Soul

The Ride of Soul is over; it was an interesting one.

I am still estatic about it. I was able to finish the race riding strong and without knee problems. Contrast this with last year when I lined up to ride 100 miles of dirt without riding 100 miles (total) in the previous two months. Then, my knee gradually got worse and worse as I climbed the Haul road. I took a truck ride back down the Control Road, broken and limping.

This year I had two months to prepare. After backpacking all summer my knee(s) seemed solid. I took to riding apprehensively but with reckless enthusiasim. It went well until I got sick, did the White Mountains tour and remained sick for another week.

Three weeks from the event I destroyed myself at Mt. Graham. I am not sure if this was a good way to prepare for the 100 miler, but I certainly have no regrets.

We started as the sun peeked over the horizon, barely lighting the sky. The pack was hungry, riding fast through the cold air. I felt terrible riding this fast and surrounded by so many people. On a Cody Loop road downhill everyone stopped pedaling. Why pedal so hard only to coast? I shot around everyone, gaining a 100 yard lead. By the start of the singletrack everyone was behind me, but I had the lead.

I rode better than I expected, cleaning sections I thought were impossible. It looked like someone had done some maintenence out there. I avoided many dismounts, but there were hordes of riders walking behind me, easily keeping up. My goal was to avoid tensing up and walking because of people screwing up in front of me.

At last I flubbed on a tough spot and watched Tinker motor around me. I was impressed, to say the least. Not 50 feet later he was off walking his bike; I hit that spot and cleaned it. He’s good, but not invincible. He slowly pulled away, riding much faster than anyone else was capable of.

The descent through San Manuel to Mammoth was interesting and a challenge. My GPS of the course was still wrong, so I ended up questioning where we were and course markings could have been better. But this is part of the challenge of the race–finding your way through. The course was the same for everyone out there…

That is, the same for everyone except the first 15 or so 100 milers, who did not have the aid of an arrow placed by Hottie near the airport. As I rode down the wide dirt road I saw a group of 5 riders heading the other direction, lost. They asked if I knew where to go, which I didn’t, but I replied “I don’t care, but I’m getting to Mammoth somehow.” They eventually followed, then whistled at me as I took a wrong turn: they on the course after finding a precious marker.

Spirits were not high here. Getting lost, flailing around in the sand and tearing cat claw are probably not people’s idea of a fun ride. The guys around me were commenting negatively and wondering what they were doing. I was lucky, I suppose, that I knew what to expect. I was ready to laugh it all off. I knew that the race would be won and lost on the climbs, not here.

One guy commented, after a stupid wash crossing, “Man, I love mountain biking.” I asked how he was going to love it in 5 hours. He looked over, down, then didn’t respond.

As a result of luckily making this turn the six of us were now leading the race. Hottie missed me at aid station two due to her course marking effort, but all I needed was to shed some clothing.

I started the Galiuro climb well, but my stomach was in a knot. I had difficulty drinking water and putting down GU. My right leg started hurting badly and I wondered if I would be able to continue. I tanked down as much fluid as I could and was able to maintain a reasonable pace to the top.

Tinker passed me at some point. I asked what happened to him. “I got a little lost.” I replied that it looked like it got a lot lost. He said, “Yeah, I decided I just have to do this as a fun ride.” That, as he motored away, soon to take back the lead.

I knew Copper Creek canyon was beautiful, but I forgot to what degree. It’s like riding up Pima Canyon–huge sycamore trees and other trees whose names I don’t know. Some had even changed colors, a hint of fall. This, combined with dramatic cliffs and tall Saguaros makes for a very pleasant climb. It even gets technically difficult for a spot.

Near the top I was passed by Dejay on his singlespeed. Can I say that he is the King? I could not believe how hard he was climbing–I don’t care what bike he was riding.

The descent out of the Galiuros was murderous. My kidneys screamed for mercy. But on that downhill there’s only one choice, and that’s to keep riding. Going slower does not help, braking just kills your hands.

There is one nice break–Huge Saguaro hill. There are a few of the fattest, juiciest Saguaros I have ever seen. There was a guy at the top, drumming and cheering. I don’t know why, but seeing those Saguros, and remembering them from last year, I had a huge grin on my face. I think I was just happy to be climbing again after that downhill. He pulled out a camera and I laughed because I had a stupid grin on for the photo. This only made me smile wider.

As in 2002, I rolled into the 3rd aid station 30 seconds in front of Jason Spencer. I refueled and we headed out together to ride River Road. It was funny to be riding again with such an incredible rider. This guy smoked National Trail start to finish in an hour and a half–on a rigid singlespeed. He won the Squealer in 2002 and 2003.

I owe him big time for getting me through River Road and the flat part of the Haul Road. My stomach was getting worse and I was only getting more dehydrated. Because of our temporary partnership, we were able to keep the pace up and get through that section. The head wind was so fierce that it was almost painful, but I knew we’d have the wind at our backs for the steep part of the Haul Road.

I kept myself busy flicking rocks off the road. Then I spied a forty in the perfect place. I approached and it was one of those rare flicks where it floats up your wheel just before you flick. It launched well into the bushes. It made the race for me.
I struggled to stay with Spencer as the Haul road finally started to climb. We stopped for a second to use the facilities as I gave him a couple of gels from my camelbak. Back riding my stomach suddenly started feeling much better.

I grabbed my waterbottle and tanked it. I sucked a few gu’s out of my flask. Then I took gulpfuls of water from my camelbak.

In what seemed a flash, my legs were reborn. I realized that I was not hurting, or even close to drained. I felt like a million bucks.

I felt bad leaving Jason behind, but I felt too good to not push it a bit more. Last year it was he who pulled away from me, then I dropped out at the top. I hope we didn’t switch places exactly–I never did see him finish.

I saw Mark F near the top; it was great to see a familiar face. Surely, he is a hero of the race, volunteering and helping out in nearly every aspect.

I felt strong throughout the mind-bending Control Road climbs. I was nearly flattened by trucks three or four times, but that’s about par for course–on any given weekend out there.

I enjoyed the cool air, glancing at the Galiuros, seemingly in a different world, across the valley. I was happy to not be dodging thousands of grasshoppers like two weeks ago.

The AZ trail at the end was not my favorite part of the race–very slow going and impossible to maintain momentum. But, oh, it felt so good to be pulling uphill turns, feeling the strength still left in my legs.

I marveled at how much better I felt than three weeks ago, climbing Mt. Graham, completely dead to the world. I probably could have ridden harder at the end, but I did not see a reason to. I was just happy to be riding strong, feeling well, and each pedal stroke free of knee pain was a gift.

I rolled in at 9 hours plus change. Not five minutes later Rudy rolled in, taking 5th overall. Another heroic effort, again, regardless of choice of equipment.

My body is sore from the downhill abuse and all the rocks, but I can actually somewhat function. It took me two days to come out of my comatose state after Mt. Graham.

My GPS was not collecting a track log for the first hour of the race, so a complete track still eludes me. It was also shutting off periodically during the bone-jarring Galiuro descent. It still claims 11,000 feet of climbing and 98 miles, though.

For now, I need food badly. There is not enough food in this house to end this hunger.

Crimson concert tonight.