MbyqG8L7PQQ4u7P7fLhZwGzr--ms8kdgCLcB/s400/8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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After that, it was back on the road south toward vistas anew.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PQ-NN05f6V4/V1SqCnzjvLI/AAAAAAAAEbo/9JAn9VCO_sIRKxA32KnJp_q0SIrnOIbCACLcB/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PQ-NN05f6V4/V1SqCnzjvLI/AAAAAAAAEbo/9JAn9VCO_sIRKxA32KnJp_q0SIrnOIbCACLcB/s400/10.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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And some of these, too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L5AYwiUFCWY/V1SrEyKCF4I/AAAAAAAAEb4/TwKKsF393dIlwjkUgTg0kB9xfg156D4uwCLcB/s1600/13301338_10154287487639850_1990344889583751133_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L5AYwiUFCWY/V1SrEyKCF4I/AAAAAAAAEb4/TwKKsF393dIlwjkUgTg0kB9xfg156D4uwCLcB/s400/13301338_10154287487639850_1990344889583751133_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken over my shoulder as I rolled past.</td></tr>
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You could spot the bears in advance because there would be a traffic jam of cars stopped all over the road as people raptly watched the poor critters lumbering around, eating grass and looking nonplussed.<br />
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It was in this area that I made my first mistake. I hit the control at Loft Mountain Wayside, at mile 79.5, at about 9:45 a.m. I put a couple of candy bars in my pocket, filled my three bottles, and rolled out without issue, thinking that my next refueling stop was at Humpback Rocks at Mile 111 (just over 30 miles away). When I got to Humpback Rocks a couple of hours later, ready to restock, I found that they had literally nothing except water -- not even the sort of snack food one comes to expect. <br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QGfGRnVAWBw/V1Tcmm6hHDI/AAAAAAAAEfU/ZKt6vQUtRYoR6cqIEONrwyy_4IqV6GGQwCLcB/s1600/2%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QGfGRnVAWBw/V1Tcmm6hHDI/AAAAAAAAEfU/ZKt6vQUtRYoR6cqIEONrwyy_4IqV6GGQwCLcB/s400/2%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I was out of everything, and looking at the cue sheet, the next stop was in Buena Vista at Mile 156 -- 45 miles away. On Skyline, that could easily be a three-hour stretch. I got some water and rolled out, hoping for the best. It would wind up being about 77 miles between refueling stops. Note to future riders: don't count on Humpback Rocks for much of anything. For the next few hours, I'd be riding on <i>pan y agua</i>, <i>sin pan</i>.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O_6S3e__DoM/V1S3UecncvI/AAAAAAAAEcI/I6wpy3ep45cZ8_Y61c8NBGujPI0Vkmm_QCLcB/s1600/3%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O_6S3e__DoM/V1S3UecncvI/AAAAAAAAEcI/I6wpy3ep45cZ8_Y61c8NBGujPI0Vkmm_QCLcB/s400/3%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heaven looks like this.</td></tr>
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Just as I stocked up on water, mother nature decided to encourage me by contributing to the effort. A tendril of Tropical Storm Bonnie had reached out to touch someone, and I felt... touched. A rain somewhere between steady and soaking settled in for the afternoon. It wasn't terribly cold in the grand scheme, probably in the high 60s, but I had a couple of things going against me. First, I was wearing a wool jersey and wool undershirt, which, while warm enough in general, quickly came to weigh about as much as my bike. Second, although it wasn't too cold, Skyline is the sort of place where descents take 15 minutes, and when you're soaked to the gills, that's plenty of time to get the chills. Finally, I was teetering precariously on the edge of Bonkville due to my not having had calories for three hours. I finally wafted into Buena Vista, shivering and as indignant as a cat in a washing machine, and parked myself at the Burger King, where I ordered two meals and a large coffee.<br />
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A couple of thoughts on this. First, when you're soaked and shivering, sometimes it's worth it to spend some time hanging out under the hot-air hand dryers in the men's room; a warm, dry cap can be particularly welcome. Second, not all fellow patrons will look favorably on this behavior. Third, Burger King now has something called "chicken fries," which are chicken strips in the size and shape of French fries. They are truly terrible. Also, they are amazing, and I can't recommend them highly enough. If, as I did, you pair them with two order of normal fries and a fried chicken breast sandwich, it's actually possible to form a protective layer of fat and cholesterol that will insulate you for miles. For dessert, I highly recommend a king-sized roll of Sweet Tarts. <br />
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Thus sated to the point of waddling, I rolled out for the final 50 miles or so. I was moving along well, and it seemed I'd have a long overnight rest to enjoy if I could make it there. The miles immediately after Buena Vista are some of the more forgiving on the route; they aren't flat, but they're largely meandering through side roads in the valley. Eventually, though, it was time to head back up to the ridgeline for the journey north to Raphine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qIzL7wXxopg/V1S51h3HnKI/AAAAAAAAEcU/6P_tcnOS1skzqRh5hDhXvJP41H3s0GnAgCLcB/s1600/4%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qIzL7wXxopg/V1S51h3HnKI/AAAAAAAAEcU/6P_tcnOS1skzqRh5hDhXvJP41H3s0GnAgCLcB/s400/4%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Here come the hills, a-gain..."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jJtYNpn29wA/V1S51hbxYDI/AAAAAAAAEcY/-iNqf3QgEE8ciYAtzNNeBPPx0xoE6oCNACLcB/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jJtYNpn29wA/V1S51hbxYDI/AAAAAAAAEcY/-iNqf3QgEE8ciYAtzNNeBPPx0xoE6oCNACLcB/s400/5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jammin' over the James (River).</td></tr>
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The penultimate control for the day came at the James River Wayside. They had a water fountain, so I wandered over to fill up a bottle and wound up doing a Wile-E-Coyote-like flailing, dancing, and ultimately-flipping-a**-over-teakettle comedy routine on wet flagstones right next to the water fountain. It's moments like these that earn me so many groupies. They also explain why, occasionally, riding solo ain't so bad: fewer cameras around.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_4zUAiw9LTo/V1S6UrbAhvI/AAAAAAAAEcg/HVvvUqJ_GB4QNv_ammvVbygrSgUm80acACLcB/s1600/5%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_4zUAiw9LTo/V1S6UrbAhvI/AAAAAAAAEcg/HVvvUqJ_GB4QNv_ammvVbygrSgUm80acACLcB/s400/5%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The climb back up to the ridgeline was an 1800-foot grind, although it was tranquil enough. I was chasing daylight but on pace to get to Raphine by 8:30 pm. <br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XGmUzwmRpqA/V1TcKFnl_YI/AAAAAAAAEfA/lH0SVx93t4Qn33qszdNHERlWxNKJHwmwwCLcB/s1600/7%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XGmUzwmRpqA/V1TcKFnl_YI/AAAAAAAAEfA/lH0SVx93t4Qn33qszdNHERlWxNKJHwmwwCLcB/s400/7%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Sadly, it was not to be. As soon as I regained altitude, the rain started dumping again, and it felt like, no matter how far I went, I was seeing no sign of the turnoff for Raphine. Eventually I figured out why: in the rain and descending darkness, I'd gone miles past it, and of course, those miles were straight uphill. Wet and irritated, I turned around and headed back, but by then, it was dark and the tropical storm was in full effect. Worse, to get from the ridgeline down to Raphine, I had to descend the notorious Vesuvius climb (named for the tiny town at its base). It's several miles long, with grades that regularly exceed 15%, and on a potholed country road under dense tree cover. It's also exceedingly technical, with switchbacks and terrible sight lines. With pitch darkness and wet roads that seemed to suck up the lights from my headlight and helmet, it was one of the more terrifying times I've had on a bike, picking my way down the mountain at about 5 mph, dodging potholes full of water and trying to figure out where the edge of the road became a precipitous drop into the woods. Yuck.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6_UvNmr8ufg/V1TSexnbjkI/AAAAAAAAEdA/tEPZYe83UHsuNp4-kJ5IglSVFUaU3Z59wCLcB/s1600/1%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6_UvNmr8ufg/V1TSexnbjkI/AAAAAAAAEdA/tEPZYe83UHsuNp4-kJ5IglSVFUaU3Z59wCLcB/s400/1%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a>In all, the detour and conditions cost me nearly an hour; I reached Raphine at about 9:30 p.m. and had a Wendy's banquet before mucking my way down the road to the hotel. There, after a decadently long shower, I spent about an hour desperately trying to figure out how to get my clothes dry. I laid some of them out over the A/C vent; other items, like my shorts, were hung in the direct blast of the hair dryer. If you've never smelled "cooked day-old chamois," I assure you that you're better off for the ignorance. Eventually I decided that the remaining items were just going to have to air dry; I hung them and hoped for the best, noting with some dismay that my theoretically waterproof shell was doing its best sponge impression.<br />
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With a 4:00 a.m. wakeup, I'd gotten 4+ hours of sleep, which ain't half bad in this sort of endeavor. My clothes were no longer dripping, and the storm had passed overnight. Frankly, I'd have been comfortable starting earlier, but given the sketchy weather and the fact that the first control (the market at Wintergreen Resort) didn't open until 7:30, I figured there wasn't much point in rolling out before 5:00. So I had a leisurely breakfast at Dunkin Donuts, filled the bottles and pockets, and headed back toward Vesuvius -- the hard way this time.<br />
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Vesuvius -- not ideal first thing in the morning when you've ridden 230 hilly miles the day before. But there it was, 3 miles, 1500 feet of elevation gain, and an average grade of 9% (and upward of 15% in places). I'd climbed it twice before, and each time it just seemed to keep going, and to keep getting steeper, at every turn. This time, I managed to get up it at a steady rate despite being weighed down by 3 full water bottles and all other manner of cargo. No speed records for sure, but that's ok.</div>
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Having regained the ridgeline, there was a straightforward 15-mile stretch to the north before the biggest challenge of the day: the route dropped down the ridgeline to the east, where it found the base of the Wintergreen Resort, and duly told us that the next control was at the top. Sweet! I knew Wintergreen, and it's just a beast.</div>
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2.3 miles at 9% average -- like a continuation of Vesuvius. Thing is, the full Wintergreen climb starts in the valley and climbs fully a mile past the market, where we'd stop -- it's 7 miles of unadulterated beastliness. Our portion was just a sample, though it wasn't exactly straightforward. I managed to set a personal-record time up it despite being far from fresh -- woot!</div>
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It turned out that I'd gone a little faster than I predicted; the market wasn't open until 7:30, and I wasn't in the mood to wait around for 20 minutes, so I took off and trusted that I could get by in the cool morning temperatures. </div>
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But first, one more challenge: from the base of the Wintergreen resort back up to the ridgeline is a mile, and it is absurdly steep.</div>
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A solid mile at 12-15% grade. Yeesh. Got it done; didn't fall over. Minimum requirements met.<br />
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Having reached the ridgeline once more, I headed north: 125 miles to victory! And a beautiful morning it was. <br />
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At times, I was far above the low-lying clouds filling the valleys, and it looked like distant hilltops were ships flowing on a sea of mist.</div>
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The remainder of the day was, dare I say it, gorgeous and straightforward. I mean, look at this road:<br />
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It doesn't get better. Somehow, despite the objective difficulty of the ride, I felt stronger as the day progressed and home got closer. I even blew away a couple of my all-time personal best times on climbs toward the northern part of Skyline. For example:<br />
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A 3-minute personal-best time on a 3-mile climb, and it came past mile 350 of a 2-day ride with 35,000 feet of climbing. Crazy! But fun.</div>
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The literal beauty of Skyline Drive has been well-covered, but there's also a figurative beauty in that the route is like a giant savings account. When you start in Front Royal and head south, the first thing you do is climb straight up, and you keep climbing, up to a total of about 3,500 feet. When you're heading home, your effort is returned: most of the last 20 miles, and all of the last 5 miles, is a screaming descent. It was the perfect epilogue to the adventure.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">35 hours and 33 minutes later.</td></tr>
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Man, what a ride. The only downside came about 2 hours from the end, when I started getting a twinge in my right Achilles tendon. I thought I had just tweaked it somehow, but it kept getting worse, and I could barely push the pedal on the half-mile ride from the 7-Eleven back to my car. I was limping for days afterward, but I think I have it under control. It's a weird injury for a cyclist (more common for a runner), but I think it was just overuse given that I'd climbed more than 60k feet in the previous 14 days, much of it up grades of 15% or steeper. I'd tentatively planned to ride a tough 600k brevet with the D.C. Randonneurs the following weekend, but that just wasn't in the cards if there was any chance of making the injury worse or getting stranded in the middle of nowhere.<br />
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Final thoughts? This ride was tough physically but pretty easy mentally. With the exception of Vesuvius and Wintergreen, the climbs weren't too hard, even though there were many of them and they did stretch on for miles at a time. The pavement is great, which makes a huge difference, and the descents are largely joyful, relaxing affairs. The scenery is hard to beat, even if it does risk repetitiveness at times. And there's something to be said for having a cue sheet that amounts to "go straight for 150 miles." The interior of Alaska was the last time I've seen anything comparable.<br />
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In terms of comparisons between this SR600k and the Big Savage, I think the latter is clearly harder. My GPS put that one at 37k feet of climbing to this one's 35k feet. RideWithGPS puts them both at 37k feet. But whatever the case, I think the main difference is that, no matter how tired you get, you can pretty much just crank up a 5-6% grade, which is mostly what this route demands. Once things get up above 10% -- which Big Savage does all day long -- it becomes considerably tougher. The descents on Big Savage are also more demanding -- more technical and rutted. My only hesitation in this comparison is that my fitness for this ride was vastly better, and the temperatures were more moderate. Those things matter tremendously. Even so, on the whole, I'd award this ride the "King of the Vistas" prize, and Big Savage the "King of the Mountains."<br />
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Next up for me is the National 24-Hour Challenge in Michigan on June 18, and then the 520-mile Race Across Oregon on July 16.<span style="text-align: center;"></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-76924454908585010522016-03-10T13:58:00.001-05:002016-03-10T22:32:32.703-05:00Ride Review: Devil's Wicked Stepmother 414k Permanent<div style="text-align: center;">
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Being somewhat of a wimp when it comes to riding in cold weather, I've traditionally hung out on my Computrainer until the trees are in bloom. But, when I saw that early March would serve up a midweek day of 80 degrees and sunshine, I had to go big. As Val Kilmer memorably put it, "it's a moral imperative."<br />
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The question was, what route to ride? It's hard to get excited about routes leaving from D.C.; while pleasant enough, they're ridden so often that it feels more like a workout than an adventure. The most appealing rides were in the Shenandoah Valley, but that was far enough away that I wanted to make the drive worth it. Finally, with this year's focus on a couple of truly mountainous events, I wanted to climb. Searching the RUSA permanents, the answer quickly became clear: Crista Borras's 414k permanent known as "Devil's Wicked Stepmother." With nearly 18,000 feet of climbing over 258 miles, it's a route that would be challenging at any time of year, much less in March. But, the way I saw it, I could keep the pedals turning and finish eventually. I guessed I might be able to finish it in around 18 hours, but who knew? Only one person had ridden it previously, and given that I didn't recognize his name, I figured it might have prompted him to retire from cycling.<br />
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After an indecently early wake-up and drive from D.C., I rolled out from Strasburg, Virginia at 4:00 a.m. One disadvantage to long rides early in the season is that the nights are long -- the first 2+ hours were ridden in the dark. Riding west toward Moorefield, West Virginia, the climbing began almost immediately with a 1500-foot grinder. But it was hard to keep my spirits down: the road surfaces were terrific, the sky was full of stars, and traffic was minimal (although what vehicles there were tended to be massive gasoline tankers, which were not much fun). Unfortunately, although the overnight lows had been predicted to hover around 50, my GPS unit and various billboards showed that the actual temperature was in the high 30s for several hours, which was an entirely different ballgame -- my decision not to wear knee warmers was a misstep. It's a lesson I seem to need to relearn periodically: weather forecasts do not apply in the mountains.<br />
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The first control, a Sheetz in Moorefield at mile 53, took longer to reach than I hoped it would; riding in the mountains at night is no recipe for speed. After wolfing down a breakfast burrito the size of my head, I turned south toward Monterey, Virginia, some 90 miles away. This section, through Lost River, WV, is God's Country for any cyclist ambitious enough to take it on: endless vistas, mountain rivers, cliff faces, wildlife, and not a car to be seen for dozens of miles at a time. It's my favorite place to ride in the mid-Atlantic.</div>
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There's nothing quite like cruising with a rock face to one side and rapids to the other, and that was the scene for hours on end. It's roads like this that cause me to be sad when people talk about cycling on the trails around D.C. -- to me, that just ain't what it's about. Miles 53-90, to the Brandywine control, were as good as it gets.<br />
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The toughest part of this adventure was miles 90-143, <em>i.e.</em>, from Brandywine to Monterey. There are virtually no services in this stretch; there is literally no cell service, and West Virginia's ambivalent attitude toward paving roads is on full display -- there was loose pea gravel over much of the surface, and certain stretches were exercises in mitigating damage. Making matters tougher, the temperatures rose quickly, as did the elevation reading: this stretch is essentially 50 miles of false flat, into a strong headwind, punctuated by a series of 1,000-foot climbs. It is excruciatingly slow-going at times. Luckily, there was a country store at mile 120 or so, which allowed me to refill my bottles before continuing the southward slog.<br />
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Unfortunately, while I was stopped at the store, I noticed something alarming: apparently the rough pavement of the previous 30 miles had dislodged my flat kit, which was nowhere to be seen. Not good: I was 120 miles from my car, 135 miles from the end of the ride, in the middle of nowhere, with no cell service to speak of. If I'd have flatted, it could have been truly ugly -- without tire levers, I'd have been hard pressed even to get the tire off of the rim. That's one clear benefit of riding in a group -- the ability to help each other out -- but I had no choice but to press on in the hope of finding a small-town bike shop at some point. <br />
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The scenery did its best to cheer me up, but in truth, I was pretty nervous about the situation.<br />
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Fortunately, no news was good news on the tire front, and after seemingly climbing forever into a diabolical headwind, I rolled into Monterey on fumes. My goal had been to stay in the saddle and make steady progress, but I needed to cool off and fuel up -- to that point, the ride had been much more difficult than I'd expected, and my 18-hour guesstimate was looking profoundly implausible. Given my tire situation, I'd hoped that Virginia's pavement would surpass West Virginia's.<br />
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Delightfully, from Monterey, the route turned east and headed into the George Washington National Forest, <em>i.e.</em>, The Best Cycling on Earth. There was a toll to be paid in the form of two gut-punch climbs out of Monterey replete with switchbacks that would have been at home in the Alps, but the views from the summits were incomparable, and that immutable cycling truth paid big dividends: what goes up must come down. The descents were just heavenly, complete with the sun speckling through trees and a gentle tailwind. <br />
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The saving grace of this route is that, if you can hang on through mile 165, the last century will take care of itself: the Shenandoah Valley guides one home along immaculate roads, and the gravitational pull of the finish line ensures that one stays motivated. I never did pass through a town with a bike shop, but my worries were for naught. To the extent there was a downside, it was only insofar as darkness fell hours before I finished, an inevitable by-product of the season.<br />
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The ride finishes at a Denny's, the last refuge of cyclists wearing coral arm sleeves and, um, heavily tattood skinheads. As I sat waiting for my late-night omelette, I was amazed to see that my 18-hour guess had been off by... 2 minutes. Maybe I'm getting the hang of this after all.<br />
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Viewing the ride as a whole, I have to say that I think the D.C. Randonneurs are missing a step by failing to include it on the calendar at some point -- it is simply too good to lie dormant on the RUSA website for years on end. The only downside to it is that, yes, it is difficult. But it's surely no more difficult than the Mother of All 300ks, which has nearly as much climbing in a shorter span, and the scenery is well worth it. Congrats to Crista on putting together something special. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-28808593016067692692016-02-16T23:49:00.000-05:002016-02-18T09:13:30.942-05:00Dancing in Coral Shoes: 24 Hours of Sebring, 2016 EditionValentine's Day weekend of 2016 marked my third annual trip to <a href="http://www.bikesebring.org/">Bike Sebring</a>, one of the best attended and most competitive ultracycling races on the calendar. (My 2014 report can be found <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/02/race-report-heart-of-darkness-bike.html">here</a>.) <br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cpbmNNbq3E0/VsIFh6XNDsI/AAAAAAAAEUk/HQxtLyYQ8E4/s1600/Pre-ride%2BSebring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cpbmNNbq3E0/VsIFh6XNDsI/AAAAAAAAEUk/HQxtLyYQ8E4/s400/Pre-ride%2BSebring.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
Any 24-hour race is difficult by definition, but this one poses a unique challenge: the peak training months are December and January, which is the holiday season and one where it's tough to put in huge outdoor miles. Compounding that difficulty has been my tough work schedule this winter, which didn't allow me to ride longer than 6 hours at a time, and the fact that my fitness was in a deep hole at the beginning of November following a long injury layoff, wedding, and honeymoon. Essentially, I was trying to lose weight, build base miles, and get faster, all at once. Not an easy task.<br />
<br />
And then there's the competition -- at the top end, it's tough. Sebring is often used as a destination race for those neck-deep in training for RAAM in June. For a healthy portion of those individuals, RAAM training is literally their full-time job. It's not that they get paid for it -- quite the opposite, there's no prize money and it's notably expensive -- but they've arranged their affairs in such a way that the main focus of every day is building bike fitness. For a host of reasons, that's not the world I live in. A better sense of my schedule that, in the first two weeks of January, my life consisted of 10 depositions, 2 arguments in the D.C. Circuit, trying to keep my new wife from reconsidering that whole "I do" decision, and maybe a little cycling.<br />
<br />
So, with a hat tip to Teddy Roosevelt, I did what I could, with what I had, where I was. I did zero outdoor rides after mid-November, but I hit the Computrainer 5-6 times a week for a variety of endurance rides and interval sessions. I also did plyometric workouts 3x/week, which I've found to be particularly effective and time-efficient full-body cross-training. <br />
<br />
In all, I was basically preparing for a marathon by training to run a fast 10k. It's better than nothing, but far from ideal. <br />
<br />
Despite the training challenges, by the time the race rolled around, I felt pretty optimistic: my power numbers were where I wanted them and I was healthy; I just hoped I could hold it together for the whole 24 hours. In 2014 I went 441 miles, and I followed it up with 475 miles in 2015. The course record for my new age group was 483 miles, which I thought was in the realm of the possible.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">NEW IDEAS</span></b><br />
<b><br />
</b> When it comes to bike setup, I'm an inveterate tinkerer -- each race I do things a little differently in an effort to go a bit faster and stay on the bike longer. It doesn't always work out, but at least it keeps things interesting. This year, my approach focused on aerodynamics. I bought an affordable disc wheel from Flo Cycling, found a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005CXTSYE?psc=1&redirect=true&ref_=oh_aui_detailpage_o02_s00">behind-the-saddle hydration system that would mount to wide Selle Anatomica rails</a>, and put a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0188041B2?psc=1&redirect=true&ref_=oh_aui_detailpage_o02_s00">between-the-aerobat bottle mount</a> on the front. The idea was to get the bottles up out of the wind while allowing me to go for at least a couple of hours between refueling stops. Given that the course was flat, I wasn't concerned about weight. My final tweak was to tape my Cardo BK-1 (now <a href="http://www.terranosystems.com/">Terrano X</a>) communication system to my aero helmet -- it's meant to strap to vents, but I didn't have any of those. Given the moderate predicted temperatures, I wasn't worried about overheating.<br />
<br />
As an added "I just gotta be me" touch, I found some dandy coral shoe covers and arm sleeves that would make me visible for my crew. Yes, they're Rapha. (Shush. I sleep just fine at night.) <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZNk7z6b5xmc/VsH-XWhVcJI/AAAAAAAAEUU/vz59fuGIa1c/s1600/Sebring%2Bprofile%2Bpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZNk7z6b5xmc/VsH-XWhVcJI/AAAAAAAAEUU/vz59fuGIa1c/s400/Sebring%2Bprofile%2Bpic.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am extremely fancy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">AT 'EM</span></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The race at Sebring starts with 3 quick laps around the racetrack (a total of 11 miles or so), and then a 90-mile lap through the orange groves of central Florida. In both 2014 and 2015, I'd been blown out the back of the pack in the first mile. The trick is that there are several races starting at once, including a draft-legal 100-miler and 12-hour. The guys at the front of those races ride blisteringly fast in a pace line, and the fastest 24-hour racers go nearly as quickly. The result was that, in the last couple of years, I was already 30 minutes behind after the first century. This year, I decided to try to hold the pace a bit better. Surprisingly, I was able to keep in touch with the lead pack on the track while keeping my wattage in a reasonable range. Maybe my aerodynamic tweaks helped more than I'd anticipated.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6C6nFx0_c_k/VsPobkIGhfI/AAAAAAAAEU8/T4VLh_Tnu2c/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-16%2Bat%2B10.26.02%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6C6nFx0_c_k/VsPobkIGhfI/AAAAAAAAEU8/T4VLh_Tnu2c/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-16%2Bat%2B10.26.02%2BPM.png" width="382" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To Frostproof and Beyond! Well, to Frostproof, anyway.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As we set out into the countryside, things were going well -- alarmingly so. I was in a small lead non-drafting group consisting of Marko Baloh (Slovenian, course record holder, multiple world record holder, multiple RAAM finisher, training for RAAM 2016, and different species of cyclist), Erik Newsholme (440 miles last year and training for RAAM 2016), and Fabio Silvestri (highly experienced Brazilian rider training for RAAM 2016). Notice a trend here? Tough crowd. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qZgql_UZeJY/VsXOmDBNp3I/AAAAAAAAEVo/ytpZPpD8d5I/s1600/Daytime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qZgql_UZeJY/VsXOmDBNp3I/AAAAAAAAEVo/ytpZPpD8d5I/s400/Daytime.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Briefly leading the 12-hour train, which we leapfrogged periodically.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The four of us stayed in touching distance through the turnaround at mile 55 (at nearly 24 mph), at which point I started getting a little concerned. My concern was named Marko -- he was still there. I'm not insecure about my riding ability, but I am not in his class based on the several times we've competed, and last year he was 15' ahead of me by that point. My power was reasonable, if maybe 5-10 watts above target, but I was relaxed, eating well, and didn't feel as if I was pushing things. I'd have preferred if he pulled away, thus restoring the order of the universe and confirming that I wasn't riding stupidly, but one can never tell: maybe he was sick or training through the race. I decided the mere fact that he was there wasn't reason enough for me to slow down -- that would basically be adopting an inferiority complex as a race strategy -- so I went with it. Eventually he pulled away a bit and Fabio went with him, although they were in sight for the most part. Erik took a little additional time refueling at the turnaround, but I suspected he wasn't far behind.<br />
<br />
I will say this: despite my lack of mileage, I'd rarely felt so strong on a bike. It was flow state to the horizon. In 2014 and 2015, I rolled through the century mark in 4 hours and 42 minutes (21.3 mph). This year, despite feeling like I was trying less hard, I rolled through in what was, for me, a scalding 4:14 (23.6 mph). Where had an extra 2.3 mph come from? God knows. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, things got a little more challenging at this point, because my power meter died. I'd noticed in the days beforehand that it was eating batteries, and I put in a new one the morning before the race, but it crapped out 5 hours in. (The battery life is rated at 200 hours.) So, I was faced with riding the final 19 hours on perceived exertion. I'm not an "addicted to a power meter" guy, but it serves the critical purpose of telling you objectively when you're pushing a little too hard, an important thing to know in a race that lasts all day and all night. So, I just kinda eyeballed it, trying to push forward deliberately without stopping longer than absolutely necessary.<br />
<br />
The 11-mile daytime loops are, historically, my strongest portion of this event. They reward disciplined riding and provide a little variety: hills to climb, winds to combat, nutrition handoffs to manage, and so forth.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--dFkJYqc444/VsPoFwpJpPI/AAAAAAAAEU4/32_CIcOvrlI/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-16%2Bat%2B10.24.40%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--dFkJYqc444/VsPoFwpJpPI/AAAAAAAAEU4/32_CIcOvrlI/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-16%2Bat%2B10.24.40%2BPM.png" width="386" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting a little loopy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Nothing about the loops is hard, but they wear on you, and this year the temperatures crept up to nearly 80 degrees -- very pleasant, really, but also warmer than I've ridden in for quite awhile. For the first time ever at this event, I can say that no one passed me over the course of my 13 loops. (Indeed, last year, I only managed 12 loops before getting routed onto the track.) I didn't think I was pushing too hard, but without a power reading, I was only guessing.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MEFejfgfNCc/VsPukS_59-I/AAAAAAAAEVQ/R5punaFvp58/s1600/Aero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MEFejfgfNCc/VsPukS_59-I/AAAAAAAAEVQ/R5punaFvp58/s400/Aero.jpg" width="350" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buzzing right along!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By the time I reached the track again at around 5:45 pm, my only conclusion was that I was having the ride of my life. I was winning the race among humans (second behind Marko), and I was 20 miles ahead of where I'd been at that time in 2015's 475-mile effort. Here are the splits:<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <u>2015</u> <u>2016</u> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Long loop (101 miles) 4:46:54 4:17:35</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 1 (11 miles) 32:56 31:27</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 2 (11 miles) 32:05 31:21</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 3 (11 miles) 32:36 31:46</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 4 (11 miles) 32:23 30:52</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 5 (11 miles) 32:25 32:32</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 6 (11 miles) 32:05 32:49</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 7 (11 miles) 32:51 34:08</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 8 (11 miles) 32:19 32:06</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 9 (11 miles) 33:19 31:04</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 10 (11 miles) 33:12 32:07</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 11 (11 miles) 33:48 32:49</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 12 (11 miles) 33:56 33:32</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daytime 13 (11 miles) 32:55</span><br />
<br />
I don't have power numbers to confirm, but these loops look pretty good to me -- about 75% were faster than they'd been in 2015, but not outrageously so; it's tough to compare loop-for-loop because I stopped to refuel at slightly different points, but the bottom line was, I think I executed about as well as I could have hoped to. I was going consistently faster than in 2015, but my splits weren't falling apart in any significant way, as they would if I'd overcooked the first century and first few daytime loops. All I had to do was have an average overnight ride by my historical standards and I'd be in the 500-mile club. <br />
<br />
The Sebring raceway is 3.7 miles long, and it's the flattest place it is humanly possible to ride a bicycle. After the hills on the daytime loop, that flatness seems completely inviting, but it is deceptive. With such a flat course, there's no time to stop pedaling without paying a penalty, no opportunity to shift your weight, and mentally, it can be profoundly taxing. It's dark for 13+ hours in Sebring in February (compared with maybe 9 hours in a summer event), and you're going in loops for that entire time with nothing at all to look at. What's worse, each year I've struggled mightily to stay warm -- there's something about the damp Florida air that soaks into my bones no matter what I wear. (I'm told the crews feel the same way, which is of minor comfort, although I wish they didn't have to experience it.) <br />
<br />
Anyway, I set off like a man on a mission, and for the first several hours -- until 1:00 a.m. or so -- I executed just as I'd hoped to. My splits held reasonably solid:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u>Loop</u> <u>Split</u> <u>Elapsed time</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">1 10:09 11:27:05 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2 10:06 11:37:11 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">3 10:57 11:48:07 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">4 12:58 12:01:05 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">5 10:29 12:11:33 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">6 10:21 12:21:54 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">7 11:03 12:32:57 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">8 10:22 12:43:18 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">9 11:03 12:54:20 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">10 10:15 13:04:35 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">11 10:13 13:14:47 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">12 10:16 13:25:03 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">13 12:59 13:38:01 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">14 10:41 13:48:42 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">15 14:45 14:03:26 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">16 10:15 14:13:40 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">17 10:11 14:23:51 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">18 10:08 14:33:58 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">19 10:08 14:44:05 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">20 10:11 14:54:16 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">21 10:13 15:04:28 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">22 10:19 15:14:47 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">23 10:12 15:24:59 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">24 10:30 15:35:28 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">25 10:56 15:46:23 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">26 16:29 16:02:52 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">27 11:28 16:14:20 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">28 11:22 16:25:41 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">29 10:54 16:36:35 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">30 10:53 16:47:27 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">31 11:05 16:58:31 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">32 11:07 17:09:37 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">33 12:51 17:22:28 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">34 11:10 17:33:37 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">35 11:03 17:44:39 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">36 11:18 17:55:56 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">37 11:55 18:07:50 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">38 11:27 18:19:17 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">39 11:37 18:30:53 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sure, by 1:00 a.m. my pace was about 10% slower than it had been at 5:45 p.m., but that's to be expected. The problem was, at that point, things started trending downhill quickly. I was still clinging to second place by my teeth, but Erik was blowing by me ridiculously quickly, and I was struggling to keep pace with folks I'd been passing all day long. It was highly demoralizing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">My thoughts turned to the cardinal rule of long distance cycling: whatever you </span><u style="font-family: inherit;">think</u><span style="font-family: inherit;"> the problem is, the </span><u style="font-family: inherit;">actual</u><span style="font-family: inherit;"> problem is probably nutritional -- specifically, not enough calories. My mother, loyal crew member that she is, heated up some chicken broth with carbohydrate power in it, which had saved me in the past in similar situations, and then she encouraged me to have some hot chocolate too, which I did. Unfortunately, over the next hour, I wound up on the side of the road twice, horribly sick. I just wasn't absorbing any of it, and the longer I went without getting calories, the harder it became to push the pedals, which made it increasingly difficult to stay warm. It's a pernicious cycle that's critical to arrest. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">The bottom line is, I just couldn't get the ship turned around. From 1:00 onward, my splits fell apart entirely:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u>Loop</u> <u>Split</u> <u>Elapsed time</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">40 12:12 18:43:05 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">41 15:35 18:58:39 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">42 12:10 19:10:49 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">43 16:54 19:27:43 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">44 11:23 19:39:05 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">45 12:22 19:51:26 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">46 16:46 20:08:12 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">47 12:55 20:21:07 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">48 15:18 20:36:24 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">49 13:55 20:50:18 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">50 13:17 21:03:35 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">51 13:52 21:17:27 </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">52 13:50 21:31:16 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">It's normal to slow down somewhat toward the end of one of these events, but from compared to hours 12-18 (when I was already long into the day), hours 19-21.5 were about 30% slower and heading in the wrong direction. I tried every trick I knew, including standing in the saddle for extended periods, but I just had nothing left to give. Couldn't keep food or liquid down, couldn't warm up. Just ugly. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">Just after 4:00 a.m., while contemplating next steps, I suddenly found myself rolling across the grass. Odd -- that hadn't happened on previous laps. Turns out I had just failed to notice that the road turned, and off I went, cruising to who-knows-where. I managed to find the course again, but I realized that things were going from bad to worse. I stopped and sat down in the crew area for a couple of minutes to try to solve the puzzle, but doing so just made me colder, so I eventually went to sit in my parents' car for a couple of minutes to heat up. Those minutes stretched on, and I decided I'd had enough for this year. It was all I could do to get my bike without shivering uncontrollably.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">In the end, I went 449 miles, good for third place among men. (Sarah Cooper, who is rapidly becoming a legend, also beat me soundly, overturning a 30' deficit heading onto the track to finish with a 479-mile course record). Erik Newsholme went 491, up from 440 last year, and Marko... well, what can you say. He destroyed everyone last year with 521, and this year he went 533. Frightening.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: inherit;"><b>CONCLUSIONS</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br />
</b></span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">I have mixed feelings about this year's performance. It's difficult not to view it as an opportunity lost -- I've never ridden so well for so long, and it's frustrating not to translate 18 hours of terrific work into 24 hours of final results. Having said that, as of the beginning of November, I was as out of shape as I've been in a long time; I'd just had an effective 6-month layoff following a terrible bike wreck and recovery, engagement, wedding, and honeymoon. And, since November, work and other commitments only permitted me a handful of training rides of 5 or 6 hours. When work hasn't been burying me, my priority has been to spend time with my wife rather than on the bike. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">In light of everything, I think the only reasonable way to view my performance is to be delighted that I put together an exceedingly strong 18-hour race. Indeed, this year I beat my 2014 ride by 8 miles even though I rode for 1.5 hours less. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The strength will come eventually; it's February and I'm not racing RAAM. All three riders who beat me will be toe'ing the line in Oceanside in June (Cooper is racing Race Across the West this year, although RAAM seems inevitable for her), so they're just in different places. The competitor in me finds it a little difficult to accept that my life just doesn't allow me to train the way some of these guys do -- I have to cut corners in ways that sometimes don't work out -- but life is about striking a balance and that's what I'm trying to do. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">Many congratulations to Marko, Erik, and Sarah on huge performances, and also to the D.C. folks who had personal-best days or gave ultracycling a try for the first time. I hope there's more to come!</span><br />
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</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-78316969280571239442015-09-10T23:33:00.005-04:002016-05-31T20:50:53.228-04:00"Big Savage" Super 600k ride report<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes I was the balloon on the left, but mostly I was that other one.</td></tr>
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2015 has been a heck of a year, in the best and worst of ways. It started out in spectacular fashion: after a hard winter on the trainer, I cranked out 475 miles at the 24-hour race at Bike Sebring, setting a new age group course record in the process. Although that total would have won the race in 2012-2014, this year it was good enough only for fourth overall, behind these characters. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scott Lukart, Marko Balloh, and Anders Tesgaard. Photo credit to Marko</td></tr>
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(Note: as it turns out, this picture is deeply poignant. Since it was taken in February, disaster has befallen two of the three men in it. Scott, on the left, lost a battle with depression and is no longer with us. He was one of the strongest ultracyclists alive. Anders, on the right, was hit by a car toward the end of Race Across America, and has been in a coma for nearly three months. Sometimes it is hard to make sense of how cruel life can be.)<br />
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Still, I couldn't have been happier with the result day. I carried that optimism into my second race of the year, the 24-hour Texas Ultra Spirit, which I was leading by 30 minutes or so after 5 hours, only to have a truly catastrophic crash when I hit a wet metal grate bridge at 30 miles per hour around midnight. I wound up with severe lacerations on my left leg and both arms; worst of all, my left elbow was shattered, and the muscle had to be re-wired to the bone. After a 4-hour surgery and several days in the hospital, I was released to go home, where a second surgery awaited me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cycling is great! *High five*</td></tr>
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And thus ended my racing season, basically, as early as April. I wouldn't be back on my bike until mid June.<br />
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But, just as things looked bleak, they turned dramatically for the better: I got engaged!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, my mom didn't believe it, either.</td></tr>
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Amidst the celebrations, the breakneck-speed planning for an October wedding, and working an extremely demanding job, training just wasn't happening. I toed the line for a relatively flat 400k brevet in late June, and made it 80 miles before concluding that I didn't have another 170 in me. Not only was I not up to it physically, but I didn't have the mental drive to keep on pushing. It wasn't good.<br />
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Since then, I've been on Project: Rebuild. It's been ugly, but it's coming along. I've dropped 10 pounds or so and been more consistent with the riding, including ticking off a relatively hilly 200k without undue drama.<br />
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But all of this left me with a dilemma: I couldn't imagine letting the year go by without doing an epic ride of some sort. In 2013, it was Alaska's <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2013/08/my-big-wild-movie.html">Big Wild Ride 1200k</a>. Last year, it was the <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/12/coasts-cliffs-climbs-cobblers-and.html">Central California Coast 1200k</a> and <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/10/2014-silver-state-508-race-report.html">Silver State 508</a>. The crash had derailed my plans for Race Across Oregon in July, and wedding planning had kept me out of racing shape, but surely I could find something that would make for a good story.<br />
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To my rescue rode D.C. Randonneur Bill Beck, who earlier in 2015 had created and certified the <a href="http://dcrand.org/dcr/SR600/01/index.html">Big Savage Super Randonnee 604k</a>. A "Super Randonnee" (or "SR") 600k is a relatively new type of ride that follows most of the rules for brevets -- including controls, and so forth -- but with a couple of additional twists. First, there is no outside support allowed, including at controls. (So, no loved ones meeting you with tissues to dry your tears.) Second, and more important, the amount of climbing involved is disturbing. Normal 600k rides are anything but flat, but SR-600s are designed to test your will to live, even if they do give you some extra time to ponder your bad decision. Here is the elevation profile for the Big Savage Super Randonnee:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warning: Zooming in may cause nausea.</td></tr>
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In short, this 375-mile behemoth had 38,600 feet of climbing, or over 100 feet per mile. To put it in perspective, that's as much climbing per mile as the legendary Savageman triathlon, which is known for having the toughest 56-mile bike course in the country -- it's just that this ride was 7 times as long. Indeed, the similarity to Savageman is not coincidental: the Big Savage 600k traverses some of the same territory, through the perilously steep hills of western Maryland, West Virginia, and Virginia.<br />
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It somehow worked out that, despite wedding planning and so forth, I had a 3-day weekend free over Labor Day, so I circled it on the calendar and roped in my longtime riding buddy Max, who was preparing to take on the Natchez Trace 440-miler in a month's time.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">The Plan, with Obstacles</span></b><br />
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We determined to set out at 5:00 a.m. on Saturday morning from Hancock, Maryland. (It's also possible to ride it the opposite way, starting from Woodstock, Virginia, but for reasons discussed later, I think we made a wise decision.) We'd ride in a 187-mile counterclockwise arc to Woodstock, Virginia, where we'd get some sleep before reversing our path on Sunday morning. It looked like a tough route, but we'd both ridden extremely mountainous stuff on plenty of occasions, and there was no pressing timetable here. My biggest worry was that I hadn't ridden anything longer than 120 miles since early April -- I was going to have to rely on my years of experience with mountainous rides.<br />
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Unfortunately, I encountered a massive setback before our pedals traced a radian. My job carries with it the periodic risk of having disasters land on my lap, and two of them did in the three days before we were supposed to to ride. Indeed, Friday afternoon found me in federal court <a href="http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2015/sep/4/montana-group-seeks-to-stop-transfer-of-kerr-dam-t/">opposing an emergency motion to prevent the transfer of a massive hydroelectric dam to an Indian tribe</a> -- something I'd known nothing about 24 hours beforehand. In short, I worked 32 hours on Thursday and Friday, and got a combined 7 hours of sleep in the two nights before the ride. The 2:15 a.m. wakeup on Saturday was unwelcome. If I'd have been writing on a blank slate, I'd have decided against the ride, but I'd committed to being there and I wasn't inclined to let work wreck my only remaining big ride for the year. So, I sucked it up and got out there. <i>Yippee ki yay, m_f_!</i><br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">My Perspective</span></b><br />
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This writeup is meant at least in part for future riders considering this challenge. Such riders understand that, when they read someone's assessment of difficulty, that assessment must be viewed relatively -- that is, "What is the rider's measure of difficulty?" For them, I'll briefly state that I'm drawn to sadistic bike rides like chain grease to white chinos, and I'm reasonably good at them. I've ridden the Mountains of Misery 200k (14,500' feet of climbing) on 7 occasions, with a best time of 7:49. The two "normal" 600k brevets I've ridden have been solo efforts of 27 and 25 hours, respectively, and they've had about 20,000 feet of climbing each. I averaged 455 miles in the three 24-hour races I contested in 2014. I've ridden two 1200k with no drama, and competed successfully in the Silver State 508 in 2014. Most recently, in April 2015, I rode a 24-hour flèche with 21,000 feet of climbing in 250 miles, and I rode to the start the day before, covering 210 miles with 12,000 feet of climbing. This isn't to say that I'm the strongest rider out there, but only that, in general, I think of challenge as a positive thing, and I'm not prone to dramatic exaggeration.<br />
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Given that perspective, here's the bottom line: this ride crushed me like no athletic endeavor I've undertaken; if you're thinking of doing it, you should ask yourself why and demand a compelling answer. I desperately looked for any way to abandon it on multiple occasions, and I probably would have if there had been an escape button to press. Comparisons to other challenging road rides are largely unhelpful. I'm proud that I finished it, but two days later, I'm still staring into space and coughing fitfully. I honestly cannot recommend in good conscience that anyone sign up for this madness. Of course, I fully understand that, for some riders out there, these warnings only make the challenge more attractive. For them, I offer the following tale of pathos, with bits of advice intermixed.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 1: Hancock, MD, to Grantsville, MD</span></b><br />
Distance: 60 miles<br />
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We rolled out in balmy darkness and started climbing at about the 100-yard mark. It had been raining in the early morning, and we quickly ascended into fog, with my head-mounted Exposure Joystick light emitting a cyclops beam into the great beyond. The pavement was great and the roads utterly deserted -- I don't think a car passed us for the first 30 miles. The challenge was that, in the fog and darkness, visibility was terrible: the lights just caused a blast of glare in front of us. Descending was none too stellar, either.<br />
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Perhaps the worst aspect of the damp air was that we quickly became soaked to the gills with a combination of sweat and humidity, a pattern that would repeat itself pretty consistently over the next 42 hours.<br />
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In terms of terrain, the first the first 60 miles of this ride are deceptively difficult. None of the grades is shockingly steep, but they Do. Not. End. In fact, the first 60 miles have than 7,000 feet of climbing. (Extrapolate that out to your typical 200k, and you're heading for 15k feet, which is more than Mountains of Misery.) <br />
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I was feeling reasonably all right, but we were making disturbingly slow progress. After a quick refueling stop in Cumberland, it was up and over Big Savage. From the north, the climb is less an obstacle, and more a way of life. At the second control, I realized with some dismay that I was exhausted. It was Fritos-n-Coke triage time, and we'd only just begun.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 2: Grantsville, MD, to Keyser, WV</span></b><br />
Distance: 28 miles<br />
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The second leg was one of the more forgiving ones -- riding along the Big Savage ridgeline, descending a bit, summiting again, and then plummeting down through Westernport, MD, and crossing the river in to West Virginia. Only one thousand-foot climb in this stretch! Indeed, anyone who's written the Diabolical Double at Garrett County Gran Fondo will recognize almost all of this. </div>
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The tragedy here was a tragedy indeed: after climbing for so long, the descent was harrowing. In fact, as we approached Westernport, the road changed to something like pea gravel, which is not good when you're descending a 15% grade with sharp turns. And then we plummeted into Westernport itself, down a road that's almost unspeakably steep. In the rain, I'm not sure it would be rideable. By the time we reached the control, my hands were cramping. </div>
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Happily, however, I was feeling better, and the sun was finally beginning to do its part to dry us out.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 3: Keyser, WV, to Mooresville, WV</span></b><br />
Distance: 41 miles<br />
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It doesn't look like much, does it? In fact, it looked downright great after one leg of endless climbing and another of "hide the children" descending. Finally, a chance to make some progress over some light rollers.</div>
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Well, yes and no. The challenge was that, with our 5:00 start, we began this third leg at about 1:00 p.m. on a sunny summer afternoon, as the heat climbed toward 90 degrees. There's only one climb, but the rollers were vicious, and my two bottles were not nearly enough. As it turns out, there's a water spigot available at a church halfway through this leg, but because Max and I were using GPS guidance, we failed to note it the first time through. In my opinion, this spigot is utterly mandatory. Skip it at your peril. </div>
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In all honesty, this stretch was not much fun: it was long, hot, exposed, and fairly uninteresting. It was largely a process of sweating out every molecule of liquid in my body. By the time we reached the Patterson Creek climb toward the end, I was utterly toast -- disoriented, cramping everywhere, and wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into. That climb, for the record, punches up near 20% grade in sections, and there is no shade to be found. For the first time in many years, I dismounted my bike halfway up a climb, bent over the bars, and waited for the world to stop spinning. </div>
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Max waited an unduly long time at the top of the climb, and then we made our way down to Fox Pizza in Mooresville, West Virginia. By the time we got there, my feet, calves, quads, hip flexors, and hands were cramping so badly I could barely hobble off my bike and crash in a booth. Red Wizard needed food, badly.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If this is heaven, we're in trouble.</td></tr>
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Now, let's be clear: Fox Pizza is terrible. And, on top of its being terrible, I could barely eat because my system was shutting down. So, we agreed to stay there until things got better -- that took an hour. In that time, I drank fully a gallon of cold liquids and ate what I could. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been cracked so badly, but there we were, at mile 129, with 62 miles left to go. And we'd just finished the easy stretch.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 4: Mooresville, WV, to Lost River, WV</span></b></div>
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Distance: 28 miles</div>
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The 28-mile segment to Lost River was a one-trick pony. That trick was a 2,000-foot climb up South Branch Mountain, which I'd never heard of. Bill Beck, the organizer, had rated it the toughest climb on the route, but I was feeling better, and I'd climbed some tough stuff in my day. It was only one climb, so HTFU, right?</div>
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As it turned out... no. Not even a little bit. This climb utterly crushed me. Neither one of us made it up without stopping, but for me, that wasn't the half of it. I wound up walking my bike almost a mile up this thing, something I hadn't done in the history of my cycling career. (So much for the squeaky clean new bike shoes.) Not that walking it up was straightforward, frankly. I still had to stop periodically to double myself over against the railing while the world came back into focus.</div>
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Here's the bottom line: If you don't have a triple or the gearing equivalent, this climb will almost certainly break you. It is easily as difficult as the final climb at Mountains of Misery, and your legs will be more tired when you get there. If you're riding this route the other way, such that you hit this on Day 2, may God have mercy on your soul.</div>
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I've rarely been in as despondent a frame of mind as I was on South Branch Mountain -- cracked, cramping, exhausted, dehydrated, with 60 miles to ride before sleep, and then facing the prospect of <i>doing it all again the next day</i>. If I'd had a "pick me up" button, I'd have pressed it, no question. In fact, I told Max I had no idea how I could possibly ride the next day -- I'd already had one very bad outcome on a ride this year, and I couldn't face another.</div>
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We did finally make it to the top. I don't want to talk about it. This climb shouldn't exist, least of all on this ride. The descent was ok, to the extent I could ride straight, which was to no extent. I hit a few potholes. Yay.</div>
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If there was any silver lining, it was that, at mile 155, we reached the control at the Lost River Grill. The place is a shelter from the cruel world outside, with comfortable booths, a terrific menu, a refrigerator case of pie slices, and endless coffee. We stopped for dinner, and stayed there resolutely for a good long while. Afterward, we'd head out in the dark for the final 33 miles to the overnight control in Woodstock -- a stretch that, naturally, contained two more climbs.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 5: Lost River, WV, to Woodstock, VA</span></b></div>
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Distance: 32 miles</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ESu2jNjy2FI/Ve-xQ377kbI/AAAAAAAAEMI/EPGAm3VU_uY/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.10.02%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ESu2jNjy2FI/Ve-xQ377kbI/AAAAAAAAEMI/EPGAm3VU_uY/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.10.02%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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I feared the worst, but thankfully, the worst was behind us. The two climbs, through Mill Gap and Wolf Gap, were nothing compared to what had come before, and the 15-mile cruise between them was about as beautiful a nighttime ride as I'd ever seen: silky tarmac, stars in the sky, and no traffic to be found. I figured I could just about get myself to Woodstock. The descent down Wolf's Gap wasn't straightforward at night, but my Exposure Strada headlight did the trick, and Woodstock arrived after a celebratory spin along roads that almost could be termed humane.<br />
<br />
As we rolled toward the overnight control, I tried to figure out how I was going to find a ride back to the start. Saturday's 190 miles -- with 19,000 feet of climbing -- had been by far the hardest 300k I'd ever ridden. I'd somehow managed it on patently inadequate training and vanishingly little sleep, but I saw very little chance of riding it the other way the next morning. More to the point, I truly, deeply didn't want to. Max convinced me to get some sleep and make the call the next morning, which I agreed to do. I was in a dark place in every respect. <br />
<br />
We reached Woodstock around 11:00 p.m., 18 hours after we'd rolled out. Ridiculous. I might not be a competent ultracyclist, but I <u>was</u> going to stay at a Holiday Inn Express that night.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 6: Woodstock, VA, to Lost River, WV</span></b><br />
Distance: 32 miles<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n7ukAY7vxoI/Ve-zTvj3w-I/AAAAAAAAEMU/LV4IL34EIKU/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.18.52%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n7ukAY7vxoI/Ve-zTvj3w-I/AAAAAAAAEMU/LV4IL34EIKU/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.18.52%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
After a decadent (by randonneur standards) 6+ hours of sleep and a raid on the continental breakfast, we rolled out. I was feeling stronger after a solid sleep, and Max had none of my self-pity, so I figured I owed it to him to give it a go. We were rewarded with what has to be one of the most perfect early morning rides I've ever experienced: crisp air, sunlight speckling the road through the canopy of trees, and a fresh layer of asphalt that made it almost like... floating. It was exactly like that for these folks. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W3xPynp18Q0/VfI6c3Q36hI/AAAAAAAAEN0/DxV-8MLMJCc/s1600/P1010724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W3xPynp18Q0/VfI6c3Q36hI/AAAAAAAAEN0/DxV-8MLMJCc/s400/P1010724.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was that kinda morning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There are few prettier roads in the Mid Atlantic, and it almost made it seem like we'd made a wise decision in how to spend our weekend.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 7: Lost River, WV, to Mooresville, WV</span></b><br />
Distance: 28 miles<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m37Q1htY6OY/Ve-z2aujssI/AAAAAAAAEMc/7RRSMOWQQKg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.21.20%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m37Q1htY6OY/Ve-z2aujssI/AAAAAAAAEMc/7RRSMOWQQKg/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.21.20%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Back to Lost River Grill for second breakfast: dessert! Max went for some apple pie, while I attacked a slice of red velvet cake. My goal for the day was no more dehydration and no more bonking, and this was the first salvo in the glycogen war.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9Sc9LULvWQY/VfI6K8XCOyI/AAAAAAAAENs/I8iMz7cb8ZM/s1600/P1010726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9Sc9LULvWQY/VfI6K8XCOyI/AAAAAAAAENs/I8iMz7cb8ZM/s400/P1010726.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More like it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The curse of this route was its out-and-back shape: if you have to climb 2,000 feet over a ridgeline on Day 1, you can be pretty sure what you're in for on Day 2. And so it was that we had our second encounter with South Branch Mountain. Fortune, though, was smiling on us: South Branch is quite asymmetric, and the approach from the southeast, while long, posed no undue hardship.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the descent: the grade that broke me, complete with switchbacks and gravel washed across the road, was the sort of thing you just hope to get down in one piece. Max seemed undaunted, but descending at speed isn't my strength, and my memories of April's wreck were only too fresh. I was glad to make it down intact, but the journey made me feel a little better about what had happened to me the day before. I'd had no chance whatever, a dead cyclist walking. Well played, South Branch Mountain. You need a more memorable name. <br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 8: Mooresville, WV, to Keyser, WV</span></b><br />
Distance: 41 miles<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rfc5JltAQMs/Ve-0UPgWycI/AAAAAAAAEMk/0bnY00BA7u4/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.23.23%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rfc5JltAQMs/Ve-0UPgWycI/AAAAAAAAEMk/0bnY00BA7u4/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.23.23%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
We couldn't bear the thought of pizza for brunch, so we skipped Mooresville's Fox Pizza the second time through and instead set up shop at Food Giant. We'd have given our kingdoms for a deli, but Food Giant isn't particularly good on the whole "food" front, so we made do as best we could with another round of potato chips. Mooresville is a bit tragic. I did force myself to drink a couple of bottles of water more than I wanted to, in light of the upcoming reverse pass down the desolate 40-mile stretch to Keyser. <br />
<br />
Given our dismay at the grade up Patterson Creek the first time through and our failure to recollect any steep descent on the other side, we hoped it would be a replay of South Branch Mountain: a kinder, gentler Day 2. In fact, though, Patterson Creek was every bit as steep from the south, and I drained one of my two bottles in the first 10 miles -- not auspicious. Fortunately, we found the spigot at the church the second time through, which was a blessing (so to speak).<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the stretch to Keyser proved to be just as soul-sucking the second time through; if anything, this time it was hotter, with temps cresting over 90 degrees. For an allegedly uneventful stretch, it is pretty damn nasty, and it's made worse by the fact that, in the steep downhills, the roads are rutted and pitted in such a way that you hope your wheels and fillings come through it. Good riddance.<br />
<br />
Happily, just when we'd had more than enough, we reached Keyser, home of the wonderful Stray Cat cafe -- a perfect place for a long lunch.<br />
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<span style="color: #ffe599;"><b>Leg 9:</b> <b>Keyser, WV, to Grantsville, MD</b></span><br />
Distance: 28 miles<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pdr4sIlqrco/Ve-00xUWFdI/AAAAAAAAEMw/IEzd0gPuy60/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.25.30%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pdr4sIlqrco/Ve-00xUWFdI/AAAAAAAAEMw/IEzd0gPuy60/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.25.30%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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88 miles and 2 legs to go. I knew 88 miles. I understood 88 miles. Hell, I'd ridden 88 miles before, and I figured I could do it again. After all, next was just the climb up Big Savage Mountain -- nothing intimidating about that name.<br />
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Actually, I'd ridden the Big Savage climb probably 10 times before. It's the first climb of the Savageman Triathlon, although it's a beast, it's never proved an undue obstacle. I tentatively assigned it to the "will be tough, but no problem at the end of the day" bucket of "things to do before I can be done with this g-d d-mn ride."<br />
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I put it in that bucket because, as amply demonstrated on this blog, I'm a moron who never learns. In retrospect, the climb up Big Savage was always the first one in every ride; before it had come a 10-mile descent, so I'd arrived ready to attack. This time we hit it at... mile 294. After 30,000 feet of climbing. And I may as well have been asked to climb up the side of the nearest 150-story building. Never has the name for a climb been so apt.<br />
<br />
Looking at the elevation profile of this stage in retrospect, I understood why it seemed as though, around every corner, another shockingly inhumane grade awaited: in the 28-mile stage, about 25 miles of it is climbing. We somehow made it through, but we were in distinctly poor cheer by the time we slumped into the Pilot control point with 60 miles to go. Darkness was descending, and it seemed we were getting weaker with every passing mile. Not good. We resolved to make sure we were thoroughly fueled before rolling out -- we could do 60 miles come hell or high water, but we preferred neither. One thought rattled around in my despondent mind: last time I'd been sitting at that control, at mile 60, I'd been exhausted due to the 60 miles before. And, at that point, I'd only been 60 miles in. What would those 60 miles do to us this time?<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Leg 10: Grantsville, MD, to Hancock, MD</span></b><br />
Distance: 60 miles<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aBJspRSShtE/Ve-1W1K5eqI/AAAAAAAAEM8/AU-Sy5GiV88/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.27.27%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aBJspRSShtE/Ve-1W1K5eqI/AAAAAAAAEM8/AU-Sy5GiV88/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-09%2Bat%2B12.27.27%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Big Savage rescued us. After grinding along the ridge for a few miles, we got to experience the singular joy of a 10-mile descent when you're on your last legs. Best of all, the descent was down a wide road with a great shoulder, and apart from the brief stretch through Frostburg, traffic was a non-issue. Spectacular!<br />
<br />
But it was not to last. The stretch from Cumberland to Hancock is a stage in Race Across America, and it's the stage with the most climbing per mile of any stage in the country. The elevation profile tells the story: it's a series of 1,000-foot-high saw teeth that lasts pretty much until the moment the ride ends. It got to the point that I lost track of whether the climbing was done; each time, the answer turned out to be, "Well, yeah, except for this 3-mile climb." I had all the joy of a cat in the rain, and when I rolled into the final control some 43 hours and 20 minutes after I'd left, I felt little joy or pride -- it was more the sensation that comes when someone stops hitting you with a hammer you asked him to wield.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Final thoughts</span></b><br />
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To restate what I noted at the beginning, I was not in shape for this ride. I probably had no business doing it. And, to make it worse, I was coming off nights of 3 and 3.5 hours of sleep, which is about the worst thing I could have done heading into this thing. None of that was my fault, but it was my choice to do the ride anyway, because it was the one chance I had to do something epic this year. In light of all that, it's unsurprising that this thing wrecked me.</div>
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But that's not all that's going on here. I've talked to some people after the ride about how to express my thoughts about it. They're complex. On the one hand, Bill's done an impeccable job putting together a ride unlike anything else I've ever attempted. By and large, it's a pretty one. The roads have virtually no traffic, and the nighttime riding was some of the best I've ever had. He set out to make a beast of a challenge, and he succeeded in every respect.</div>
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Having said that, in all candor, I think the Big Savage SR-600 is beyond the pale of reasonable challenges. It is simply too difficult. Having been through it, I can't think of a reason anyone should want to endure such a thing. After every challenge ride I've done -- and I've done many -- the experience has faded into a fond glow, but that's not happening here. Instead, I've spent the last several days coughing fitfully and feeling like I just want to sleep forever. I guess on some level I'm proud I finished it, but I'm equally glad that I no longer have to keep riding up, up, and up, all in the desire to get home.</div>
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So, I guess I'd say this. If you're thinking about doing this ride, ask yourself why, and make sure you have a compelling reason. "It'll be a fun challenge" is not a good enough reason, because this ride is not "fun." There will be many times that you're wondering what the hell you've done. I think the only reason to do this ride is if, on some level, you won't be able to live with yourself if you don't give it a go. If that's the case, then have at it, and godspeed. I would say that unless you can cruise through a typical 600k in close to 30 hours, you may have trouble with the 50-hour cutoff. (This one took me about 16 hours longer than my slowest previous 600k.) </div>
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This is the hardest endurance event I've ever done -- forget Ironmans, marathons, 1200k, 24-hour races, Silver State 508, and the rest of it. None of them matches this thing. Having been through it, I feel like I've escaped its clutches more than triumphed over it. There are no victors here, but for one: congratulations, Bill -- I've always taken pride in organizing the hardest damn rides I could find, but you win.</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-59906347144883098862015-03-08T12:06:00.001-04:002015-03-09T18:26:24.504-04:00And now for some justice...There are certain things that cyclists just learn to accept as going with the territory. Foremost among these are that cars will occasionally do stupid things (or worse), that bikes get stolen, and that, when they get stolen, they are almost never seen again. They're commodities easily stripped down and sold off for whatever nickel a thief can get. But every now and then, karma is on your side. For me, yesterday was one of those times.<br />
<br />
Last fall, I spent months researching a new ultracycling bike that needed to fit certain unusual requirements, and what I ultimately settled on was a completely custom-specced 2015 Felt AR1 from Tri360. The 2015 AR1 comes only as a frameset -- that is, you buy the frame separately and choose each additional component to build it up:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IklLSrEjqwQ/VPxW5z_Qk9I/AAAAAAAAECM/Ttz_CN2mMEQ/s1600/AR1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IklLSrEjqwQ/VPxW5z_Qk9I/AAAAAAAAECM/Ttz_CN2mMEQ/s1600/AR1.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The AR1 frameset.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I ordered it in October, but I didn't actually have the bike in-hand until December, because I got virtually the first 2015 AR1 frame to arrive at the warehouse. Once Tri360 was done assembling it for me, though, it was a thoroughly customized racing machine:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6PX7Xk4E198/VPxYEiZ9-wI/AAAAAAAAECg/Uw65PL9bW10/s1600/IMG_0431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6PX7Xk4E198/VPxYEiZ9-wI/AAAAAAAAECg/Uw65PL9bW10/s1600/IMG_0431.jpg" height="278" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full side view.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S2TKJDq01fA/VPxYF-9qlaI/AAAAAAAAEC0/8R_arF4wgAo/s1600/IMG_0434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S2TKJDq01fA/VPxYF-9qlaI/AAAAAAAAEC0/8R_arF4wgAo/s1600/IMG_0434.jpg" height="307" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wind profile with TriRig front brake.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hlSdrT9PBO8/VPxYF-4-qoI/AAAAAAAAEDM/77jncy6SPsE/s1600/IMG_0435.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hlSdrT9PBO8/VPxYF-4-qoI/AAAAAAAAEDM/77jncy6SPsE/s1600/IMG_0435.jpg" height="318" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bontrager base bar and extensions with Zipp clips and pads. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-366ZuRu9sdY/VPxYF1GDrDI/AAAAAAAAEC8/3s5pHS5xncc/s1600/IMG_0436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-366ZuRu9sdY/VPxYF1GDrDI/AAAAAAAAEC8/3s5pHS5xncc/s1600/IMG_0436.jpg" height="325" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selle Anatomica Titanico X saddle.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M26btK-DrqA/VPxYGhyFKlI/AAAAAAAAEDU/JQhZ65-de0s/s1600/IMG_0438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M26btK-DrqA/VPxYGhyFKlI/AAAAAAAAEDU/JQhZ65-de0s/s1600/IMG_0438.jpg" height="332" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Custom Wheelbuilder Zipps with Chris King hubs and red nips.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-42lPpgxnyxc/VPxYG2LRNOI/AAAAAAAAEDY/HugkPq5dxKM/s1600/IMG_0439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-42lPpgxnyxc/VPxYG2LRNOI/AAAAAAAAEDY/HugkPq5dxKM/s1600/IMG_0439.jpg" height="288" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TriRig Omega brake. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ax9hBNigpoc/VPxYGYwpOXI/AAAAAAAAEDk/VdZenjKBsNc/s1600/IMG_0437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ax9hBNigpoc/VPxYGYwpOXI/AAAAAAAAEDk/VdZenjKBsNc/s1600/IMG_0437.jpg" height="253" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stages crank-arm power meter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was a delightfully fun project in many ways, but it took a lot of thought, and the result was that there simply was no other bike like it. From the first ride in December, it fit perfectly and was as comfortable as my titanium road bike, which is a heck of a thing.<br />
<br />
My first race on it, at 24 Hours of Sebring in February, went amazingly well. I put together a 475-mile non-drafting effort to break the previous age group record. That was 34 miles better than I'd managed in 2014 on my Trek Speed Concept with disc wheel, aero helmet, and 18 cm of drop. In other words, I <i>loved</i> the bike.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JJHHY2GO2cA/VPxYHXdDSlI/AAAAAAAAEDc/JsEK9N8FQ5w/s1600/IMG_0484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JJHHY2GO2cA/VPxYHXdDSlI/AAAAAAAAEDc/JsEK9N8FQ5w/s1600/IMG_0484.jpg" height="342" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Sebring, rockin' the 808s.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Needless to say, when you have a bike that nice, you don't leave it just anywhere. I live in a condo building in a nice part of town, and one of the main attractions for me was that my unit came with a secured storage area to which only I had access. This wasn't a bike cage or anything that would attract attention. Instead, it was what looked like a utility room on the third floor of the parking garage, inside a residents' gate that requires a clicker to open:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qPHpOPEqAV0/VPxcAeR0YMI/AAAAAAAAEDs/3mBbH3ipQ2k/s1600/IMG_0504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qPHpOPEqAV0/VPxcAeR0YMI/AAAAAAAAEDs/3mBbH3ipQ2k/s1600/IMG_0504.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My storage room, in all its glory.</td></tr>
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The bottom line is, there was no sign that there was anything of value in that room, and it was hardly an appealing target from what I could tell. Unfortunately, the residents' gate had been malfunctioning over the last couple of weeks, so it was in "permanently open" mode for the time being, but even so, my storage unit hardly said "come and get me."<br />
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On Thursday morning, I'd gone down to the unit to get a couple of bars for my trainer ride. (I can't keep them in my apartment or I'll put on 100 pounds by the time the snow thaws.) Everything was copacetic. I repeated the trip on Saturday morning, only to find that my storage unit was unlocked, which was pretty strange. It's possible to unlock it in such a way that it stays unlocked, and I've done it in the past, but generally I just keep it on the auto lock setting when I'm going in and out. I wouldn't have left it unlocked on Thursday. But there it was. Weird.<br />
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Inside the unit, I quickly noticed that one thing was missing: My new Felt. Nothing else seemed out of place, and there was plenty else to steal, including a set of new Zipp 404s sitting right next to the bike (which was sporting 808s at the time). Initially, I wasn't alarmed so much as perplexed: Had I dropped the bike off to be serviced? I've been known to be a little ditzy, so that seemed possible. I checked the back of my car, the apartment, and the storage area again, but it was gone, plain and simple. <br />
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The feeling of complete sickness took over. I couldn't afford a replacement. I hoped homeowner's insurance would help, but who knew. In any case, it would take a long time to put together -- there were no AR1 frames available.<br />
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I filed a police report, providing them with pictures, serial number, and so forth. They were prompt and courteous, and sent a detective to take pictures and pull footage from the security camera. That camera, which was facing the gate, had recorded every second of the 48 hours in which the bike had disappeared. I figured it would have to show something -- that was the only way out -- unless, of course, the bike went up the residents' elevator, which would be arguably more disturbing. I suppose someone could have driven a car into the residents' area, loaded it up, and left again, but that would have required noting the security camera and generally a level of planning that I thought unlikely.<br />
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Knowing how the stolen bike game worked, after I filed the report, the first thing I did was check Craigslist, but there was nothing in the right galaxy. So, doing whatever else I could think of, I let a couple of bike shops know, called around to the pawn shops, and posted details on Facebook. I figured the only thing I had going for me was that my bike was about as distinctive as they get.<br />
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A couple of hours later -- around noon -- David King and Bo Ngo on FB alerted me to a Craigslist ad for a Felt AR that had just been posted. I was initially excited, but when I saw the ad, it wasn't quite right:<br />
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The ad was for a Felt AR, but the picture was of a 2014 model with different wheels, different bars, and different cranks -- not mine. </div>
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To be clear, the text of the ad highlighted it as almost definitely stolen -- all it said was "Felt AR Model Fully Loaded, Rarely Used, Great racing condition. Moving, Need to make some space." He was asking $2800. Anyone who knows bikes understands that this is not how one would sell a $10k bike, which is what appeared in his ad. Sadly, although it looked like <i>someone's</i> stolen bike, it wasn't mine.<br />
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The next step is what cracked the whole thing, and for that, I'm massively indebted to John Scanaliato, who did some research and found that the photo in the Craigslist ad had been lifted from an article in <i>Peloton</i> Magazine:<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ymPF5nSLqG4/VPxoID1i5oI/AAAAAAAAEEg/9CvxaHelVm0/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-08%2Bat%2B11.17.26%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ymPF5nSLqG4/VPxoID1i5oI/AAAAAAAAEEg/9CvxaHelVm0/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-08%2Bat%2B11.17.26%2BAM.png" height="221" width="400" /></a></div>
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In other words, the bike pictured in the ad was NOT the actual bike being sold -- he hadn't posted a picture of the bike in his possession. That immediately set off warning bells, and closer inspection revealed that the Craigslist ad had been posted from a building only two blocks from mine. <i>Bingo</i>. And the seller had provided his cell phone number.<br />
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I immediately sent the guy a text message, trying not to set off warning bells. I said I lived in Capitol Hill -- which I don't -- and asked some Craiglisty questions about why he's selling and whether price was flexible. But I didn't hear back immediately.<br />
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My biggest fear was that he wouldn't respond to the message, or that he'd sell the bike off before I could see it. Seeing the location where the ad had been posted, I even walked up and down the block, hoping that the bike would be on a balcony or something, but no dice. I then called the detective's office to give them the guy's cell number, hoping they could execute a warrant in short order. That was a bit tricky, of course: "Here's an ad for a bike that isn't mine -- that's probable cause, right?" But I was able to convince them that, given the stolen photo, timing, and description of the bike, it had to be mine.<br />
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While I was giving them the information, I received two texts back from the guy, who was willing to meet up almost immediately. <i>Gulp</i>. I told the police what was going on, and in no uncertain terms, they warned me not to go meeting this guy alone in some remote place when the seller thought I'd be carrying a pile of cash. I appreciated their concern, and obviously I wasn't stupid, but what I really wanted was police support during the meet-up. This turned out to be harder than anyone would have wished, as the guys who did plain-clothes stings weren't working at the time, and the police really wanted me to push back the meeting until the next afternoon. I tried -- "Hey man, I just remembered my girlfriend is dragging me to a party, but I really want the bike, so will you hold it til tomorrow at noon if I pay full price?" But "his friend" really wanted to sell it immediately, and offered me a substantial discount to do the deal then. I was really concerned that he'd unload the bike before the next day. <br />
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Upon hearing this, frankly, the detectives went above and beyond and pulled the operation together even in their short-staffed state. Although the Craigslist ad had been posted from near my building, the guy wanted to meet up across town, closer to Union Station. I sent the guy what surely must be one of the least sincere texts ever: "Haha, f*ck it, ok lets do it. But can we meet in a public place? I trust you but sometimes people on Craigslist can be sketchy." He happily obliged by suggesting we meet in front of a very busy hotel. The detectives picked me up in an unmarked car, and off we went.<br />
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We arrived a few minutes early and drove by a few times, hoping to get a glimpse of the guy with the bike, but no luck. Things got a little tense when the seller kept asking if I was there yet, and I had to keep putting him off -- we wanted him to show first. But he didn't. Eventually I asked the guy what he was wearing -- "Gray hoodie" -- and went to stand right in front of the hotel, dressed like a Logan Circle preppy. I let him know I was there, and joked that "its cold haha!"<br />
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A couple of minutes later, a guy approached wearing a gray hoodie and wheeling my bike in front of him. There was zero doubt it was mine -- even the tires were still deflated, since my last ride had been at Sebring 3 weeks before. It was not the bike in the picture, needless to say. And the guy pushing it did not look like an avid cyclist. Realizing immediately that the bike was mine, I knew the goal was just to play along, so I did the whole "Wow, that's awesome!" thing, started feeling the bars, asking why the tires were flat, asking how much it had been ridden, etc. All the while, the guy was keeping a hand on the bike to make sure I didn't grab it and run off with it. After about 30 seconds of this, out of my peripheral vision, I saw the police descending on the guy, who didn't realize a thing until they were 6 inches away. Game over, dude.<br />
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It all went perfectly, and the bike was 100% fine, aside from the serial numbers, which the guy had tried to file off with partial success. I will say, there is something unreal about seeing your bike being sold back to you in broad daylight. Until then, it was all very abstract: my bike is missing, but there was no telling where it might be. At that moment, everything became quite real. This was the guy with my bike, trying to sell it to me in the middle of town. Indeed, even someone who knew nothing about bikes would have been <i>compelled</i> to realize he was buying stolen property in that situation.<br />
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This is basically every cyclist's dream. So often we're simply the victims of life, whether it be careless drivers, thieves, or what-have-you. When a bike disappears, even the police admit that it is basically gone forever. We're forced to feel helpless and to hope for the best, when what we really want is to help take the asshole down. It never happens, but I got to live it, every second. Justice was served.<br />
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On the ride back to the police station, the sergeant and I chatted and he explained that he loved to get out on his Madone a few times a week for 50 miles or so. In my mind, that explained a lot -- I'm not sure if a non-cyclist would have made it happen the way he did. I'm immensely grateful.<br />
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There's only one real issue to resolve. In looking over my text messages later that night, I realized I'd missed one, where the guy had offered to sell me a helmet and some other accessories as well. Sure enough, I went and looked around my storage area, and noticed that a new helmet, Northwave boots, and a couple of other things were gone. I feel pretty good about my chances of getting them back at this point, but even if I don't, in the grand scheme, I have to count myself lucky.<br />
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As grateful as I am to the police, I recognize that this never would have been possible without the great work of the folks on FB and Twitter, not only for pointing me to the ad (which hadn't been posted when I first looked), but even more critically, for identifying the picture in the ad as a stock image. Without that help, the bike would be gone, and the perp would be free. On the whole, a great day for justice, and the DC bike community made it happen through quick and clever work.<br />
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One mystery remains: I don't know how the bike got out of my storage unit in the first place, or how it then got out of the building. I am 90% certain that the guy who tried to sell me the bike is not the one who took it. So, I am still pretty disconcerted. But those are questions for another day. In the meantime, it's sunny and warm, and I'm heading out for a ride.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-8856011931406974972014-12-22T21:52:00.003-05:002014-12-24T17:38:41.727-05:00Coasts, Cliffs, Climbs, Cobblers, and Coyotes: The Five C’s of the 3CR (Central California Coast 1200k Randonnée)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><i>A version of this article appeared in the Winter 2014 issue of <u>American Randonneur</u>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><i>Please also note the movie I made of this ride, which can be found <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/08/central-california-coast-3cr-1200k-movie.html">here</a>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Above the coastal hills, the glider’s rainbow canopy traced a sunset moon. An hour before, visions of seals cavorting on the beach had yielded to the cliff-top spectacle of whales breaching the Pacific’s ripples. It could only have been the <a href="http://www.santacruzrandonneurs.org/2014-3CRHome.html">Central California Coast 1200k Randonnée (3CR)</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">In spring 2012, as the canted grades of the Big Sur Marathon reduced my gait to a weary plod, a single thought consumed me: “I wish I were on my bicycle.” The next summer, the spectacular <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2013/08/my-big-wild-movie.html">Big Wild Ride 1200k</a> in Alaska confirmed my love for pedal-powered epics, so when the Santa Cruz Randonneurs announced they were expanding their 1000k into a four-day exploration of the Pacific Coast Highway and the vineyards around Paso Robles, I couldn’t register quickly enough.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">As the ride approached, though, I grew apprehensive. At BWR, I’d spent the last 55 hours alone in some truly remote wilderness. I’d become so sleep-deprived that I’d hallucinated an Imperial transport ship from Star Wars hovering menacingly ahead of me in the Denali dusk, and I’d been so desperate to stay conscious that I’d resorted to “rumble strip intervals,” shaking myself to the sinews. The morning after that ride, standing up had been a 15-minute ordeal entailing a plaintive crawl across the floor to furniture that I could scale inch by tentative inch as my limbs convulsed disturbingly. It was pretty special.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Having no desire to revisit that dark place, I resolved to do things differently. After all, I was heading to one of the most beautiful parts of the world; I wanted to remember every moment and to spend as much saddle time as I could beneath the California sun. I therefore planned to ride hard and sleep even harder. If everything went well, I might even get a normal night’s rest after each leg, which would be decadence manifest. Of course, such yo-yo pacing meant I’d likely spend most of the journey flying solo, casting passing pleasantries to bemused heifers, but that’s how I roll.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Fortunately, the Santa Cruz Randonneurs had devised a route that was as logistically simple as it was visually striking.</span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The distance we’d travel each day would decrease as our fatigue built — 230, 210, 185, and 125 miles, respectively — and the scenery would alternate between seascapes and vineyards.</span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Better yet, we’d stay in the same location on the second, third, and post-ride nights, where we’d have ready access to all of our gear, thereby avoiding the check-in/check-out, unpack/pack-up, “what might I conceivably need tomorrow?” circus that taxes a randonneur’s mind.</span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">With predicted highs in the mid-80s and overnight lows around 70 degrees, one couldn’t ask for more.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-size: small;"><b>Day 1: San Jose to King City (230 miles)</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="http://www.strava.com/activities/181225361/embed/c1503ed18ad83538b491e1cb2d0c172de9727108" width="590"></iframe></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Because 3CR comprised simultaneous 1200k and 1000k events, the pre-dawn scene at the starting line found a century of riders chatting amidst a menagerie of two-wheeled steeds, reflective piping popping in time with digital flashes. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trusty Seven Cycles Axiom, on its final voyage.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The opening miles through downtown San Jose were a surreal parade of tires reverberating through dormant streets, though we were yanked back to reality by a string of traffic lights that flashed green only long enough for us to clip in before stonewalling us. Our fitful progress parsed the peloton into clusters, with mine well back of the front group as we cruised past Stanford to the classic Old La Honda climb, a 3-mile, 1300-foot spike with stretches exceeding 15% grade. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old La Honda climb. Peaceful and painful!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Consistent with my “ride hard, rest long” ethos, I put some effort in and soon found myself alone on the serpentine slope, witnessing the sunrise duel the mist over neighboring valleys. As one rider dryly put it: “This is nothing like Phoenix.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">An enthralling descent down the western side of the ridge revealed our first glimpses of the coastline, and after a jaunt north to Half Moon Bay, we spun southward for the cruise to Santa Cruz. By now the group was thoroughly dispersed, with a pack of local riders pushing hard some miles ahead, but the benefit was that, every few minutes and at each control, there was a new cast of colorful characters. Seagulls hovered in breezy suspended animation, and wizened trees fought private battles with the sea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">A lunch stop in Santa Cruz (motto: “Mellow, With Chance Of Surfboards”) marked the 200k point, and also our departure from the coast. Sharp rollers carried us inland to towering forests whose citizens diminished the nearby phone poles to toothpicks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The shade apologized for the arduous terrain, but the road was dangerously pitted in places; here I passed the lead riders, who’d stopped to true a wheel that had disputed a point with a particularly misanthropic crater.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Our time in the forest was too brief, as our path led to an agricultural expanse that was as scorching as it was flat. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I initially puzzled at stacks of white boxes beside the road, but soon determined that they housed transportable hives of exuberant bees, one of whose residents stung the daylights out of my quad. On the upside, the afternoon heat warmed the trillions of blackberries in nearby fields, and the fragrance was transporting, like standing next to an oven cooking a dozen cobblers on Thanksgiving Day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Finally, after climbs, coasts, and cobblers, we snaked through a golden valley with nary a soul for miles, just a backdrop of mountains ignited by the evening sun and prefaced with plains of dried grasses. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">While I admired the view, a blur of gray motion streaked across the road and scampered up an embankment. <i>A fox!</i> I thought. <i>What a treat! Wait, are foxes gray out this way? I don’t know. And it was quite a large fox, more like a dog. A dog dozens of miles from the nearest house. Maybe not a dog, either. Hmm. Time to pedal fast while trying not to resemble food</i>.<i> </i>The endorphins carried me to the day’s penultimate control at Pinnacles National Forest, where volunteers awaited with a cornucopia of salt and sugar, and grazing horses followed each other lazily across meadows. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">My timing was perfect: I crested the final climb toward the overnight control as the sun dwindled, which meant I capped the day with a 15-mile, 2000-foot descent into western crimson. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I reached King City a little after 8:00 p.m., checked in, and mosied to a nearby diner where I reserved a table large enough to accommodate the riders I’d passed in the forest and had seen again near Pinnacles. But they never appeared. When I returned to the control for my slumber, I learned they’d arrived — but had then rolled on, apparently planning to blitz the course straight through while carrying nothing but space blankets. Talk about a commitment strategy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-size: small;"><b>Day 2: King City to San Luis Obispo (210 miles)</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="http://www.strava.com/activities/181225338/embed/d0f6b8532aae1cd02b7d100183f481892174fda2" width="590"></iframe></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The <i>pièce de résistance</i>! The second day began with a spin northwest from King City to Carmel, where we’d gain the Pacific Coast Highway for 125 magical miles before alighting in San Luis Obispo. We’d been warned to get an early start in order to reach Carmel before the northwest winds picked up, so I trundled downstairs at 4:30 a.m. and looked around for the posse, only to find that, while I’d slept, almost every other rider had arrived, rested, and departed for Carmel. I sheepishly tendered my overnight bag to the volunteers, explained that I was in a secret Rip van Winkle division, and got a move on.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">As it turned out, there was sense in lighting out for Carmel <i>sub luna</i>, as the first hours offered little to see besides sprinklers and the occasional crop-dusting helicopter. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">It wasn’t until 70 miles in, as we passed the Laguna Seca Raceway and took a rural route through the hills south of Monterey, that the scenery perked up amidst climbs that had me craving lower gears. Shortly thereafter, we greeted 17-Mile Drive, home of the Pebble Beach Golf Links and gateway to the cycling paradise that is the Pacific Coast Highway from Carmel to Cayucos. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I was feeling proud of having ridden 300 miles since the previous morning as I struck up a conversation with a solo rider hauling loaded panniers up one of the PCH’s initial grades. He asked where I was headed; I replied that a group of us had left from San Jose the morning before and were en route to San Luis Obispo. I then inquired from where he’d ridden: “Minneapolis — I just retired.” He wins!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">What can one say about the Pacific Coast Highway? It’s so magnificent that you’d better hope your camera eventually runs out of batteries or you’ll never reach the end. Riding southbound meant we had unobstructed views from atop cliffs to the crashing sea hundreds of feet below, and when crossing Bixby Bridge, I could almost believe I was floating.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Unfortunately, the infinite horizons were not an unalloyed good for the safety-minded cyclist. I was disturbed to find that the PCH has a shoulder best measured in centimeters, and it sometimes felt like we were sharing the road with every rental RV in America. The drivers generally were courteous, but it was discomforting to know that their chief mission — sightseeing, often with a heavy dose of child management — stood in tension with closely watching the road ahead. One could only befriend the white line and hope for the best.</span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">T</span>he Big Sur control arrived 100 miles in, about halfway through the day mileage-wise. As I approached, I spied a line of 20 randonneuring rigs arrayed along the front of a country store, with a corresponding lycra-clad crowd enjoying lunch under the midday sun. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d finally overcome my indulgent slumber and caught the action. A note of agreement echoed through the smalltalk: Just then, none of us could imagine being anywhere else. We were riding through an issue of <i>National Geographic</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">With an effervescent spirit, I set off for Cayucos in the belief that the day’s toughest climbing — and, sadly, its most awe-inspiring scenery — were behind me. But I was wrong on both counts: The 50-mile stretch from Big Sur to Ragged Point resembled nothing so much as the cliffs of Corsica, with little separating the road from a precipitous drop to rocks far below. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The grades grew fangs, to the point that riders in passing cars looked at me with a mix of pity and alarm. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">During this unforgiving stretch I chanced upon a stout fellow with a fully-loaded mountain bike, to which he’d affixed a large handwritten sign: “Riding with God.” A nice sentiment, I thought, though I pondered the theological significance of the fact that he was on foot, pushing the bike up an endless climb with a despondent expression on his face. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The miles around Ragged Point, a thousand-foot rock face jutting from sea to sky that marks the transition to the beaches of southern California, were otherworldly. The polygraphic elevation profile brought views that seized the breath at every hairpin turn. Toward the top of a 5-mile ascent, dozens of tourists stood atop rocks and shielded their eyes toward the sea, gesturing jubilantly. I joined them and immediately spotted a tail fin, followed by a telltale geyser of seawater that marked a whale luxuriating amidst the waves. It’s a rare ride that offers whale sightings without requiring one to unclip. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The final 60 miles, from Ragged Point to San Luis Obispo via Cayucos and Morro Bay, were a perfect dessert for a hard day’s effort. The mountains melted into beaches and surf, and we were ushered down the coast by a tailwind so compelling that a fixed-gear rider later said he’d had to ride his brakes to spare his knees. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I held 30 mph with little effort, though my progress was checked when road debris gouged my rear tire. Because it was set up as tubeless, I had to remove the indecently tight valve and nut from the rim, a 30-minute charade resulting in shredded fingers and splatters of sealant that doubtless contributed a certain <i>je ne sais quoi </i>to my portfolio of charms.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">After wrestling my damaged tire into compliance, I joined the growing stream of randonneurs for the final stretch into San Luis Obispo. It didn’t disappoint. To the right, just off a horseshoe beach flecked with Frisbee-tossers, the massive Morro Rock, a 23 million-year-old volcanic outcropping, erupted from the water like a scene from <i>The Odyssey</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To the left, a lonely hang-glider floated beside the full moon. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">What a day — one of the most spectacular I’ve experienced on a bicycle. I checked into my delightfully seedy San Luis Obispo hotel knowing that, because I’d have to time my morning departure to find an open bike shop to replace my rear tire, a full 7 hours of sleep awaited me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-size: small;"><b>Day 3: South loop from San Luis Obispo (185 miles)</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="http://www.strava.com/activities/181225272/embed/ee40277fe8cbfa8d352e2bcb397bd82ac29ea8ec" width="590"></iframe></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Because the most convenient bike shop was in a town 60 miles down the road and didn’t open until late morning, I reasoned there was little point in rolling out before dawn, which again meant I was close to being <i>lantern rouge</i> in the early hours. But no matter; there were vineyards ahead, as well as something ominously called “Gaviota Pass.” Groovy, baby.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Like the previous day, this segment revealed its charms reluctantly; the morning hours had us traversing agricultural tracts that appeared to contain all the dirt on Earth and little else. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">It was a bit of a let-down following 125 miles on the PCH, but then anything would’ve been. At last the elevation profile began to track the rising temperature, and we scaled a few aggressive highway grades before arriving in Lompoc, where I successfully hunted the bike shop amidst a web of strip malls. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The climb to Gaviota Pass turned out to be a Wind Tunnel to Nowhere: 15 miles on the shoulder of a rural highway, churning upward straight into a 25-mph headwind as the sun bore down. There were moments when I could scarcely imagine any future other than climbing forever toward the apocryphal turnaround point. Worse still, a steady stream of randonneurs passed heading the other way, and I optimistically hoped each one signaled an imminent end to the suffering. Alas, no — those guys were a couple of hours ahead of me, even though they were close enough to touch. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The good news was that the tailwind-assisted descent back down from the pass was a joyride, and with our dues having been paid, we reached wine country. I certainly knew of Napa’s legendary vineyards, but I hadn’t realized that central California’s inland regions were basically Italy, all rolling hills striped with rows of grapes and the desert-like climate to match. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The vistas were tremendous, but they brought heat that seemed to radiate from the rocky soil. It beggared belief that any plant could make juice in a region that seemed designed to suck every drop of moisture from living creatures.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Relief (physical and comic) came in the form of Solvang, a Danish town complete with traditional half-timbered architecture, decorative windmills, and women in barmaid garb. As tempting as a stein of beer sounded, I confined myself to ice cream before resuming the self-powered wine tour along Foxen Canyon Road, site of the Blackjack Ranch famously featured in <i>Sideways</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The winemakers blended the functional with the aesthetic. Miles of crisp white split-rail fences were festooned with blooming roses, which not only provided a pleasing backdrop for touring wine-tasters, but also acted as canaries to alert proprietors to bugs encroaching on the vines. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">But some winemakers’ tactics were profoundly weird: one had hung several white human-sized dummies by their necks from the tops of the vines, and the disturbing result was best described as “voodoo chic.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I don’t know if it prevented animals from pestering the grapes, but it certainly repelled this cyclist. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Eventually, as we graduated from the Solvang wine region back toward San Luis Obispo, the scenery morphed into an oak-speckled valley backstopped by hazy peaks. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The mercury retreated, and the vacant roads lent themselves to quiet contemplation of the setting sun. Not that we were <i>entirely</i> alone: In the closing miles, a grinning dog bounded ahead of me, where he trotted along for several miles as Virgil to my Dante, looking back every few moments to ensure I was keeping up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I rolled back into the San Luis Obispo control at dusk, noting happily that I had 27 hours to cover the final 200k. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Visions of Chipotle danced in my head.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-size: small;"><b>Day 4: North loop from San Luis Obispo (125 miles)</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="http://www.strava.com/activities/181225274/embed/ec3ced0fcb8ce77510d9c35caafbf67a5ba9e26f" width="590"></iframe></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The victory lap! As I thanked the volunteers on my way out, I learned that a local rider had finished his 1200k the previous afternoon, chalking up a scarcely believable time of 57 hours. Amazing.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">For us mere mortals, the final day recalled the highlights of everything that had come before: Spins along the coast, grueling ascents, immaculate towns, arid vineyards, and views forever. After retracing our path to Morro Bay, we launched up the most difficult climb of the ride, the 1700-foot Old Creek Road, the grades of which asymptotically approached absurd. It was a demanding chore for tired legs, but waves of coastal mist cooled our burning muscles and panoramic views of Whale Rock Reservoir distracted us from the task at hand. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">A meandering descent to the east led back to wine country and a leisurely breakfast in Paso Robles, the sort of postcard town in which bobbing fluorescent flags chart the progress of elderly couples riding recumbents to brunch. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mid-day brought us amidst the vineyards to Mission San Miguel, an arcade of a dozen graceful arches erected in 1797. With only 70 miles to go in 12 hours, a celebratory mood graced the staffed control, with icy Coke the toast <i>du jour</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Retracing our route back through Paso Robles and over the ridge toward the coast presented us with the ultimate reward for a 730-mile effort: A 10-mile, 2000-foot descent with views that stretched to the ocean, where Morro Rock loomed behind the foothills. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">After cruising for 20 minutes without pedaling a radian, we achieved the coast and regained the tailwind we’d enjoyed two days before, slaloming through seaside towns as dogs frolicked in the surf. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">It marked a fitting end to what must be the most striking randonnée in the contiguous United States. I finished with a smile in about 82 hours, wanting nothing more than to head out for a second go-round.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Epilogue</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">As rewarding as my ride was, the experience took on a tragic aspect at brunch the next morning, when the ride organizers told everyone what a few already knew: On the third evening, Matthew O’Neill, a 33-year-old rider who was a mainstay of the local randonneuring community, had been struck by a truck and killed as he returned from Solvang along Foxen Canyon Road. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">There is little I can say about this that hasn’t already been said — by those of us in tears on the Amtrak ride back to San Jose, by the dozens of riders who attended his Life Celebration in Chula Vista, and by those who took part in the memorial ride in early September. It is utterly gutting for such a senseless, preventable tragedy to strike someone in his prime, a rider doing what he loved and embracing life’s magnificent journey with every ounce of his being. Rest in peace, Matthew; you’ll always have a place in our peloton and our hearts.</span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Thanks to Lois Springsteen, Bill Bryant, and the countless other volunteers from the Santa Cruz Randonneurs for putting together an unforgettable adventure that every randonneur should experience.</span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"> I</span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">t sets a new standard for beautiful rides. To see it in action, check out the movie</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/08/central-california-coast-3cr-1200k-movie.html" style="font-family: inherit;">here</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-73552196786622409252014-10-29T12:20:00.000-04:002014-10-30T09:05:05.145-04:00Am I your huckleberry? RAAM 2015<br />
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Ever since I qualified for RAAM at Sebring in February, I've been trying to decide whether to take that massive plunge in 2015. For most of the spring, I thought it was a toss-up; I was taking a wait-and-see approach to my first season of ultracycling, with an eye toward deciding after the year was done. Then, after my 488-mile performance at the National 24-Hour Challenge, I felt certain that I wanted to give it a go. There were all sorts of reasons why, ranging from the love of a good challenge to support from many friends, some of whom even volunteered for the arduous task of crewing. <br />
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As the summer wore into fall, though, I found myself drifting back toward uncertainty as certain realities sank in. In my ill-fated race in Saratoga, I spoke for a little while with Rob Morlock, a 3-time RAAM finisher with a sub-10-day result to his name. He volunteered that, toward the end of one of his recent attempts, his saddle sores had gotten so bad that, in places, there was no skin left -- his sit bones were visible through what remained of his flesh. The more race reports I read, the more I realize that this may be closer to the rule than to the unfortunate exception. The physical challenge is utterly serious for even the very best athletes. Marko Baloh, a legend in the sport, lost part of his lung when he got pneumonia. Christoph Strasser, one of the strongest racers ever, was hospitalized a couple of years ago when he spiked a 105-degree fever in the middle of Kansas. And, of course, Bob Breedlove was killed in a head-on collision with a car in the middle of the night. RAAM sounds like it's closer to going off to war than to any event with which I'm familiar.<br />
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At the same time, my own race experiences were underlining the gravity of the proposed endeavor. My lack of heat acclimation in DC's unusually cool summer meant that, at the Mid-Atlantic 24-Hour Challenge in August, I was getting dizzy from dehydration after only 10 hours. The situation wasn't much better at the Silver State 508, where, despite relatively clement 90-degree temperatures, I found myself throwing up on the side of the road 100 miles in. The last half of that race was one of the most painful things I've ever endured, from 60-degree temperature swings to an inappropriate bike fit that made every minute agonizing. Toward the end of that race, I reflected on RAAM -- which is 6 times as long, and which shoots straight across the low desert in the first couple of days before cresting over 10,000' peaks -- and thought, "Not a chance in hell." Of course, the mind rounds off corners, and in retrospect it's easy to remember the accomplishment while the pain seems more like an academic fact than anything real and consequential.<br />
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So, here I am, 8 months out from RAAM, facing the big decision: do I take the plunge? After thinking it over more than I'd like to admit, my answer is: No, at least not next year. There are many reasons, but here are a few.<br />
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(1) The financial cost. If you do it on a shoestring budget -- <i>i.e.</i>, without an RV, and with neither rider nor crew having much in the way of creature comforts -- the cost would probably come to at least $25,000, and it could well be higher. Even if I could defray some of that with a full-court fundraising campaign, it still would still be a monumentally expensive undertaking for someone who works for the government. There are many reasons why RAAM competitors skew older, but I think one of them is that younger people often can't afford it. I'm not sure I can, and I'm not willing to take on huge amounts of debt for the sake of a single bike race. There are shorter events that provide rewarding challenges without threatening insolvency. And, anyway, since when is a 500-mile or 24-hour race considered too short?<br />
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(2) The social cost. There's no avoiding the fact that, to race 3,000 miles in June, you really ought to be riding something close to 10,000 miles in the 8 months leading up to that point. We're talking 300 miles a week, and often quite a bit more, week in and week out. That is serious business for someone with a demanding full-time job, a relationship, and aspirations of reading the occasional book. The event would consume more than half of my vacation time for the year, and more than all of my budget. I'm not sure any event is worth living like a hermit for the rest of a year.<br />
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(3) The professional cost. I'm starting a new job with the United States Attorney's Office next week, and by all accounts it is a more intense place than the one I'm leaving. I'm excited about the opportunity to be a "real lawyer" with all that that entails, but it will be a pretty steep learning curve, and there will be times when it will displace workouts or races. Given RAAM's monumental difficulty even for those who are ideally prepared, it seems exceedingly irresponsible to commit to racing it at the same time that I'm trying to get my feet underneath me in a new, demanding position. <br />
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(4) FOMO is B.S. In the last year, I've stumbled across a new, insidious acronym: FOMO, or "fear of missing out." It's up there with "YOLO" in terms of things that no one above age 12 should ever write or say, but there is a point to it: People sign up for things that their friends are doing because they think they might otherwise regret not having been there. There's a significant element of that with RAAM; it's the Kona of ultracycling, and many of my friends and competitors will be there. But, the thing about fear of missing out is that it's unavoidable. If you can't do everything in life -- and no one can -- you're always missing out on something, and it's only a question of prioritizing things in the right way. There's certainly a part of me that will find it hard to sit on the sideline for RAAM, but I'd also find it hard not to do all of the other things in life that RAAM would force aside. "Fear of missing out" isn't enough: I have to be utterly certain that I want to do RAAM for its own sake, and I'm not there right now. Sometimes you just have to say no to things.<br />
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I've been mulling over this tentative conclusion for the last couple of weeks, and it's only getting stronger. It's the right call for me, at least right now. In many ways, I'm like the first-year triathlete who's done reasonably well at a couple of sprint triathlons, and who's thinking of signing up for an Ironman the next year. I've always told such athletes that there's no rush, and that developing their chops at the shorter distances is an admirable and worthwhile things to do -- it's not "Ironman or irrelevance." In this instance, I'm taking my own advice, and I'm looking forward to everything that life will have to offer in 2015.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-14747866983296435402014-10-11T19:38:00.001-04:002014-10-18T17:01:03.072-04:002014 Silver State 508 Race Report<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #ffd966; text-align: left;"><i>"So what I'm trying to say: These races damn near kill you."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #ffd966; text-align: left;"><i>-Mike "Wild Turkey" Wilson</i></span><br />
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Last weekend, I headed to Reno, Nevada for the inaugural Silver State 508, hosted by AdventureCorps. AdventureCorps and its leader, Chris Kostman, are institutions in the ultraracing world, putting on such legendary races as the Badwater Ultramarathon and the Furnace Creek 508, both of which took racers through Death Valley. In short, AdventureCorps specializes in events that are absurdly long, but in which the distance is only part of the challenge. They do an amazing job and maintain some enjoyable traditions.</div>
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One such tradition is that AdventureCorps assigns each racer an animal totem rather than a number, and that unique totem follows the racer throughout their AdventureCorps career. Well-known returning 508 competitors included the legendary Tweety Bird (Marko Baloh), Crow (Sean Cuddihy), Rock Rabbit (Adam Bickett), Irish Hare (Mick Walsh), Holstein (Dave Haase), Wild Turkey (Mike Wilson), and many others. Everyone in this race had qualified according to fairly demanding standards, so the level of competition was high. I'd be racing as Thundercat!</div>
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Unfortunately, because the Park Service recently imposed restrictions on athletic competitions in Death Valley, Kostman & Co. were forced to find a new home for the famous 508, which has been run 40 times since 1983. They selected Reno, Nevada as the new race home, and designed a route that would lead racers east into the high desert along Route 50, which has been called <a href="http://the%20loneliest%20road%20in%20america/">The Loneliest Road in America</a>.<br />
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I'd chosen the inaugural Silver State 508 to cap off my first year of competitive ultracycling, and I had hopes of doing well. In my three 24-hour races this year, I'd averaged 455 miles despite a variety of mechanical problems, so I thought of the 508 as a 24-hour race plus a few hours -- maybe something in the 28-hour range. I even had a crew; what could be simpler? </div>
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You'd think by now that, when I start saying I know what I'm doing, klaxons would sound and parents would start ushering their children to the tornado cellar. <br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">The Noble Chariot</span></b><br />
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Unlike many 24-hour events, which tend to take place on relatively compact loops, the 508 required racers to have a support crew of at least two people. Mine were Max and Sam, two brothers who've been involved in the endurance world for many years. Max has also been a longtime riding buddy of mine, and is probably the person most responsible for my taking up randonneuring and ultracycling, so in some sense he dug his own grave on this one. Seriously, though, I felt lucky to have such two capable guys in my corner.
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Max and Sam, however, were somewhat less fortunate. A month earlier, they'd suggested getting a normal-sized car for a support vehicle, so I did: I rented a Chrysler 200 sedan. It had about 50k miles on it, and it lacked any sort of "features" or "merits." Still, I thought this would be just fine, but I became pretty embarrassed when I got to the hotel and saw the sweet setups that other riders had. We're talking full-on vans with large roof racks, sound systems mounted to the hoods to blast music during the night, and cargo bays full of shelving. <br />
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Our lumpy Chrysler 200, in contrast, resembled nothing so much as a Dodge Neon on Prozac.
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It was about the least <i>Thundercat</i> thing imaginable; maybe I could see an argument for <i>Dung Beetle</i>. We had no containers (much less shelving), no speakers, and no spare bike. In fact, the only bike rack we had was a suction-mounted gadget that relied on a judicious dose of hope-and-pray. Best of all, Max and Sam are in the 6'2"-6'4" range, which made it something of a clown car experience. I repeatedly suggested swapping it out for a more inspiring ride, but they'd hear nothing of it. Oh, well; at least I wouldn't be tempted to spend time lounging in the car instead of of pedaling. </div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">My Plan, Such As It Was</span></b></div>
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I did my homework as best I could, constantly monitoring the predicted highs and lows of every town on the route (of which there were about three). The forecasts spoke with one voice: highs on Sunday and Monday of about 80 degrees, and an overnight low of about 45 degrees. As deserts go, this was perfect, but I've learned to be skeptical; besides, with a support vehicle, I could bring whatever clothes I might need. So, I threw in pretty much my entire winter wardrobe, down to lobster gloves, balaclava, and shoe covers. My goal: no shivering in the night, no matter what.</div>
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As for the bike, I concluded there was really no choice to make. I'd take my trusty tri bike, which had seen me through 24-hour races, a 600k (375-mile) brevet ridden straight through in about 25 hours, and more training rides than I could count. Sure, the fit was a little aggressive, but that's how Mikey likes it, and this <i>was </i>a race, after all. I'd been ok with the bike position in the past, and I figured this would be no different. I decided to start with my disc wheel and Zipp 808 front wheel, but I also brought my pair of Zipp 404s as backups, and for a change of gearing should it be needed.</div>
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On the nutrition front, I had my usual assortment of Skratch Labs hydration mix and hyper-hydration (sodium bomb), along with water, Coke, and a few massive cans of Red Bull. I'd supplement these with Gu Roctane gels and energy bars of various sorts. I also threw in some salted nuts and potato chips. We planned for Max and Sam to hunt down some real food for me at the turnaround point (mile 255), but otherwise, I tried to keep it simple.</div>
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With respect to communicating with the crew, I had a new toy: the <a href="http://www.cardosystems.com/cardo-bk/cardo-bk-1">Cardo BK-1</a> headset system. This device has come to dominate the ultraracing scene, and for good reason. It's intended for two cyclists to be able to communicate with one another over a distance of 1/4 mile or so, but it's equally effective for letting a cyclist talk to his crew. It's operated by voice or with the push of a button, and when you're not talking to the other headset over the intercom function, it pairs with your phone so that you can take and receive incoming calls, have Siri read text messages, stream music, or whatever you'd like. It's pretty slick, and I highly recommend it.</div>
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Finally, there was the question of strategy. I'd never raced most of these folks before, but a slew of them were Race Across America finishers with multiple race wins in 500-mile events, and with a gigantic 7-mile climb coming as early as mile 8, I suspected things would heat up pretty quickly. I wanted no part of an early dogfight -- I was a Thunder<i>cat</i>, after all. I was confident that I could time-trial competitively over a long distance, but I've never been a pure climber, and my time trial bike with extremely deep wheels was a brick. I resolved to ride with a steady effort, but to let the results take care of themselves. I guessed that, on my best day, I could be competitive with most of the guys out there, with the possible exception of Marko "Tweety Bird" Baloh. But, having one's best day is the challenge, and a lot can go wrong in a 500-mile race. I didn't see any benefit to obsessing about planned wattages or time splits. Past a point, you just have to do what you can do, plans be damned.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 1: Reno to Geiger Grade to Virginia City to Silver Spring (47 miles, 2723' climbing)</span></b> <b><span style="color: #ffe599;"> </span></b>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;"> </span></b> At 6:30 a.m. sharp, the solo riders rolled out in a peloton on what would be an exceedingly long day. And night. And, for some, another day. And another night.
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The pace vehicle led us on an easy spin through Reno for the first 8 miles, then turned us loose on Geiger Grade, a 7-mile, 2000-foot climb with panoramic views of Reno. Geiger Grade is basically the Skyline Drive of Reno: it keeps going up, but, at least on the western ascent, there's nothing much to worry about. Tweety Bird and Rock Rabbit immediately charged off the front, while I issued a statement of intention by stopping to take a leak. The result was that I passed riders steadily all the way up, holding a solid effort but not hammering by any means. The higher we went, the more magnificent the vistas became, with the light of dawn igniting Rose Mountain and the other slopes on the way up to Lake Tahoe.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grinding up Geiger Grade.</td></tr>
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After 40 minutes of pistoning legs, we crested the summit and descended to the brief plateau in Virginia City. By then, I'd caught up to Crow (a 2x 508 winner) and Irish Hare, another veteran of the scene. Several others, including Tweety Bird, Rock Rabbit, and Holstein, were further up the road. I followed Crow and Irish Hare as we rolled through the Old West town and around the first couple of turns, until it occurred to me a couple of miles later that we probably shouldn't be seeing riders in the event riding <i>toward </i>us. We'd somehow managed to get turned around and a couple of miles off course on the very first segment. In the grand scheme of a 500-mile race, a few miles probably wouldn't decide the outcome, but it definitely changed the dynamic of the first part of the race since we were playing catch-up to those we'd otherwise have been riding near. We turned left onto Route 50, which we'd get to know intimately over the next 30 hours. <br />
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The rest of the stage unfolded without incident: a screaming-fast 5-mile descent and then a flat cruise with a steady tailwind out of the west. By the time we reached our crews, who'd had to meet us at the first time station, the morning chill was giving way to a desert glow, and all seemed right with the world. </div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 2: Silver Spring to Fallon (31 miles, 255' of climbing)</span></b> <b> </b>
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Stage 2 was much like Stage 1, minus the climb: a 30-mile net downhill aided by a spirited tailwind that carried us across massive salt flats and past a "Top Gun" naval base and targeting range, where fighter jets took off with scarcely believable roars.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Thunderkitten in the desert near Fallon. Photo credit: Chris Kostman.</span></td></tr>
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The stage flew by in the blink of an eye as I powered down the road at 25-30 mph and enjoyed the tailwind. This was territory that played to my strengths and aggressive bike setup. Crow and I traded positions with each other and a tandem team, and I focused on eating and hydrating as the temperatures climbed up to 80 degrees, which was supposed to be the daily high. Toward the end of this stage, I reeled in and eventually passed Red Necked Falcon, whose friendly leapfrogging crew and I would see one another constantly for the next 30 miles or so.<br />
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<span style="color: #ffd966;"><b>Stage 3: Fallon to Austin (106 miles, 5049' of climbing)</b></span> <b> </b>
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Rumor has it a Chinese curse states: May you live in interesting times. It's in that sense that I describe Stage 3 as an interesting stage. The first 20 miles would be a continuation of Stage 2: flat, fast hammering, at an elevation of 4,000 feet. Then things would head up, up, and up some more, 14 miles to Carrol Summit, at about 7,200 feet. Then we'd duel across the high desert, flying past scrub brush at 6,000 feet.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">It's a long way down Holiday Road.</td></tr>
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As is clear from the picture at the left, Nevada isn't known for its shade. Not only are there no trees to be found, I don't think we spied a cloud all weekend. The dry air has an extreme desiccating effect, and the high desert altitude makes it that much worse. I'd been urinating regularly since the start, but I was still paranoid about keeping hydrated, and the crew was gently scolding me whenever I didn't finish a bottle on schedule. That was their job, and I'm glad they were doing it, but I was beginning to feel bloated -- not hungry, not thirsty, and like my system wasn't dealing with things the way it should be. I pointed out to the crew that I really wasn't thirsty, and their response was, "Good. Drink another bottle." I felt like something of a disobedient hospital patient. My lack of appetite was a more serious concern; that couldn't continue indefinitely. <br />
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The good news was that I was progressively hauling myself back into contention: the crew told me that I was gaining on Holstein (Dave Haase), a fiercely strong RAAM veteran who'd won 500-milers at the Race Across Oregon and Hoodoo 500 in recent months. I caught him a few miles into the stage, but hung out for 10 miles or so within shouting distance, deciding not to pass if it would mean pushing too hard. Our crews became friends over that stretch, both applauding each rider as we blew by.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Teams Holstein and Thundercat.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Hoofing it up after Holstein.</span></td></tr>
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Somewhere around Mile 90, I finally passed Holstein as he went to grab a bottle, and I hit the gas for a few miles, trying to open a gap. At subsequent bottle handoffs, though, my crew told me he was keeping pace 30 seconds back; my effort wasn't accomplishing much. Still, the two of us were moving fast, and I learned we were only 8 minutes down on Adam "Rock Rabbit" Bickett, one of the pre-race favorites. Given that I'd gone at least a couple of miles off course awhile back, it seemed that Holstein and I were moving faster than Rock Rabbit, and that we'd catch him if we simply kept up the pace a little while longer. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Thundercat leading Holstein, briefly.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dueling in the desert.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Diggin' the chip seal.</td></tr>
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Holstein passed me again a few miles later as I began to experience increased stomach disquiet, and as we turned off of Route 50 to begin the 14-mile climb toward Carroll Summit, suddenly my uncomfortable burping graduated to projectile vomit. I didn't even have time to stop completely before I lost it in violent fashion, startling a tarantula that had been lording over its insidious little domain near the side of the road. As I leaned over the bars trying to collect myself, Holstein vanished up the road, and Crow also cruised past me, shouting an encouraging word as he gave chase.<br />
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Apparently my gut had been right: I'd been pouring bottles down my throat, but they hadn't been going anywhere. I wasn't sure what the problem had been -- had I been going too hard? Or just drinking too much? Either way, at least I had an opportunity for a fresh start. Too bad that fresh start consisted of the 14-mile climb up to Carroll Summit, at 7200 feet. I took a quick break in the car to get some fluids and electrolytes while Max and Sam checked over the bike. They noticed that my disc cover wasn't playing well with my rear derailleur, so I threw my spare wheel on the back and up the climb I went.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture wasn't taken from a helicopter.</td></tr>
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The climb was incredibly long, but nothing much to worry about grade-wise. The challenges were temperatures creeping into the upper 80s, combined with altitude. I kept a steady rhythm and settled in. Below is some video footage of the climb; you can hear Max chatting with me over the Cardo connection. (I don't think I've ever seen video of myself climbing before, and it feels a little strange. It's obvious how much weight this bike position puts on my hands.)<br />
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The descent down the east side of the east side was just fabulous, with sustained speeds around 50 mph and views for 10 miles down the road ahead. We quickly landed in the high desert, with nothing but scrub brush for dozens of miles around. It felt like the desert outside of Reno, but there was a key difference: this flat expanse was at about 6,000 feet, <i>i.e.</i>, higher than Denver. The project was to relax in the heat and click off the miles, because things wouldn't stay flat for long.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 4: Austin to turnaround at Eureka (70 miles, 2800' of climbing)</span></b></div>
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Stage 4 would bring us to the turn-around, but it was a 70-mile slog that began with two sharp climbs, the first about 3 miles at 7-8% grade, and the second about 1.5 miles long. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing out of Austin, toward nowhere.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scrub brush central, dude.</td></tr>
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The climbing wasn't anything I couldn't handle, but the first Austin climb crested over 7,400 feet, and my mood began to degrade. The front four guys (Tweety Bird, Crow, Rock Rabbit, Holstein) were out of sight, and I didn't sense that there was anyone close on my heels; I was just alone -- very alone -- in a massive desert, with temperatures approaching 90 degrees. I was tired of climbing and tired of riding on flat ground. Heck, I was just tired, and my shoulders and hands were beginning to ache. Disturbingly, I had well over 300 miles to ride. <br />
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A mental game? You bet -- you basically have to be mental to play it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into the great wide-open.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A car! That made one, give or take.</td></tr>
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The last 50 miles to Eureka was a struggle to keep the pedals turning. I was tired of sugary drinks, tired of bars, and desperately wanted the mental reprieve that would arrive with the turn-around -- from that point, each pedal stroke would bring me closer to home. Best of all, my crew had agreed to scamper ahead of me to Eureka to try to hunt down some real food, and such small carrots can be hugely alluring when you seemingly have little else to look forward to. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not too bad -- not too bad at all. But not too good, either.</td></tr>
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As the sun began to set, the landscape glowed and a rainbow ring appeared above the distant hills. It was truly something to behold.<br />
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I hit Eureka, a quiet town consisting of a gas station and nothing much else, at 8:19 p.m., 13 hours and 49 minutes into the race. At the time, the leaderboard looked like this:<br />
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(1) Tweety Bird (Baloh): 6:36 p.m.<br />
(2) Crow: 7:34 p.m.<br />
(3) Holstein:7:50 p.m.<br />
(4) Rock Rabbit: 7:51 p.m.<br />
(5) Thundercat: 8:19 p.m.<br />
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It certainly wasn't the split that I'd been looking for, but between my getting a little lost and playing Pukey the Clown, it wasn't calamitous.<br />
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I wanted -- needed -- to get off the bike for a couple of minutes and consume some real food, and the crew had me covered. They presented me with microwaved bacon-chicken-cheese biscuits from the gas station. They were among the most disgusting things I'd ever eaten, but by that point, even disgusting was better than more bars and gels. <br />
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I spent a little longer in the team car than I strictly needed to, but my motivation was flagging as the temperature dropped and night fell. It seemed to me at the moment that I kind of was where I'd be; I didn't see myself catching the guys ahead, but neither did I see myself losing too much ground to anyone behind me. It just seemed like I had 255 more miles of sitting on my bike. Eventually I convinced myself to get back out there.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 5: Eureka to Austin (70 miles, 2753' of climbing)</span></b></div>
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Because the 508 was an out-and-back course, Stage 5 was the mirror image of Stage 4. The first 50 miles or so was a haul across the relatively flat high desert, but this time at night -- and into a headwind, which we'd face for the entire return trip. On the return trip, our support crews switched from leapfrogging to direct-follow, so at any given time, they were about 20 yards behind me, and bottle changes became a matter of their handing me things out the window when I needed them.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crew cam!</td></tr>
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The out-and-back course also meant that we passed a steady stream of cyclists on their treks toward Eureka, and each time, I mentally doubled my distance from Eureka to tell how far ahead of the rider I was. Amazingly, I passed a couple of riders fully 50 miles from Eureka, which meant I had a lead of a century; I didn't see any way that those guys would finish under the time limit.</div>
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As I made my way back west across the desert, plowing into the wind, I grew increasingly uncomfortable. My skinsuit was interacting with my saddle in an unhelpful way, leading to nasty saddle sores. It hurt to stand up, and then it hurt to sit down. It hurt to lean into the aerobars, and it hurt to sit up. In short, changing my position in any way at all was extremely painful. The only way to avoid the pain was to stay in a single position -- in the aerobars, for example. But that was becoming impossible. I'd raced on this bike for a couple of 24-hour races, and each time it was tolerable. For some reason, though, this was much worse; it felt like most of my body weight was being pitched forward onto my hands and shoulders. Maybe the extended technical descents had taken their toll. Whatever the case, my morale was plummeting with the temperatures. I was making terrible time, but there didn't seem to be anything I could do about it; I had no "push" in me. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KwwxyJzStgY/VDmIdLRybSI/AAAAAAAADxE/-fXN_-TpGXM/s1600/P1010645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KwwxyJzStgY/VDmIdLRybSI/AAAAAAAADxE/-fXN_-TpGXM/s1600/P1010645.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>In my experience, the early hours of the morning are when things turn from challenging to awful. You've been riding for 20 hours, you're exhausted, and it's the coldest part of the day, arriving when the body is too beaten up to warm itself. The overnight lows had been projected to be around 45 degrees, which was chilly but not terrible. Sadly, the projections were wrong. I put on every scrap of clothing I had, including balaclava, lobster gloves, vest, jacket, arm warmers, knee warmers, and boot covers, but none of it mattered -- I just couldn't raise my core temperature enough to move down the road. I was shivering uncontrollably, and deeply miserable. Max even gave me a down jacket to wear outside of my other layers. It was thoroughly miserable, and the two sharp climbs at the end took everything I had. Rolling into the time station at Austin at about 1:30 a.m., I knew I was in for a tough night.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 6: Austin to Fallon (112 miles, 2730' of climbing)</span></b></div>
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Stage 6 was a 112-mile monster, and it came at the worst possible time -- the dead of night. Starting at about 2:00 a.m., the temperatures plummeted into the high 20s, and I hit the wall in a serious way. Around 3:00 a.m., some 370 miles into the day, I lobbied the crew to let me get in the car to warm up and close my eyes for 15 minutes, but they pushed back -- they wanted me to keep going. I tried, truly I did, but it was one of the worst periods I've ever suffered through on a bicycle. The fatigue was one thing -- I'd dealt with it before. But the saddle sores, debilitating pain in my hands and shoulders, and sub-freezing temperatures just brought it to an entirely new level. I'd have given anything for a bike that didn't throw me so far forward, but the only thing I could do was sit up and put my hands on the forearm cups, which is about as aerodynamic as a beach cruiser. I didn't care.</div>
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Finally, at 4:00 a.m., I overrode my crew and declared that I was taking a nap for 15 minutes -- I had to do something, and it was all I could think of. I climbed into the front seat, cranked up the heat to max, and tried to pretend I was anywhere else.</div>
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<tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3w0ix2ETF4Q/VDmI-rE8AjI/AAAAAAAADxM/bgWY6S-_D1w/s1600/P1010648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3w0ix2ETF4Q/VDmI-rE8AjI/AAAAAAAADxM/bgWY6S-_D1w/s1600/P1010648.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The face of fun. I never planned to be dressed this way.</td></tr>
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While I was stopped, a steady stream of riders passed me. I looked at some of them and felt sure that I should be far ahead of them, but I wasn't, and that was that. I couldn't move. I desperately needed coffee, chicken soup, or some other hot liquid, but there was none to be found, and we were in a stretch of about 180 miles without services. Woe is Thundercat.</div>
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The nap and warmth perked me up a little bit, and I reasoned that I had about two hours until dawn; past that, the sun would bring me back to life, and I'd be able to keep going again.</div>
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<tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TPvtTPyFAzo/VDmLUoE6bPI/AAAAAAAADxY/P7FPtdSs99Y/s1600/P1010652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TPvtTPyFAzo/VDmLUoE6bPI/AAAAAAAADxY/P7FPtdSs99Y/s1600/P1010652.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The photographs don't remotely convey the misery.</td></tr>
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At the coldest part of the day -- around 5:30 a.m. -- I faced the monumental challenge of descending the technical, twisty road from Carrol Summit. My crew tried to help me out by descending slightly offset to my left, to avoid throwing my shadow on the road ahead. I pulled it off, but I'll be blunt: without cannibalizing my crew's clothes, I don't know how I'd have made it down. It was hugely difficult to keep my arms from shaking.</div>
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The end of the descent corresponded with daybreak, at long last. We turned left onto Route 50 once more, and I progressively shed layers as temperatures raced back up. The challenge quickly evolved from avoiding hypothermia to coping with the infinitely long slog directly into the western headwind, over roads that felt like tar on gravel. By now my hands and shoulders felt like they'd been fed through meat grinders, but the only thing to do was to keep pedaling, somehow. </div>
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Toward the end of this stage, the crew -- who'd returned to leap-frogging, per race rules -- charged ahead to Fallon, the only real commercial center on the course, to get me some d*mn breakfast. They came through in grand fashion: when I hit Time Station 7 (Mile 438) at 9:30 a.m., I found a platter of scrambled eggs, hash browns, pancakes, and coffee. Out-freaking-standing. Max did his best to motivate me by pointing out that a couple of riders who'd passed me in the night, including Sarah "Spotted Horse" Cooper and Mike "Wild Turkey" Wilson, were less than 10 minutes ahead. Normally, this would have been highly motivating, but I still felt dead to the world. I didn't want to see any more desert, grind over more chip seal, plow into any more headwind, or face any more cold or heat. I was just done, and although I was polite and thankful to my crew, inwardly I was checked out and just trying to make it to the finish line intact. I had a decadent meal before reluctantly getting back on the bike, thinking that I had about 70 miles to ride, and that the mission was to avoid disaster in that stretch.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Stage 7: Fallon to Silver Spring (25 miles, 500' of climbing)</span></b></div>
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I WANT IT TO STOP. JUST MAKE IT STOP. This stage brought -- wait for it -- desert, chip seal, false flats, and headwind. At bottle handoffs, I made it known that I was basically done with this event. I could barely sit down, nor could I stand in the pedals. Every molecule in my body was radiating pain, and the notion of entering Race Across America seemed like an extremely sick joke.</div>
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I remembered that, on several occasions, I'd explained to incredulous friends about these events: "The thing about cycling is, past a point, you can just keep pedaling and eventually you'll get to the end." I wanted to find that version of me and beat him with a floor pump.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dxwlswVdh1w/VDmvUKitTpI/AAAAAAAADxo/wljAO47klvs/s1600/P1010653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dxwlswVdh1w/VDmvUKitTpI/AAAAAAAADxo/wljAO47klvs/s1600/P1010653.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Desert! Flat. Windy. Roads that feel like cheese graters.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RicIy_CQBz4/VDmvUKPxGWI/AAAAAAAADxs/gCQJvYRItF0/s1600/P1010654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RicIy_CQBz4/VDmvUKPxGWI/AAAAAAAADxs/gCQJvYRItF0/s1600/P1010654.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Desert! Fla... oh, screw it. I'm so over this.</td></tr>
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It turns out that, when you've ridden 450 miles since getting a decent break and have endured more than 60-degree temperature swings, exactly nothing is funny.</div>
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Toward the end of this stage, I passed a relay rider who'd passed me the stage before, and we chatted a bit. It turns out his team had gone 17 miles off course. Holy crap. I learned later that my crew had missed the same turn, but sheer indignation was keeping me on course at that point.</div>
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I hit the penultimate time station (Mile 464) at 11:30 a.m., more than an hour after I'd planned to be done with this event. Needless to say, I wasn't anywhere close to done: I had 47 miles to ride, and those miles included by far the toughest climb of the ride, the eastern face of Geiger Grade. </div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Final Stage: Silver Springs to Virginia City (47 miles, 2844' of climbing)</span></b></div>
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Max and Sam told me that, as had been true at the previous time station, Spotted Horse and Wild Turkey were a mere 10 minutes ahead of me, and implored me to chase the top 5. Top 5? I felt like I was about 50th, but I suppose it's hard to keep track. The crew said I was looking better -- although, to be fair, it was their job to say that -- and expressed optimism that I could catch Spotted Horse and Wild Turkey on the climb. "Fine," I thought. I'd give it a go and see what happened. I figured it owed it to the crew to at least make a race out of it to the extent I could.</div>
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I pushed hard into the headwind until the base of the climb at mile 20, and Max and Sam met me at the bottom with a bottle of cold water to dump over my head. That was just perfect -- the temperatures were back up to 90 degrees already -- although, in the desert air, I was dry about 10 seconds later. They said that the climb was 6 miles at an average grade of 6 percent, which seemed just about possible.</div>
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But there's a thing about averages: they lie. There's a world of difference between a steady 6% grade, and one that starts at 2-3% for the first few miles, and then winds up with a 6% average. This climb was in the latter category, and boy would it hurt.</div>
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I stayed seated in the first few miles, and quickly reeled in Spotted Horse, who was on her way to a massive overall victory in the women's race. After a quick hello, I spun ahead in search of Wild Turkey. Max said that he was 3 minutes ahead, which seemed an eternity, but I came upon him surprisingly quickly, and when I passed, I hammered it as hard as I could for the next mile to see if I could get the lead to stick. It did! Who knew; I felt almost human.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KiUbqMgPbM8/VDm41m6JTNI/AAAAAAAADyM/nW-jGNGo4PA/s1600/P1010655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KiUbqMgPbM8/VDm41m6JTNI/AAAAAAAADyM/nW-jGNGo4PA/s1600/P1010655.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hi-larious. It's fully 90 degrees out.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y0I4vT03gu8/VDm40zdS4qI/AAAAAAAADyE/V_0-QHJSzxA/s1600/P1010658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y0I4vT03gu8/VDm40zdS4qI/AAAAAAAADyE/V_0-QHJSzxA/s1600/P1010658.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steeper than it looks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ADUr2YFPq7s/VDm40v62dMI/AAAAAAAADyA/L5DNwzrpMgY/s1600/P1010659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ADUr2YFPq7s/VDm40v62dMI/AAAAAAAADyA/L5DNwzrpMgY/s1600/P1010659.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keeping the ice water flowing.</td></tr>
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Unfortunately, the final grades of this climb were ludicrous -- a series of 20% stair steps for which I had to get out of the saddle, tack back and forth, and fight for every inch. I certainly hadn't expected this. Max and Sam, trying to motivate me, kept telling me that the top was at the next cross street; they were wrong every time, and indeed, each block became steeper than the last. Finally, I pulled over and walked the last couple of blocks, concluding that I had a far greater chance of breaking myself than actually climbing it on the bike.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WHERE IS THE SUMMIT?!?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3_aKwzIQtQY/VDm43pyZfOI/AAAAAAAADyc/dZ-KnPwiX44/s1600/P1010662.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3_aKwzIQtQY/VDm43pyZfOI/AAAAAAAADyc/dZ-KnPwiX44/s1600/P1010662.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I felt distinctly un-thunderous by that point.</td></tr>
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At long last, I attained the summit, which meant it was a downhill shot to the finish. The thing was, I'm a tentative descender, and I imagine that Spotted Horse and Wild Turkey were right on my heels, so I pushed myself as hard as I could and flew through Reno toward the finish, looking over my shoulder in concern at every stop light. No sign. Just a handful of miles left.</div>
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After 32 hours and 15 minutes, I arrived at the finish line in 6th place, 20' out of 5th (Rednecked Falcon) and about 15' up on Spotted Horse and Wild Turkey, who finished together. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dSwKmqislNQ/VDm4367lDDI/AAAAAAAADyg/KRkIY1n56FA/s1600/P1010669.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dSwKmqislNQ/VDm4367lDDI/AAAAAAAADyg/KRkIY1n56FA/s1600/P1010669.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liberty!!!!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NjtWzkCHLOc/VDm45LWhjDI/AAAAAAAADyw/G5kyZn9ScqA/s1600/P1010670.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NjtWzkCHLOc/VDm45LWhjDI/AAAAAAAADyw/G5kyZn9ScqA/s1600/P1010670.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salt stains? What salt stains?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9drQkBx2rlM/VDm45EC7LAI/AAAAAAAADy0/kTuAGS0Ki4g/s1600/P1010679.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9drQkBx2rlM/VDm45EC7LAI/AAAAAAAADy0/kTuAGS0Ki4g/s1600/P1010679.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finisher's shot with Chris Kostman.</td></tr>
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<b><span style="color: #ffd966;">Conclusion</span></b></div>
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Wild Turkey put it exactly right: These races damn near kill you. I've done a lot of silly stuff on a bike, but nothing even came close to the challenges this race posed. My theory that it would be "like a 24-hour race, plus a bit" was nowhere close to correct. My finishing time of 32 hours and change was fully four hours off of my conservative guess, and usually I'm pretty accurate on that front. I have no mechanical failures to blame; there are only failures of fitness and execution.</div>
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Actually, on the fitness front, I'm not second-guessing too much. I trained as appropriately as I could (without access to 90-degree or 28-degree weather, deserts, or 14-mile mountain climbs), and my numbers were solid before I found myself in pukeville. </div>
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The bottom line is, this was my first 500-mile crewed event, and it was a much bigger learning experience than I thought it would be. Here are some of the most important lessons I've taken away.</div>
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<li><i>My bike and position were a huge mistake</i>. I was one of only a few riders who limited himself to a single bike, and I was <i>definitely</i> the only person with just a tri bike with a ridiculously aggressive fit. I've gotten away with it in some 24-hour races, but I realized that those are flat events, and they're usually on smooth pavement. It doesn't work at all with 14-mile climbs and descents on chip-seal. Five days later, my rotator cuffs are still killing me. I'm planning to sell a couple of bikes and replace them with an endurance-oriented road bike. It turns out that, the longer the event, the more important comfort is. You can have the most aerodynamic bike fit in the world, but if you can't stay in the aerobars, it's just a heavy waste of time.</li>
<li><i>Plan to take a nap</i>. I've concluded that I'm someone who needs a 10- or 15-minute nap in the middle of the night. When I get one, I give up a small handful of miles, but I invariably ride faster afterward, and in terms of sheer enjoyment of the event, I think it's worth it. </li>
<li><i>Carry thermoses of coffee, hot chocolate, or chicken broth</i>. When you're in very cold temperatures 20+ hours into an event, it almost doesn't matter how much clothing you have. You're not generating any heat to trap. In rural areas, you can't count on services being there, so in the future, I'll carry 40-60 ounces of hot liquids in high-quality thermoses. I think doing that in this race would have saved me an hour or two, and quite a bit of misery.</li>
<li><i>Bring a change of clothes</i>. When things get cold and awful, sometimes changing into something dry can be invaluable.</li>
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As I've alluded to, I'm not overjoyed with my finishing time. In the grand scheme, for a first outing at this sort of event, it's just fine; one of the strongest riders fell victim to the cold temperatures overnight and dropped out, and I finished ahead of several veterans. So, it's not that I did <i>badly. </i>My frustration is that I don't think I put together the best race I could have, given my fitness level. It was my choice to bring a bike that had no business being on this course, and it was up to me to over-plan for the cold weather -- which wound up being nearly 20 degrees lower than predicted (at least in the mountains). I'll probably return to events like this down the road, and when I do, I'll take these lessons to heart. </div>
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In the meantime, despite my self-imposed misfortunes, I'm proud of fighting through the agony. This was a course that was much harder than it looked on paper, both physically and mentally. You learn a lot about yourself out there. It's about the closest we can come to going off to battle without going off to battle.</div>
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Finally, I'd be remiss if I didn't thank Max and Sam for being an absolutely stellar crew -- I owe them everything in this event. Their suggestions were good ones, they planned ahead for what I'd need before I knew I'd need it, and they motivated me in appropriate ways without joining in my disappointment at how things were going compared to expectations. I hope I can return the favor for them down the road.</div>
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Thundercat out!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-59708013303734660982014-08-26T18:14:00.002-04:002014-08-29T10:21:04.183-04:00Mid-Atlantic 24-Hour TT Race Report: I'd Fire My Mechanic, But I'd Be Out Of A Job<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span style="color: #ffe599;">"I'm givin' 'er all she's got, captain! She can't take much more of this!"</span></b></i></div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">-Scotty</span></b></div>
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This weekend, I raced the third annual Mid-Atlantic 24-Hour TT in Washington, NC. From a purely competitive perspective, it didn't make sense to do so; less than two weeks earlier, I'd ridden for nearly 60 hours over four days in the <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/08/central-california-coast-3cr-1200k-movie.html">California Central Coast 1200k Randonnée</a>, and though my recovery was proceeding well enough, it was clear I wasn't in an ideal position to do my best in a 24-hour race. In the few workouts I'd attempted in the last two weeks, I'd been well off my best numbers, and I hadn't felt like I had much to give.</div>
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Even so, I decided to toe the line in NC for two reasons. First, I'm in a pretty competitive position in the <a href="https://ultracycling.com/sections/standings/24_hour_overall.php?year=2014">Ultramarathon Cycling Association's 24-Hour Competition</a>, which is a year-long, world-wide competition to see who can put together the most miles in any three 24-hour races. I'd done pretty well in the two that I'd raced (<a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/02/race-report-heart-of-darkness-bike.html">441 at Sebring</a> despite not riding the last hour because I was tired of shivering through a 38-degree night, and <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/06/race-report-2014-national-24-hour.html">488 at the National 24-Hour Challenge</a>), but without a third, I couldn't hope to place well when it was all said and done. The Mid-Atlantic 24 was the only remaining race I could reasonably attend. Second, it was an easy 4-hour drive away, and it also was straightforward for my parents to get to from Atlanta, which is an important selling point. And so it was that I decided to do the best I could while playing with less than a full deck (physical or mental). </div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">The course</span></b></div>
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Unlike Sebring and the N24HC, each of which had three loops (a long daytime loop, several shorter daytime loops, and then a very small overnight loop), Mid-Atlantic had only one 26-mile loop that riders would circle until they saw the sun a second time. It was about as flat as it could be, and while a few miles had rough pavement and there was a bit of a wind, on the whole it was ideal for moving quickly:</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i10mDc5Ca4E/U_zpG36GoYI/AAAAAAAADoE/VnQRHoOg8zg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-08-26%2Bat%2B10.07.54%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i10mDc5Ca4E/U_zpG36GoYI/AAAAAAAADoE/VnQRHoOg8zg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-08-26%2Bat%2B10.07.54%2BAM.png" height="297" width="400" /></a></div>
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One observation about this loop: it starts at the far western point, then proceeds clockwise, heading east before looping back to the southwest. There is only one checkpoint where riders' numbers are recorded, that being at the start/finish line. To my mind, without a second checkpoint on the far eastern side of the loop, there appear to be many opportunities to cut the course for anyone who's so inclined. The comparable races I've seen have had such secondary checkpoints, although I'm sure it greatly increases the staffing challenge for the event; having volunteers sitting in a tent in the middle of nowhere through the night is pretty thankless. Maybe that's one reason many 24-hour races have a nighttime loop that's only a few miles long. I suppose this race proceeded on the honor system, which is fair enough, although it seems a surprising arrangement for an official Race Across America qualifier, and it's a little disconcerting to someone who cut his teeth navigating Ironman's landscape of timing mats and course marshals. Even randonneuring events, which are as noncompetitive as they come, take measures to ensure that riders stick to the designated route. I hoped it wouldn't be an issue.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My unintentionally well-color-coordinated setup for the day.</td></tr>
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As always seems to be the case at non-triathlon events, the starting line was a pretty relaxed place. I suppose there was little to get worked up about at the start of an event that would last for either 12 or 24 hours, depending on one's division. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Max, my longtime riding compadre.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chatting with Brian Jastrebsky, the eventual winner (far right in green Zoot kit).</td></tr>
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By now I've gotten fairly adept at recognizing fast triathletes when I see them, and one guy I noticed at the starting line, Brian Jastrebsky, fit the description. He said this would be his first ride over 150 miles, but I also learned that he'd recently won a very competitive half-Ironman race over several strong athletes I know. I figured he'd be moving fast for at least the first 150-200 miles; past that, anything was possible. So much of ultracycling is getting the bike comfort, nutrition, and mindset right that it's a hit-or-miss thing on the first go-round even for strong athletes. In an event like this, where many participants are shooting to hit that 400-mile mark for RAAM qualification, I think often riders limit themselves by focusing on that number when in fact they could do more if they aimed higher. </div>
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My mental goal was something in the 450-mile range. I considered that number conservative, but given my sub-optimal preparation, I didn't have much confidence that I'd be able to keep a strong pace through the nighttime hours.</div>
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The first loop of the course revealed a second sense in which this race operated according to the honor system. The race was strictly "non-drafting," but after the official car led us through the first mile, all bets were off and all wheel-suckers were on. What a nightmare. A group of 50-odd riders formed the Worst Peloton Ever, riding unpredictably and yet in very close proximity. A couple of times I upped my pace to 24 mph or so to try to create some space, but I'd turn around and there'd be 30 guys right there, chatting with one another. It got to the point that, when I'd see guys right behind me, I'd quickly pull off to the side and touch the brakes to force them to confront the wind.</div>
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[BEGIN LECTURE] Hey guys, here's a tip: people notice things. If you're drafting in a non-drafting event, it's not a "hey, do what you want" kind of thing. It's against the rules of the race every bit as much as cutting the course is, and it's disrespectful to the other riders. If you think the people who are riding their own races don't notice and remember, you're entirely wrong. You may be a very strong rider, and you may even win at the end of the day, but to me, you'll never be worthy of respect until you cut out the bullshit. It's tough to claim you're not drafting when the guy 6" in front of you drifts left and right across the lane and you follow him every step of the way. I'm embarrassed on your behalf. [END LECTURE] </div>
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Sorry to be bitchy. :-)</div>
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In any case, the first loop proceeded in peloton format at about 22 mph, and I made a quick bottle change and shot out onto loop 2, pressing the pace in an effort to find some breathing room. For the next hundred miles it was pretty much me, a couple of guys on recumbents who were riding the 12-hour race, and a guy on a road bike without aerobars who seemed to be going all-out at every pedal stroke. I was feeling okay, and averaged close to 23 mph for the first 125 miles. I finished the first century in 4:24, my "Ironman" 112-mile split was 4:56, and my 125-mile split was about 5:30. It was exactly the pace I'd been on at N24HC in Michigan, and it wasn't too stressful, although my lower back was rebelling in a way it hasn't for a long time. I knew it wasn't a good sign that I was thinking about ibuprofen so early in the event.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking about as happy as I felt.</td></tr>
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And then things rapidly got worse. My power had been holding steady at about 220w, but suddenly I could barely get it above 200w, and I found myself flailing. I couldn't figure out what the problem was; it was warm but not searing, and I'd been downing two bottles of hydration every hour, which seemed like plenty. Maybe the humidity was a part of it. Eventually I realized that, although my aggressive pace in the first 125 miles might have been manageable if I were in peak form, I'd probably overcooked myself given my fatigue heading into the event. Minute by minute, my average speed was drifting lower, and I was struggling to make progress. This is <i>not</i> the sensation you want when you have 18 hours to go in a ride. I reasoned that bad stretches are inevitable in races like this, but it's rare that I encounter one so early and emphatically. The roadie and recumbents faded from view, and as they did, I turned my cycling computer to a simple "time and distance" readout; any speed and power numbers from that point forward were bound to be depressing.</div>
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The next several hours were about trying to salvage the race. At one point, uncharacteristically, I found myself standing in ice water with a cold compress on my head as I tried to get my body temperature down. This wasn't at all the day I'd hoped to have, but my mind went back a couple of years ago to a time I attempted a straightforward 200k brevet two weeks after competing in Ironman Wales. I'd felt just fine for the first 50 miles or so, and then it was suddenly game over. The remaining 75 miles were some of the most arduous and painful of my life. It seems to be the case that, with lingering fatigue, you can feel superficially strong for some period, but eventually the bottom just falls out, and it can happen quite suddenly. I was right there again. I was only able to convince myself to keep going on the theory that the day had turned from race into mental training exercise. There might not be an opportunity to win anything, but there was still a chance to fight through a tough situation in a way that I might be able to call upon down the road.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Mechanical Numero Uno</span></b></div>
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Eventually, after 9 hours or so, after eating and drinking everything I could and riding gingerly, I started feeling a little bit better, but for some reason I wasn't able to go any faster. I began to hear the telltale pulsing squeak of a brake hitting the rim, and cursed to myself that somehow my ongoing campaign against brake-rub had hit another setback. Getting off my bike at the far side of the loop to inspect my rear wheel, though, I noticed two odd things. First, my wheel wasn't just off-center, such that it was rubbing only one brake pad. Instead, it was, at various points, hitting <i>both</i> pads -- the wheel was warped. Second, from inside my wheel cover came a metallic rattling whenever the wheel rotated. <i>Broken spoke inside my wheel cover. Crap</i>. I'd never broken a spoke before, believe it or not, and I couldn't figure out how it had happened on this ride. Maybe on one of the railroad track crossings?</div>
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I didn't have a spoke wrench on me, and even if I did, the spoke was inside the screwed-on wheel cover. On most bikes I could simply have loosened the rear brakes to give the wheel more clearance, but my bike has integrated rear brakes that are adjustable only by a guy named "You And What Army." I knew I had a spare rear wheel in my car -- thank goodness for my having taken that precaution -- but my car was 13 miles away and I was on a bike that was rattling, wobbling, and topping out at 10 mph. I struggled with it for a couple of miles, trying to pretend I was just going with the flow, before I decided I'd had enough. I pulled out my multi-tool and entirely removed the rear brake pads and holders, which I stuffed in my jersey pocket. Rear brakes? Who needs 'em. I reasoned that it wasn't as if it were raining, which was true enough for 15 minutes or so. And then it was! </div>
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My backup rear wheel got things going in the right direction once again, although it was hardly ideal; it had a climbing cassette instead of a flat-land cassette, meaning that the gear spacing was uncomfortably wide and I often couldn't find the one I wanted. I hadn't brought the tool to change it. </div>
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The good news was that, as the halfway point approached, my legs had finally come around and I was passing people constantly. The bad news was that I'd covered only 240 miles (compared to, for example, 268 at N24HC). Given the almost unavoidable drop-off in speed for the overnight portion, I reasoned I'd be lucky to hit 450-460 total miles, and the race leaders were beyond distant horizons. I figured all I could do was soldier on and hope that the guys up front encounter night terrors.</div>
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Fortunately, the nighttime portion turned out to be my personal happy place. I felt markedly stronger in the early evening hours than I had at any point until then, and I was flying around the course, reeling riders in like rabbits. Unlike most 24-hour races, this one permitted crews to follow their riders, and I therefore invited my parents to follow me for a couple of nighttime loops, keeping me in their headlights. I reasoned that it might stave off sleepiness for me, and it would probably make them feel better as well, given the recent incident in which a cyclist was killed by a truck during a ride I was on.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Mechanical Dos: Revenge of Mechanical</span></b></div>
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About 11:00 pm, 15 hours into the ride, I was buzzing right along, but I suddenly began to feel inexplicably unstable when going around curves; the bike was just handling strangely. I stopped to feel my front wheel, thinking that maybe it had partially deflated and was therefore gripping the road in odd ways, but it seemed fine. Maybe I was just getting loopy? Strange. I started back down the road, but when steering with one hand while getting a drink, I nearly fell right over. The bike was jumpy and twitchy. What the hell? </div>
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I stopped to inspect things more closely, and rotated the handlebars from side to side. When I did, this is what I encountered (video taken post-race):</div>
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As far as I could tell, the bearings in my headset had suddenly been replaced with gravel. There was a stiff crunching sound as I turned the bars from side to side, but even worse was the fact that the steering was "sticky." Specifically, when the bars got anywhere near straight, they would suddenly snap in into the straight-forward position, and it would take a lot of force to turn them again. When they did finally turn, they did so suddenly and violently, like breaking free a stuck pedal -- they would pop sideways, causing the bike to swerve sharply. It was extremely disconcerting, especially considering the fact that I was missing a rear brake. For the final 8 hours of the race, it was a constant war to keep my bike from throwing me to the ground. Each meaningful turn or curve required coming to an almost complete stop and then wrestling the bars to get pointed in the new direction.</div>
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Somehow, despite it all, I was still moving fast when I wasn't trying to stop, turn, or get my bike working properly. I averaged 20 mph or so for several hours straight overnight, flying past other riders merrily, and I realized that, despite all of the problems I'd encountered throughout the day, a final number in the 450's might be possible. That would constitute a <i>major</i> victory considering how the day had gone, and with an hour to go, I was hammering as hard as I could. I had 436 miles, and I wanted 456. It was the final push! The dawn was breaking, I had a third or fourth life, and I was ready to smoke the final lap.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Mechanical Tres: Competence Lacking</span></b></div>
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And then my front tire punctured. (Of course.) Dejectedly, I pulled off to the side of the road, where, illuminated by headlights, I went to change the tube. My tri bike has massive lawyer's lips on the dropouts that require greatly loosening the skewer in order to get the front wheel off. My exhaustion and exasperation with constant mechanicals left me with little patience for my wheel's refusal to release from the bike, and somehow I must have loosened the skewer nut a little too much. Not thinking clearly, I laid the wheel down and pulled out my flat kit, but when I picked the wheel up again, the skewer fell out. The cam end landed in plain view, but the nut -- which was black, naturally -- dropped somewhere into the dense knee-high weeds where I'd laid the wheel. Utterly ridiculous. I decided to go ahead and replace the tube before looking for the skewer nut, but again my fatigue must have gotten the better of me, because despite my working the tire back on by hand, the tube exploded when I inflated it. Destroyed spare tube. No nut to attach the wheel to the bike. Outstanding.</div>
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And so it was that, against my every intention, I abandoned the ride with fully an hour to go, leaving me with a total mileage of 436. </div>
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<b><span style="color: #ffe599;">Considering it all</span></b></div>
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I'm not thrilled with a final result of 436, but examining my data file afterward, one number told the story:</div>
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21:22</div>
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21 hours and 22 minutes -- that's how long I'd been moving out of the 24 hours in the race. I'm usually very good about staying on my bike in these events. At N24HC, for example, I'd been rolling for well over 23 hours. I'd lost the final hour of this race, and I'm quite confident that my brake rub/broken spoke/brake removal/tire change/wrong cassette fiasco, combined with my inability to control my bike, had cost me a lot of time as well. </div>
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Had I been able to ride for as long as I normally would have, <i>i.e.,</i> 23+ hours, the additional 1.5 hours at 20 mph would have yielded me another 30 miles or so, which would have put me in the mid 460s. It's not an exact science -- after all, maybe the mechanicals gave my legs a small break -- but a 460+ number would have been an outstanding day given my lack of rest heading into the race. In light of that, I have to be content with what I was able to do, especially given the depths of trouble I was in during the afternoon hours.</div>
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The eventual winner was Brian Jastrebsky, a 29-year-old triathlete from Virginia Beach, with 471 miles. Considering that his previous longest ride had been 150 miles, that's an astounding performance, and I look forward to seeing more of him around the circuit in the years to come. His strong day confirms my belief that many Ironman athletes could do well at ultracycling if they gave it a try. Mentally, there's a lot of similarity between the events -- you just have to <i>keep moving</i> -- and the bike training isn't actually a world different. Having said that, I've raced against a couple of 9:20-ish Ironman guys in these events, and they didn't do anywhere near as well as Brian did. Hats off to him.</div>
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The second-place rider, Ray Brown, finished just behind Brian, with 468 miles. Again, a great day. I'll see Ray again at Silver State 508 in October, where he'll comprise part of a pretty stacked field. Hopefully I'll be able to put in a better showing. </div>
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My plan for the immediate future is to get some rest to let my body absorb the 80-odd hours of saddle time I've accumulated in the last half-month, and then to focus on consistency and intensity for a few weeks heading into Silver State. Once I'm there, the plan will be "ride myself into a puddle and see where I wind up."</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-59740655903849876152014-08-20T23:48:00.002-04:002014-08-21T16:39:02.074-04:00Long rides are revelationsYesterday a friend from years back, reacting to <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2014/08/central-california-coast-3cr-1200k-movie.html">the 3CR video</a> I posted on Monday, observed that the music I chose had lent the ride a particular tone. After watching it once through, she'd enjoyed muting the sound and experimenting with watching it again to different songs, and noting how the choice of music dramatically altered the feel of the journey. She recommended that I give it a try, and pointed me to some songs that she'd found apropos.<br />
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My first reaction was to be flattered that she'd found the movie worth watching a second time, much less that she'd used it as an aperture through which to experiment with ways of seeing the world. And her observation about the power of music rang true. Years ago, before I discovered the liberation of commuting by bicycle, I'd spent 45 minutes a day in the subterranean anonymity of a Metro train, staring a thousand yards ahead of me through crowds close enough to touch. Earbud cords dangling, I'd often passed the time by re-imagining the scene as something out of a movie, playing songs ranging from modern rock to trance electronica to Tim Burton-esque gothic meditations, and observing how the world changed from moment to moment. There might be a well-dressed lady reading a book while huddled into a cranny of a packed car. What was she reading? Who was she -- what was <i>her</i> story -- and what was she feeling just then? I could convince myself it was anything and change my mind in an instant, all by choosing a different sequence of notes to play as a backdrop. With the proper music, I think one could imbue a <i>Transformers</i> fight scene with a convincing air of poignancy. It's powerful stuff. <br />
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So, on a superficial level, I agreed with my friend's thought experiment: I doubtless could have told the 3CR story in innumerable ways simply by making alternate choices in iTunes. Each of those choices might have elicited something different in the tale. Indeed, anyone else on the ride would have chosen differently in narrating his own journey, much as he might have been looking in a different direction at a given moment and noticed a particular scene that resonated with him. <br />
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As I thought about it, though, I realized that, interesting though my friend's thought experiment might be on an intellectual level, it fundamentally misconceived what I'd tried to do. It suggested, I think, that the tone of the story I'd tried to tell was on some level fluid and mutable, and that the choice of music was an arbitrary decision that led to a particular result. On that theory, another choice might have been as valid or resonant, just... different. But I couldn't disagree more.<br />
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There's an age-old epistemological debate about whether mathematics is invented or discovered. That is, are the equations we've found to hold true mere human constructs used to describe relationships in the world as seen from mankind's perspective, or are they immutable truths that would exist whether or not we are here to consider them? If no humans were alive ponder the question, would it make sense in any deep way to say that the principles of multiplication hold true? Is mathematics an invented human notion or a revelation of fundamental principle?<br />
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What does any of that have to do with long bike rides? To me, a surprising amount. My friend's observation that the feeling and meaning of the movie I put together could be changed in interesting ways through the choice of tune struck me as suggesting that there was no "correct" music in any deep sense. But for me, there was. One of the most valuable things I've taken from long, solitary rides is that, when you have nothing but time to clear your mind and open your thoughts to the world, the journey impresses itself upon you in ways that are unexpected but powerful. For me, that often takes the form of music. When my mind is clear and I glimpse a falcon diving from the sky, I can't control the feeling of awe it creates, and what accompanies that awe is a feeling that translates itself into music -- <i>particular</i> music -- often inexplicably. <br />
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I'll never forget my first Ironman, in which, about 40 miles into the bike ride, profoundly alone in the alligator swamps of Maryland's Eastern Shore, I was suddenly overtaken by "Step by Step," a frivolous pop song recorded by boy-band New Kids On the Block some 15 years earlier. I hadn't heard it in those 15 years. But there it was, clear as day, and it was in my head for hours. To this day, I can't hear that song without remembering a particular tree I'd been looking at when it came storming into my conscience. And with that frivolous song came a feeling that, hey, this is an intimidating event, but it's nothing to get worked up about, and I spent hours in a mood that was veritably punchy, singing aloud to the firmament.<br />
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So, too, at 3CR. The songs that I chose in that movie weren't random. They weren't things I chose out of iTunes because I thought they were catchy. No -- they were songs that were <i>in my head</i> for important parts of the journey. They evoked a particular sense of exuberance and wonder that I felt while my ears were pinned back and I was flying along the cliffs of the Pacific Coast Highway.<br />
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<i>Well it's a great day to be alive...</i></div>
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<i>A great day to be alive</i></div>
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I'll never be able to hear that song again without suddenly being back there. The ride, the story, wasn't something I invented for this blog. It was something that was revealed to me, hour by hour, and that I've tried to recount as faithfully and emotionally honestly as possible.<br />
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That exuberant journey took on a far different and more important tone when I learned the morning after the ride that Matthew O'Neill, a 33-year-old rider in the event, had been killed by a truck on the third day of the ride. When I heard that devastating revelation, I spent the rest of the day, including the long train ride back to San Jose, on the verge of tears, and sometimes well beyond the verge. I suddenly was back nearly 8 years ago, when <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2009/04/remembering-jaron.html">I got the call telling me that my brother had fallen into the coma from which he never emerged</a>. I had all too clear an idea what Matthew's family and fiancée must have felt, and it destroyed me. That, too, is part of this story, and the movie I created was the most profound celebration of life I could craft, while also being a violent cry of despair that such senseless a tragedy had marred this most life-affirming of journeys. It was a tribute to the wonderful, cruel, ecstatic, senseless colors of the world.<br />
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<i>Would you wanna, would you wanna</i></div>
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<i>Come dance with me</i></div>
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<i>Would you wanna, would you wanna</i></div>
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<i>Fall in love with me</i></div>
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<i>Would you wanna, would you wanna</i></div>
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<i>Come dance with me</i></div>
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<i>Fall in love with me</i></div>
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<i>Come and dance with me</i></div>
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The truth is, the songs I chose could not have been anything other than what they were. Nothing else would have represented the journey that I lived, the images that flicker behind my eyes, and the adventure I'll treasure until the end of my days. Those songs chose themselves.<br />
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That's really the thing with randonneuring, and with long rides generally. I don't know if mathematics is invented or discovered, but to me, long bicycle rides are <i>revealed</i>. I've found that I can plot whatever course I want, but the fact is, when I get out on the road, I take the world as it is and the journey as it comes. Hopefully I'll have my heart and mind open to it, whatever it brings. And when it's done and I sit down to write about it, I'll tell what happened in a way that is as true as I can make it. It's all I can do.<br />
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I'll see you on the road.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-14845940403198112322014-08-18T23:28:00.003-04:002014-08-25T10:34:54.441-04:00Central California Coast 1200k Randonnée (3CR): The Movie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
On August 7-10, 2014 I rode in the inaugural Central California Coast 1200k (750-mile) Randonnée. It was every bit the magnificent adventure I'd hoped for, and I'll have a lot to say about it in blog posts... eventually. (That write-up will appear in printed form first! Randonneurs, keep an eye on your mailboxes.) </div>
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For now, I've put together a 14-minute chronicle of the adventure. Because the incredible scenery is key here, I recommend opening the movie full-screen high definition:</div>
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<li>Click on words "YouTube" in lower right of the video.</li>
<li>Click on brackets "[ ]" on the lower-right of the video to expand it into full-screen mode.</li>
<li>Select 720p HD for the resolution (click on the gear shape under the movie and choose 720p HD).</li>
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Note that, due to what I think are copyright issues, playback on YouTube may be restricted on mobile devices, but it should be fine on a desktop or notebook.</div>
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<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://ytimg.googleusercontent.com/vi/XV-enYMI_Fk/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/XV-enYMI_Fk&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/XV-enYMI_Fk&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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Journeys like this are always deeply personal, but I've tried my best to capture the spirit of my ride. I hope you enjoy it! If you want more like this, check out my video from <a href="http://www.rememberingjaron.com/2013/08/my-big-wild-movie.html">Alaska's Big Wild Ride 1200k</a> last year.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541200468784053800.post-54186451132838700182014-07-15T10:28:00.000-04:002014-07-16T11:14:36.046-04:00Can't Take The Heat: 2014 Saratoga 12-Hour TT Race Report<div style="text-align: center;">
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On July 12th, I headed to the idyllic town of Saratoga Springs, NY for my second crack at the "Hudson River 12-Hour," one of the competitions that comprises the <a href="http://www.adkultracycling.com/saratoga24/map.htm">Saratoga 12/24 weekend</a>. For a variety of reasons, I was approaching this race a bit under-baked fitness-wise. For one thing, between my recovery from the National 24-Hour Challenge a month ago and a 10-day trip to France in the lead-up to the race, I hadn't spent much time on my bike recently. For another, due to the unseasonably cold spring and the fact that most of my weekday riding is done on a trainer indoors, I hadn't been outside much in the heat and humidity for which the East Coast is legendary. Finally, because the Saratoga events are not sanctioned by the Ultramarathon Cycling Association, performances this weekend wouldn't count toward any year-long aggregate competitions. So, basically, my approach was to race unsupported, hopefully put in a solid day, and move on.</div>
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Having said that, to be blunt, I expected to win this race. In 2012, I'd broken the course record only to lose by four miles to Matt Roy, an incredibly accomplished rider with a leapfrogging crew vehicle; Matt wouldn't be back this year. That year I'd finished two miles ahead of John Nobile, a very strong guy who'd previously won the Tour of the Divide mountain bike race. John had returned to Saratoga in 2013 to establish a 255-mile course record on the new Saratoga course, and while I thought he'd be tough competition in 2014, at the last minute he'd chosen to enter the 24-hour race, so he literally was not a factor. Given those developments, I figured that the win would be straightforward; the challenge would be breaking John's course record. I thought I had a good shot, given that I was stronger than I had been in 2012.</div>
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One big unknown was the "new" course (new to me, anyway; it was used in 2013, when I hadn't raced). The previous course had been a 32-mile loop; the new one was a 40.5-mile "lollipop" design, with aid stations at the beginning and the 19-mile point. It looked pretty fast, only 25 feet/mile of climbing, but from the map it looked like the course crossed a number of major roads, and I hoped there wouldn't be too much drama with traffic lights. There's nothing as frustrating as pushing hard on the open roads, only to be forced to stand at a stop light for minutes on end as your average speed erodes before your eyes. </div>
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I'd learned in 2012 that, when self-supporting during a race, it's important to minimize the amount of wasted time spent refilling bottles between loops. So, I'd pre-filled 20 bike bottles with my various potions -- and one with crushed Fritos, which had been divine in Michigan -- and stuffed them into coolers full of ice. I figured that I'd go through 2 bottles an hour in the morning and the evening, and maybe 3 per hour during the heat of the afternoon.</div>
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Things got started in mellow fashion with the 40-odd riders (spread across all race divisions) enjoying a 1/2-mile parade start through two traffic lights -- a prelude of things to come -- and then we were released onto the course, which was marked with orange arrows on the pavement just before each turn.</div>
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I immediately set off at my own pace, which is to say, hard, but not unreasonably so. I've concluded that it's a fool's errand to try to evenly split anything as long as a 12-hour or 24-hour race; instead, it makes the most sense to give it gas when you're feeling spry, knowing that the black moments will come one way or another, and it's best to be in a good position when they do. I quickly dropped the field, although I got caught behind another couple of traffic lights and blew past a couple of turns that I noticed too late. I found the delays annoying, but I figured that, in terms of results, they were largely academic; the question on my mind was whether I could break that 255-mile mark that John Nobile had set last year. </div>
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About ten miles in, after I'd looped around to correct another navigational mishap, I saw a guy on a road bike not far behind me, which was a little surprising. But, I figured, some people go too hard at the beginning of these races, and he'd soon drop off. Only he didn't, or at least, not enough -- I pulled away a few hundred yards toward the end of the lollipop, but the tiny gap closed when we hit the series of traffic lights heading back into town. More ominously, he had a leapfrogging support vehicle sporting a pre-printed yellow "BICYCLE AHEAD" banner on the back of it, something I'd previously seen in exactly one place: RAAM. I hoped I was wrong about that.</div>
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As we were waiting for the lights back into town to let us through, the rider pulled up next to me, and we chatted a bit as we rode side-by-side for a few miles. His name was Rob Morlock, and as I figured, he'd been around the block a bit, including finishing RAAM solo three times, with a sub-10-hour finish in there back in the 90s. "Great," I thought. Twice I race Saratoga, and twice I wind up in a dogfight with an accomplished ultracyclist with a well-drilled support crew. I'd narrowly lost the last time, and I resolved not to have it happen again. Unfortunately, that would probably mean pushing harder, and sooner, than I'd planned. I wanted to break contact to give Rob a chance to back off on his effort, as I figured it would be easier for him to push hard if I were acting as a rabbit.</div>
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Onward I pressed, keeping my average speed north of 22 mph despite the traffic lights and stop signs, but Rob wasn't going anywhere. Worse, things were starting to heat up in a very literal sense. I was dripping sweat all over the place, and it was only 11:00 a.m. Every few minutes I'd see his support vehicle pass, and his wife would hop out and wait for him with a bottle of cold something-or-other. I teased her that I was jealous, which wasn't far from the truth. (Although, in a grand sporting gesture, Rob offered to have her hand me up some water if I needed it.) This sequence continued every few minutes until the end of the loop, when I had to stop to swap out my bottles then sprint to catch Rob, who'd kept on rolling.</div>
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At this point, 80 miles in, I was getting concerned; I was working a lot harder than I'd planned, but my average speed was dropping by the minute and I was beginning to feel distinctly crappy. Constantly thirsty, sweating buckets -- barf. Recalling the apocryphal Einstein definition of insanity, I decided to change things up by shadowing Rob around the course for a loop, thinking that maybe he'd find leading as difficult as I had.</div>
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Well, he didn't -- dude was strong as an ox. I hung on desperately through mile 120, at the end of the third loop, at which point Amy had stopped by briefly before getting ready for the wedding she was attending. I immediately committed the cardinal sin of the hard-man ultracyclist by getting off of the bike completely, and I sat in the shade as I nursed a couple of cold bottles of liquid and downed some Fritos. She confirmed that the day was indeed brutally warm and muggy, and that it wasn't just me falling apart for no reason. </div>
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Remarkably, I was 6 hours into a 12-hour TT, and already my average speed was considerably slower than it had been for the full 12 hours in 2012. In fact, it was slower than it had been over 24 hours at the National 24-Hour a month ago. The course record was a fading dream, as was the overall win; Rob looked like he could do this all day (which, in fact, probably was just his plan). I mentally flicked the switch from "race" mode to "just go out and keep trucking" mode, and I managed to get myself around the 4th loop, but it wasn't pretty. John Nobile, who was racing in the 24-hour division, passed me when I dropped my chain on a short climb, and that blow to my dignity took on a physical manifestation when my hands suddenly began cramping whenever I tried to wrap them around my handlebars. As Sean Connery memorably put it, "our situation has not improved."</div>
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By the start of the 5th lap, at mile 162ish, I was riding for pride and not much else. Well, ok; I was also proceeding under the rationale that, if I wasn't acclimated to the heat heading into the race, at least there was a good way to start fixing that problem. Unfortunately -- or perhaps fortunately -- my bike put an end to proceedings shortly thereafter. I noticed that my rear tire was slowly deflating, but it wasn't completely flat. To change the tube, I had to deflate it, but I couldn't since: (i) the valve stem was deeply recessed inside my rim, and covered by a valve extension; (ii) I didn't have anything long enough to poke it to let the air out; and (iii) I couldn't unscrew the valve extension, as I couldn't squeeze it without my hands seizing up in cramps. I finally wrestled the tire off the rim using tire levers in ways God never intended, but when I inflated the new tube, the tire became unseated; it looked like I'd damaged the tire bead. Game over, dude.</div>
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After getting SAG'ed the few miles back to the start, the race director messed around with my tire and declared it wasn't going to hold up. He offered me a new wheel to keep going, but by then I'd been off the bike for an hour on top of my already dismal performance. I decided to cut my losses and make an appearance at the local wedding from which I was playing hooky in order to race. I wished my buddy Max the best -- he'd taken the enviable tac of hosing himself off and lying down before starting his last lap -- and that was that.</div>
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In all, I rode 165 miles in 8-something hours, with an average speed around 20 mph. Pretty dismal compared to what I'd hoped, but it happens. I'd been going from strength to strength in the ultracycling world this year, so this was a useful learning experience. Every now and then I apparently need a reminder that I sweat more than anyone else on Earth, and that drinking water needs to be a full-time job in the peak of summer.</div>
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Ah well, live and learn! Congrats to John Nobile on setting a 467-mile course record in the 24-hour race, which is a serious performance on any day, much less one like the one we had, and to Rob Morlock for showing me how it's done while cruising to victory in the 12-hour event.</div>
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I'm not sure whether I'll be back to Saratoga. It has a lot going for it in terms of location and friendly, low-key atmosphere, but I was disappointed in the number of major intersections with heavy car traffic on what's supposed to be a TT course -- something like 8 such intersections per loop. If I do another of these mid-summer events in a self-supported manner, I need to lower my expectations and prioritize hydration over competing when the two priorities conflict. That's a tough thing for me, since I tend to motivate myself in these events by pushing aggressively at every opportunity, but it's probably a lesson I need to internalize.</div>
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Thanks, as always, to Adirondack Ultracycling and John Ceceri for putting on a welcoming and well-run event.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06383376886256041817noreply@blogger.com0