A version of this article appeared in American Randonneur Magazine (Winter 2017)
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 Big Savage SR600k, 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.
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 Big Savagehad 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.
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 Big Savagethat read: “Not done here.”
By September 2017, two years later, I felt ready to even the score. In 2016, I’d cruised through the Lynn Kristiansen Memorial SR600kon 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 Cyclos Montagnards R60 honorees. With my wife overseas for a week, the scene was ripe for revenge served Savage.
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?
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 Big Savage. 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.
Mentally, I started the ride with an audacious goal: to ride Big Savage 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.
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.
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 Big Savagemay 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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Big Savage. 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!
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 Big Savage SR600k admits defeat only after a suitably mighty roar.
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 Big Savage SR600kis not for the faint-hearted, but it earns that highest of accolades: it’s utterly unforgettable.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Billy, me, and Georgi Stoychev of D.C. Randonneurs fame, heading out.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 steady 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.
Finishing up Loop 2.
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.
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.
Off we go to figure out what the short loops have in store.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Exiting the turn-around onto short loops. Photo credit to Andrea Matney.
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.
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.
Cruising in to finish a loop. Photo credit to Andrea Matney.
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.
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. ;-)
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.
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.
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.
Winner winner, Dorito dinner!
Cyclists in medal are wearier than they appear.
Looking back over my race, it's obviously the strongest ride I've ever had.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
This is my pet elevation profile. His name is Spike.
The Race Across Oregon 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.
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 Silver State 508, which I raced in 2014, is 10 miles shorter and "only" has 20,000 feet of climbing, i.e., 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.
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 wouldn't sign up for that in a heartbeat?
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 (Sebring and National 24-Hour), ridden a 200k, 300k, 400k with 18,000 feet of climbing, and SR600k, 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.
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.
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.
My pre-race serenity glare.
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.
Making sure my GPS wasn't going to guide me to Corsica.
Mick Walsh and Nigel Press, probably debating the best arm-sleeve color.
Everyone's feeling good about their chances of a top-10 finish.
So far, so good. But not very far.
Start to TS-1 (Almost Tygh Valley) 57 Miles; 5,275 feet of climbing
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
Outside: stoic. Inside: abject terror.
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.
Needless to say, the route did not take us to "Friend."
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.
This is what passes as an action shot in the ultracycling world.
A splash of coral and air of indignation... must be Damon.
Max managed to catch me hoofing up the climb with Mick in hot pursuit.
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.
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.
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.
Stage 2: Moro
48 miles; 3,300 feet of climbing
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.
A snake rancher, I think.
Parking opportunities on the route were... plentiful.
When we saw rushing rivers, we invariably went the way the water didn't.
Great roads, green rivers, good times.
Around that curve is the exact same view.
Max allegedly found a tree. I suspect Photoshop sorcery.
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.
Lisa Bliss, a female solo rider, takes on the Grass Valley climb.
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.
Skiing in July? Apparently so, on Mt. Hood. Not for us, though.
My drafting shot. Oh, relax -- there's no one in the stationary van.
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.
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.
A glorious solitude.
Just solitude. And chip seal.
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.
Stage 3: Condon 43 miles; 3,971 feet of climbing
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.
What this section did have was wheat and wind farms the likes of which I'd never seen.
Families of fan blades.
I tried to keep things in perspective.
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?
Things were getting strange.
Climbing in the aerobars, because I figured I should use them for something.
Mt. Hood recedes, but never disappears.
Eventually it became clear that this whole region was ruled by farmers and their rolling hills of golden wheat.
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.
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 zero 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.
I read somewhere that unzipping your jersey on a climb looks pro.
On the other hand, pairing a Zipp 808 with a shallow aluminum front wheel is not pro.
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.
Not my picture, but one identical to what I saw.
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!
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.
Stage 4: Almost Heppner
42.5 miles; 3,289 feet of climbing
By now things were getting toasty. Nothing I couldn't handle, and I still felt solid, but I took my first shot of Skratch Hyper Hydration, 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.
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.
Rollin' on the river. Just need a river.
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.
The crew waits for me to climb. That white speck is a van.
I've got it made in the shade, sort of.
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.
The turbines are still visible on the horizon.
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.
Perfect pavement, if flawless chip seal is your thing.
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 to, 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.
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!
Stage 5: Dale 60 miles, 4600 feet of climbing
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.
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.
Cattle grid, ahoy!
Those cattle must be as big as railroad cars.
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.
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 When the Doves Cry.
Central Oregon looks flat from 5,000 feet.
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.
Stage 6: Mt. Vernon 54 miles; 4,850 feet of climbing
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.
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.
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.
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!
Stage 7: Mitchell 61 miles; 3,100 feet of climbing
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.
Chasing a Canadian!
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!
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.
Me, to crew: "Is there any possibility that the top of this climb is nearby?"
Max, after ominous pause: "Um, it looks like about 14 more miles."
Me: "*$%!@!@#$"
Max: "But it looks like it isn't all this steep."
Me [thinking to self]: "Less steep -- great. Fine, Max, you have a bike in the car. Let's trade and you go ride it."
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.
Stage 8: Fossil 43 miles; 4300 feet of climbing
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.
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.e., 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!
On the other hand, this toughest stretch of the course also came at exactly the worst moment, i.e., 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."
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."
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.
Me, after 24 hours. Be glad you can't smell internet pictures.
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.
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.
Stage 9: Imperial River Company 68 miles; 5400 feet of climbing
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.
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.
Climbing toward Clarno, where there would be clarnage.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Stage 10: Finish 40 miles; 3,050 feet of climbing
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.
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.
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.
Max, Sam, and me; it looks like I'm starting my nap early!
Conclusions
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.
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.
Astonishingly, the one thing on my body that wasn't killing me was my feet. This spring I ordered a custom pair of D2 shoes with orthotic inserts, and they arrived a week or so before the race.
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.
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.
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.
