Soul
A stupid mistake turned the Soul Race into the Soul Ride for me. Or rather I let the mistake switch me from race to ride mode, and of course the mistake was my fault anyway.
It had been an exhausting week of working on “Finding Trails” (paper for the competitive CVPR conference). The deadline and the race could not have been timed worse: Race = Oct 31st. Deadline = Nov 1st, midnight. I made a valiant effort to finish the paper before the Soul Ride, but I always knew it would never happen. It was hanging over my head as we drove to Oracle on Saturday.
Still, I was excited for the break from the keyboard and the world of frustrating computers. But was I ready to race 100 miles? Was I ready to put in a good performance? Probably not, but I was hoping my fitness would make up for lack of mental fortitude. All hope is unreasonable, so I suppose I shouldn’t feel too naive.
Thus begins the play-by-play from Scott’s saddle.
Garth lit things up immediately. He just wanted to “get away from everyone.” On the pavement this was unlikely, but it was a nice thought. A group formed behind him; I was 4 or 5 places back.
As we climbed Cody Loop road I let the gap ahead of me grow in complete refusal to exceed a certain level of effort. I knew the pavement was at an end, the benefits of drafting about to disappear. Sure enough, when we hit the singletrack I was right behind the lead group, waiting for them to push their bikes up easy switchbacks.
Hot heads and “racer boy” attitudes don’t lead to solid technical skills in a race like this, so nearly everyone was walking. My head was cool, but my body on fire. I had to stop to shed my jacket (idiot).
The descent from Oracle Ridge to Mammoth is always a mess. With the cover of darkness, it was even more interesting. Once again the hot heads get frustrated and everyone, I repeat, everyone gets lost somewhere. This is part of the challenge of the race, and one I look forward to. Despite the fact that the correct route was staring at me from the GPS 60CS on my handlebars I still took wrong turns and was never completely certain of where I was. It was quite fun.
I rode on and off with some guys in 3rd or 4th place, depending on what course decisions we made. The three of us were together when I made my stupid little mistake.
I had been taking the descent a bit too hot (perhaps hot-headed?). I know this because no one was catching me as they usually do. If anything I was going faster than the riders around me. I had a few moves of desperation coming into San Manuel, followed by even more “leaps of faith” into washes or other nasty spots towards Mammoth. My faith was strong, but as it always does, the voice of reason reared its head with a firm “sorry, the laws of physics say you are going down, boy.” Faith is hope in things that are unseen; what was unseen in this case was a nice plump cholla.
I picked myself up, felt OK, then realized I had cholla nodules hanging from my entire left side. One guy stopped and helped de-cactus my legs. I reinstalled my GPS and light battery. The light could not be reinstalled–plastic broke clean off. Well, this should be interesting. Oh, no: catcus nodules all along the SIDES of both of my tires. My immediate thought was that I’d have two flats before I made it to Mammoth. The second thought was “it’s over.”
I rode gingerly with one hand on the HID and another on my handlebars. Garth and another rider caught me at this point. I don’t know why other people didn’t.
It was all about mental fortitude now. I turned my head east to see the faint skyline of the Galiuro Mountains in the distance. El sol esta aqui. And with the rays of sunshine I saw some hope. I let go of my light and felt biting pain throughout my left hand. I could see well enough to roll without it.
There was nothing to do but keep going, into the mountains, up steep rocky roads. Tinker passed me with authority, standing on his pedals. He was riding at least a notch higher than I even have the ability to, but 20 minutes later I could still see him. I felt strong.
Garth appeared near the top. He was having his own difficulties, letting me pass on the downhill o’ death section.
Sadly, high speed descents put an end to my Slime’s ability to maintain pressure in my tires. Remember the cholla on the sides of my tires? I had forgotten by that point. Memory was served as I lost control of my front end at 25 mph. I probably could have pumped it back up for resealing and kept riding, but I hadn’t connected the high speed and effect of centrifugal force at the moment. I stopped to change and watched 3-4 riders come by.
50 miles into the race, regardless of your placing, you feel tired. Even Tinker feels tired. The obvious question presents itself: do I have the fortitude to keep suffering, to push my limits into the finish line? Often this question is answered not by how tired you are but by what is motivating you. The prime motivator, in most cases, is your place, or how you are doing. This is, at least for me, the main reason I do races: using others to push yourself to excel.
I rolled out with another rider for the dreaded River Road. We worked a bit together and it seemed too easy (where was the wind?). As I hopped back on after the hike-a-bike section I felt my rim hit a rock. 15 PSI was not going to cut it. I pumped it up but did not pump it enough, so it flatted before I reached Aid #4.
I could see Paula from far away. At least she made it to one aid station, and this was a good one. It was here that I needed to decide whether to suffer or not. She insisted on pumping up my tire, gave me gatorade and most importantly, encouragement. She said there was a big group of 100ers that had just left. Dejay and crew were not far ahead and I could easily catch them.
My transition was not exactly indy 500 fast. 1 minute away from the aid station I realized I didn’t have my pump. The likelihood of another flat was high enough that I turned around to get it. This was the turning point, the point where race switched to ride.
I still rode fast, just not what I could have. I likely could have caught that group even with my delays. A stronger, more serious racer would have bounced back from the crash, 2 flats and a paper hanging in the back of his mind. But that stronger racer is not me.
My comment upon reaching Aid #5: “That wasn’t so bad. A nice climb.” It is a nice climb.
Garth turned to me and told me for the second time that he was dropping out of the race. No you’re not. You’re following me and riding this one in. We’ll ride slow, I promise. The race is over, but the ride has only just begun.
So we rode. And there we were, two strong riders who think we are better than we actually are, conceding the race. Our sights were not on 4th or 5th place. We had let our collective mishaps put us out of the race and we were not where we wanted to be. And exactly why is it that we want to win this race (or at least make an attempt to ride near Tinker)? There’s no money, no prizes, and questionable bragging rights. Few are training seriously for 100 mile mountain bike races. It isn’t something that has much reward. Why is it that we ride? Why are we competitive? Why is it that despite the fact that we were well ahead of 98% of the field we felt like we had failed? Failed in what? We had given up because of a few flats and setbacks. But suppose we hadn’t, was it even worth the suffering then? These questions and more were bounced around, whether to ourselves or out loud. What exactly are we doing? We were only certain of one thing: 4th or 5th place was not worth suffering for, for us. So we didn’t.
We still kept some weight on the pedals, but not enough to cause any grief. The sun was shining bright, the air cool and fresh. It felt damn good.
So we rode out the rest of the ride together. Garth was unflinching, saying he wouldn’t finish without me since I stopped him from dropping out completely. It was nice ride together because we had a lot in common. Two riders who think they are better than they are, getting killed in a race they should be doing well in.
Some suffering did seep in on the AZ trail. Sharp switchbacks, steep climbs, tired shoulders and aching left side. On the pavement through Oracle the wind went right through us. I struggled just to keep on Garth’s wheel. The guy can push some big gears on the road and into the wind. The finish was a welcome but disappointing sight. Next year?!
101 miles
12,000 feet of climbing (?!)
8:57 moving time, 9:30 finish time
Tie for 7/8/9th? You’ve got me.
11/01
I did manage to collect some GPS data from 5 riders (besides myself) and the multi-track playback is very interesting. I’ll put together a page with the data and some stats/observations. Pretty cool.
My crash continued to haunt me throughout the next day. It was a long one spent pounding away on my computer, running tests, trying new prior functions, generating figures, tables, results. I had to stop twice to ICE my swelling knuckles. All I wanted to do all day was take a nap and give my aching hand a rest.
My head was heavy before I began. By midnight my ability to form coherent sentences failed. I didn’t even trust myself to proofread anymore. The paper made it in, but definitely worse for wear. I know I am definitely worse for wear. If a similar situation arises in the future this will not happen again. Either no race or no paper.
I am still feeling the effects of both back-to-back efforts. Recovery proceeds, if slowly.
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