This year’s installment of the Tour of the White Mountains proved to be an interesting one. The race was a battle for me in many ways.
The biggest battle was against myself and my tendency to ride too much. This race was not one I was trying to ‘peak’ for (as the term goes), but one I was doing a) for fun and b) to build some faster endurance. Hammering Over the Lemmon, a solo 12 hour night race and the La Mesa de Oso loop all conspired to leave me in an energy deficient state. It was enough that despite eating obscene amounts of food and sucking down water all week, I could not recover from it. I knew the race was going to be a struggle.
Fortunately the overtraining is only physical, not mental. I could not wait to find myself ‘lost in the woods’ of the White Mountains once again. This time I was not sick, so I had no real excuse. Hurricane Javier promised to stir things up a bit. For an overtrained, sunburnt, headache stricken Tucsonan, the thought of racing 66 miles through trees, cold air, rain and mud was almost too good to be true. In short, I was excited.
I warmed up a bit, then lined up. The air was fresh, but surprisingly warm. I made no less than three rookie mistakes in my preparations. 1) no clear/red glasses. 2) no knee coverage. 3) didn’t fully tie my right shoelace. All three of these would come back to haunt me during the race.
They let us go. Rudi immediately gunned it. I followed, then after the turn passed him: “A bit of an uncharacteristic start for you, Rudi!”
My strategy was the fool hearty but confident one: get ahead of everyone and then ride my own race. This worked in 2001, but more recent years have seen quite a few riders not willing to let me disappear in the first few miles of the race. I dug my feet into the pedals on the first hill, but three or four riders remained.
The railroad grade has never been a place to out pace anyone, especially for me, and this year was even worse: a nice stiff head wind. One rider was absolutely glued to my wheel, completely unwilling to pass. I could not break free, but I knew that I had control of the race.
On the first short climb up Pat Mullen Mountain I was able to gap my wheel sucking friend. The gap held on the downhill only to be completely blown at the paved road. I asked the volunteers: “Any idea where the 66 goes?” “No–no idea, there’s no markings!” Last year I was leading (with a large group of riders on my wheel) and mistakenly followed the white arrow onto the wrong course. But there were no other arrows to follow–this year or last. I knew from last year that the white arrow was wrong and the only other option was the pavement. So after three riders caught me, I rolled hesitantly down the pavement until I saw a course marker.
Ok, now it was high time to burn up my legs and get a gap going. I kept the pace high, recovered a bit, then danced on my pedals through one of the nastiest sections. I couldn’t hear anyone behind me anymore. I made an attempt at recovery on the brief downhill, but my system refused. This is not normal. Ugh.
On the singletrack climb I once again had riders behind me. I kept it rolling, but was feeling like crap. On the downhill I let one rider go–he was downhilling with about twice as much skill (and energy) as I was. I gave chase for a few switchbacks, then resigned to chasing him later (up Billy Thompson creek).
This proved none-to-difficult because the rider was on a singlespeed. He climbed with some amazing strength, but I reeled him without much difficulty. My wheel sucking friend was also still along for the ride. However, it soon got delightfully technical. I heard a sound reminiscent of a “doh!” followed by silence behind me. This was the last I heard of 3rd place.
The singlespeeder in front of me was Jim from Colorado Springs. We proceeded to battle it out up Billy Thompson creek. I cheered him up a couple technical climbs, impressed by his skill with the one gear. He finally unclipped on a switch back and assumed I would give up as well. A short track stand, a friendly shout and some tricky maneuvering got me out unscathed and back in the lead. I pulled away on the next technical climb, then hammered out some flats to put a little breathing room between us. After hopping an open gate I looked back to see him nearly trip on it. What I saw was weakness–he was tired.
I was now where I wanted to be: alone, lost in the woods and leading the race. I love startling the volunteers, shouting out my number, then surprising them by thanking them for coming out to volunteer. The aid stations are always a highlight and a source of energy. I didn’t stop at any for food or water, but the energy is always welcome.
Being in the lead has other benefits as well. I startled a group of seven Elk, including one gigantic one, then chased them for the next half mile. I’d watch in amazement as they ran off to one side of the road. Then the course would wrap back in that direction and I would startle and send them bolting again. The thunder of hooves. Later I almost jumped out of my skin as a lone Elk bolted out of the woods not 10 feet in front of me. I also saw a pair of foxes as I climbed around Wishbone Mountain.
After 10 miles of this I knew that I would either walk away with the race without seeing anyone or that I was dealing with a serious competitor. Being able to focus on and reel in a break of this length is a sign of sheer mental strength–a strength I was not certain I could contend with today.
Sure enough, after the oh-so-very-sweet Wishbone Mountain downhill I heard a rider behind me. I had a real race on my hands.
I had long since abandoned any hopes of shattering the course record (I had hoped to be near or under five hours)–I’d say I gave up on that about midway up Blue Ridge. So now I was riding the race just to win, and wasn’t willing to do anything more than that. Jim was technically not in my category (Singlespeed, remember), but I am one of the biggest opponents of categories in general (be they ability, age, or “voluntarily disabled bike” categories)–so I was going for the overall win, and so was Jim.
So I was content to stay with him, knowing that our differing choices of gear would prove a significant advantage for me at the very end of the race.
Although I was riding in survival mode, I fed off the energy of the battle raging between the two of us. We rode very closely, but I would lose contact with him momentarily on extended downhills and he would similiarly lose time to me on any extended climbs.
I almost squeaked out a clean ascent of the Lake Mountain granny gear climb. Only that damned last pitch of loose soil sent my foot to the ground. It had not really rained yet, so I was not the beneficiary of any increased traction. The energy spent here, of course, was a complete and total waste. Jim was maybe 1 minute behind me, walking and recovering while I was on the nose of my saddle fighting for every bit of traction I could direct my rear tire to. It was stupid climber’s pride and the irresistible call of a challenge that kept me on my bike. If this race had anything more than bragging rights for winning (and I’m not even sure it has that), I might have taken the wise course of action: walking.
The battle raged until we were well into the 14 mile land of pioneers loop. Here things got ugly. After enjoying the clouds, cool temperatures and nice drizzle courtesy of Hurricane Javier, we met with a formidable foe: mud. The slick rocks and my mud covered tires sent me off the edge of a downhill 2-track corner. When I commented about my useless front tire Jim saw a weakness in me. On the next section of deeply rutted and ridiculously muddy dirt road he put everything he had into breaking away from me. It worked. I watched him pedal away as I sloshed my way through a mess of mud. Later I found that he had a better rear tire for mud. So he chose a very good time to go for a break.
I could do nothing about it at the moment since I was mid-bonk and struggling just to keep rolling through the mud. My lack of glasses (sunglasses were too dark and completely soaked) meant I was getting all kinds of crap in my eyes. This wouldn’t be so bad except that even before the mud I was on the verge of losing the contact out of my right eye (my vision is around 20-800). Now I had pieces of mud in between my eye and my contact. Even if I could stop I couldn’t have done anything about it with soaked and filthy gloves and hands. Where were my clear glasses when I needed them? While we’re at it, what other excuses can I come up with? Oh, yeah, my other mistakes. Our pace was high enough that I was never cold, but my knees screamed at me on occasion. I’d switch to riding with the other leg while the complaining knee settled down, but I was worried about long-term damage and cursed myself for not bringing anything to cover them.
Throughout the singletrack I knew we’d be holding a similar pace, so I kept it cool, waiting for my tires to clear themselves and trying not to make any mistakes. For a time I lost my focus and resigned myself to “1st place loser” — 2nd overall, but winner of my category.
But like a breath of fresh air we turned onto the main dirt road–the only smooth and fast one of the entire course. My entire upper body thanked me for the respite. I sat back, rode no hands and ate all of my remaining food. I had no idea where Jim was, and was having difficulty fighting off the doubts that ran throughout my head, but I dropped it into big ring anyway and pedaled down the road in a fury. After 10 minutes of this I saw no sign of him, but I did see Paula standing at the top of a hill. I sprinted up and asked, “how far?” “He’s right there!” was the answer. And she was correct: I could see Jim just down the hill. She yelled at the top of her lungs as I sprinted even faster.
It was a fast downhill–fast enough that I spun out in my hardest gear, but I still had to do some serious work to catch him. I’m not exactly the most aerodynamic rider on the planet. I hopped behind his wheel (my first draft of the race), then gunned it around him, giving him a thumbs up as I passed. But my adrenaline got the best of me: I was not looking ahead. 20 seconds after I passed him there was a hard right turn onto a lesser used road. Brakes, skidding, laughter at my stupidity. So much for my hard earned momentum.
“This is it” he says. It’s slow and technical enough that we ride together for a few turns, then I see that he’s starting to overrun his gearing. “I hate to do this to you, but…” I pedaled as hard as I could in my hardest gear, gaining a sizeable gap. But he was not letting up. I could still see him back there. I turned onto the main road into the ranch and finally could see no sign of him. I rolled in at 5:45–precisely the same time I ran in 2001.
I had mixed feelings about beating Jim simply because I had a derailleur and he did not. I shook his hand, thanked him for the battle, and admitted that we both knew who the better rider was, despite who won. However, I did not force him to ride a bike with only one gear. It was his choice, just as it was my choice to run tires and a braking system not well suited for mud (Jim had disc brakes). And in the end I crossed the line first.
Rudy finished third overall, crushing his best time on the course. Very impressive, indeed. He learned from his “24 hours of mud” experience in the UK, riding with perhaps the best mud rear tire of anyone.
When asked about losing to me, Jim told Rudy that they needed to get the gears off my Chameleon. Rudy responded, “yeah, and we need to get the freewheel off your bike.”
I did just enough to win the race–no less and no more. I suffered worse than any ride or race in recent memory. But it was suffering of quality. The race was a success in that I was able to push through the suffering, not give up in the mud and reel in Jim when all sensory inputs were telling me to give up. My knees are still aching, so the price for victory was a bit high. I’m now ever deeper into overtraining than before. It’s time for some serious rest.
The weekend outside of the race was perfect. We had a good group together at Jay’s place. The accommodations were once again first class and super cheap. Jay, Mark and Rudy cooked up some tasty food, and the laughter was running thick. Everyone in the house had a good time and a good race/ride. The relentless rain kept us from riding the ‘secret trails’ of Pinetop, but I think my knees are grateful for that. I can’t wait for next year.
This distance of race is starting to feel too short for me. I am certainly not trained for speed of this kind, and I don’t like having to ‘force’ downhills. The strain on my back, upper body and knees is perhaps a bit too much for my liking. I’m beginning to think longer races (with slightly more relaxed paces) are actually better for my feeble little body. This course is surely a great challenge and blast to ride, but I feel pretty damn beat up right now.
66.2 miles
4800 feet of climbing
5:45:55 — 13 seconds of which were spent not moving (no aid, but one pee break)
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