Not a day for amateurs
After a solid week of checking the weather nine times a
day using the five apps on my phone as well as checking three websites, I
accepted that I was going to get rained on during the race and packed
accordingly. Deep in my heart I still
clung to the hope that it might be dry.
I left Seattle during a sunbreak and my spirits rose. As I headed south band after band of rain
pelted me.
I arrived in Hood River in time to pick up my
packet. There were lots of skinny guys
with sober expressions who milled about like they had arrived early for their
own execution. Indeed they had.
Even my hotel room was dark, which probably was for the
best in the end. The sound of the rain
hitting the roof and running down the gutters fueled my nightmares as I drifted
off to sleep. I am too old to be this
foolish.
In the morning the rain was still pounding, but
Accuweather said it would lighten up about start time. I started the day with some coffee and a bowl
of cold cereal and fruit. I dressed and
went off to meet my destiny.
Looking around there were many who seemed ill
prepared.
You can fight hypothermia for
about two hours, but not for five or more. I saw too many people who considered arm
warmers or a wind vest as enough protection for the day. Fully a third of all riders had no shoe
covers on. We were going off road in rural Oregon. This seemed like an intelligence test and
there would be some who would get failing grades.
About fifteen minutes before roll out, the rain stopped
and I was able to start with my rain jacket and rain pants rolled up and
stuffed into my wind vest’s pockets. Likewise I had rain gloves and a warm hat
in my jersey pockets.
The first few miles seemed essentially neutral and we
made our way as a long pack, with only a handful of riders dropping off the
back. Before long we were off the
pavement and the fun had begun.
Not raining yet....
The race promoter had warned us that the course would be
slow. As your wheels sink into the soft
surface to move forward they have to either climb on top of the mud, or push it
out of the way. The result is the
feeling, even on level ground, that you are constantly going uphill with the
commensurate effort required to keep moving. This would be a long day.
The ground was more than saturated and even though it
wasn’t raining the gravel/dirt/mud road required constant attention. Choosing the best line required a Zen-like
focus. Avoid the big rocks, avoid the
sharp rocks, look for the shallowest ruts (less sinking meant firmer soil),
avoid the deep puddles because who knows what sharp objects lurk below the
surface.
To make finding lines easier something in the soil made
the water a very light latte color which contrasted well with the dark
gravel. For the entire duration of the
ride one could see the tire tracks of the riders who had passed zig zagging
back and forth. Those weren’t riders
fighting for control, it was riders looking for a better line. Here? No. Here? No again. Here? This sucks…..
I had a seat post mounted Fender that kept me from
getting the brown stripe that signifies a lack of planning. I love that fender.
More than once it felt like someone had grabbed my rear
brake as I sunk deeper into the soft soil.
A few times my rear wheel spun out and slid sideways as I was charging
uphill.
Soon we settled into a rolling climb and I stopped and
took photos to capture what I was seeing.
The clouds hung low as we climbed higher and higher among the green
hills. My effort and speed did not
correlate. The soft surface was robbing
me of speed. Out of frustration at times
I stood up and powered up a short section only to see my HR climb to where I
did not want it to be. I still felt
fresh, but I tried to manage my effort.
This was a long day and I didn’t want to go too deep too early.
We had timing chips on our ankles which made it look as
though we were on house arrest. “Prisoners
of the Gorge,” I thought to myself.
As the climb kept going I unzipped and felt the weight of
my rain gear in my pockets. Was I
over-packed?
There was a short downhill and the greasy mud made for
some entertaining descending. A rider passed
me and went sideways in the mud as he misjudged a corner. The reward for a big climb is getting to rip the
downhill, but this day the downhills this day were stressful.
The first food stop was in a sloppy bog that reminded me
of Portland cyclocross at PIR. A cream
cheese consistency goop that behaved like quicksand. If you stood in one place more than a few
seconds you sank. I filled my bottles and grabbed a few calories and threw out
food wrappers. In that short time, I
started to get cold and was glad to get moving again on the remainder of the
climb.
As we climbed into the clouds the wind picked up and
pushed me sideways. There was no place
to hide from the wind. I kept thinking,
“The whole course can’t be uphill.” The
side wind added to the complexity of trying to ride the right lines. It had sprinkled off and on very lightly but
suddenly, two hours into the ride, the rain came in full force and effect.
I stopped and put on my rain jacket and pants as the rain
got harder. I stopped two minutes later
and put on my warm hat and rain gloves.
This was my Holocaust cloak. I
was wearing everything I had. The rain
was pounding me. I passed riders with bare legs and riders with jerseys, but no
jackets. They were cold and there was
eerie silence after I offered encouragement.
I pulled off my glasses as the rain made them useless. The
visor on my hat saved the day. This was
the monsoon I had feared and I hoped it would pass soon, or those who were
underdressed would be in a shitload of trouble.
The rain continued hard and while I was glad I had
reached the top of the climb, the next several miles were exposed to the
relentless wrath of wind driven rain. As
I watched the latte water spewing off my front wheel the wind drive it all over
my left lag and shoe cover. The brown
rivulets poured down my left leg. My
right leg and shoe cover were soaked by the rain directly from the sky so those
rivulets were clear.
Oh, this is going to SUCK!
The water rushing down the ditches by the side of the
road sounded like a truck approaching.
Ahead I saw a white patch next to the road. As I got closer I saw it was snow. Snow within spitting distance from me. This was a red letter day.
I was constantly trying to take a personal inventory and
be smart. Was my core warm? Were my
hands and feet okay? How long since I
had eaten and drank? I kept eating and
drinking. I knew I had to keep fueling
the fire or the Bonk would get me. When
I would pull a water bottle out of its cage it would make a horrible grinding
sound as the wet grit on the bottle
would scrape the carbon cage. Then the
nozzle was covered with mud. The problem
was, here in farmland, that mud could contain all kinds of stuff that could
make me sick. I would squirt the bottle
to clear the nozzle, then follow that with a spray into my mouth. Only after the bottle was back in its cage
would I notice the sand in my mouth. I
was doomed.
I checked my ride time and distance. Oh my God, I was going slow. I
wondered how long the short version of the ride might be. The rain showed no signs of letting up. It HAD to let up sooner or later.
On the next descent I felt more comfortable and went
faster. I slipped a few times but either
I was getting better at it, or the conditions were better, or I just didn’t
care anymore and was just letting it fly.
I saw someone get a flat. Three
of his friends stopped so they could all get really cold and miserable.
At the bottom of the long downhill the muddy road turned
into a paved road and I saw a five or so riders stopped on the left side of the
road under a cliff. As I approached I
realized there was a woman in the group who was hypothermic and the others were
huddled around her trying to get her warm in the cold, cold rain. The laws of physics made their task futile. There was nothing I could do for her. I looked away and rode on. I wasn’t too far from the next food stop and
I could send someone back with a vehicle to help her. Ten minutes later I spotted a rider and truck
heading back and felt a little better.
A few more corners and there were two men riding slowly
uphill. The one in back was weaving and
as I tried to give him encouragement he said he had cramps. His companion was also suffering because he
had to slow down and was losing the battle with hypothermia. “Dropping like flies,” I said to myself.
These grim encounters brought me to a dark place. I knew I wasn’t too far from the next rest
stop and there could be options to bail out or cut the ride short. I
wondered what it would look like if everyone had a gauge that displayed their
core temperatures as hypothermia was effecting everyone. I was far better off
than most.
By this time I was coated in mud and grit. If I had to wipe my nose, my gloves felt like
sandpaper on my face. I didn’t dare take
them off to take a photograph. I would
periodically check my brakes to see if the water had destroyed my organic
pads. I recalled the horror stories of
Cramps contemplating a foot drag on the final Ephrata descent as his pads were
toast.
I made it to the second food stop and doom was thick in
the air. There was a sag wagon loading
bikes into a trailer as broken riders, soaked to the bone, were climbing into
the vehicle. A few others ate and then
turned and followed the road sign back to The Dalles, abandoning the race.
I saw one rider finish his banana and head up the muddy
road continuing on the course. I figured
I was in way too deep to play the “good judgement” card now. I swung a leg over and headed up the muddy
road before logic got the best of me.
Soon the road turned and kicked up steeply. They said you could do this with a 34:28. I
used all of my 40 tooth cassette on the climb and passed a fellow fighting to
get a glove on his wet hand. At the top,
it turned out it wasn’t the top, and the climb just continued up a long
canyon.
I passed a couple riders and a couple riders passed
me. These were lonely times. I checked the elevation on my Garmin and
concluded it wasn’t reading correctly.
The climb grade was right in my wheelhouse. When the grade is three or four percent I can
ride forever, and ride it strong. In the
sloppy mud it felt like a constant twelve percent grade.
When I finally reached the top of the canyon I felt like
the only person in the event. I could
see a long way in front of me and a long way behind and there was nobody else
around. The road kept rolling up and
down and up and down.
Leaving the first food stop
Finally I turned and thought it would mark the beginning
of the downhill. Around a corner it
kicked up again. Now I was getting
cold. I thought that if I got a flat I
should just take a cyanide capsule and lay down and die rather than stop and
freeze to death fixing a flat tire. After
downloading my ride I would find that my Garmin registered a low temperature in
this section of 2 degrees C, or 37 degrees F.
After several more rollers the road finally pitched down
and about half way into the canyon my brakes started making a horrible
screeching. It was the sound of metal on
metal with sand in between. My braking
was poor, but not completely gone.
Survival mode.
The road started to flatten out and then we hit
pavement. Soon the rain washed the grit
from the front of me and I felt like I might just survive this day. I put
out some power and my legs didn’t complain.
These photos are out of sequence. I didn't have the guts to unzip my jacket
and take out my camera to take pictures after the rains got biblical....
My legs were tired after more than six hours of riding
but my adductors felt okay and my low back wasn’t burning. I amped up my power and still felt good. Aside from the cold, physically I was doing
very well. My efforts and core and
training volume seemed to be working.
The last few miles went by quickly, but not quick
enough. I finished and made my way to
WW2 and loaded up the bike and stripped the wet clothes off me. I was shivering as I finished getting my
street clothes on. I turned in my timing
ankle bracelet and got my finishers pint glass and patch.
The table that had the finisher’s glasses told the
story. Of the 125 who signed up for the
120k version, 70 did not finish or cut it short. I’m sure the other distances had similar
stories. The word epic is overused. That day was epic.
After some food I got in my car, turned up the heat and
headed for home. I was past Tacoma
before I was warm enough to take off my jacket.
They say poor judgment leads to great stories. Well, I
hope you enjoyed mine.
