Bickett∙y

2010 Furnace Creek 508 - Rock Rabbit's Fixed Gear Report

2011-10-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t supposed to be so hard. After my struggles in the Hoodoo the month prior, I figured that the 508, even fixed, couldn’t be too bad. In the Hoodoo I had already dragged myself, unsupported, over a 10,000 foot pass in the middle of the night, vomiting, unable to hold down food or water. I had recovered, and found a raging headwind through the entirety of the “easy” mid section of the course. Then another massive climb to over 10,000 ft, and a final internal battle as I finished in the early hours of the morning, my grasp on reality beginning to succumb to extreme fatigue.

The 508 couldn’t be this bad the second time around: I would have the luxury of a crew, the climbs were mostly gentler and at lower elevation, and I knew the course. Having only one gear, and no aero equipment would slow me down, but perhaps also liberate me from the competitive pressure to push my pace beyond my abilities. I felt ready this time, with a (perhaps unfounded) confidence that this time I would do things right. I was wrong.

Death Valley, the desert, the 508 course, all demanded more respect than I had given them. I dragged myself to the finish, with the help and guidance of my crew, but yet again my knowledge and experience of the meaning of difficult, of epic, was recast. At the finish, I was again left trying to salvage feelings of accomplishment and satisfaction out of what was really only survival in the midst of a complete breakdown. The 508 and Hoodoo, both within about a month, both extraordinary sufferfests, left me utterly drained and exhausted. I wanted to write about my experience, but put it on the back burner, struggling with how I wanted to express it. I’m now finishing this report a year later, only days away from the following 508, and while some of the details have faded, the essence of the experience is still fresh and vital in my mind. I tried here to capture the kernels of memory that define this ride for me. My recollections center around my own experiences, from the narrow visibility of my saddle (and occasionally, the side of the road.) While they might not get enough mention below, my crew was an essential component of my success here, keeping me going through extremely difficult circumstances for everyone, all the way to the end. Thank you, Jordan, Anabelle, Bal!

Towne Pass. Mile 200. Dark.

Walking. 3 miles an hour. Ok, at least I’m still moving. My pedals periodically jam into my calves, punishing my awkward gait, kicking me for not being on the bike. A moonlit stroll. Brilliant stars. In the middle of an epic race. Surreal. Wrong.

The plummet had happened so suddenly. I was at the bottom of Towne, in the center of the pack, the middle of a procession of lights marking the road ahead and behind. I had recovered from my earlier slump, and thought I was feeling great. Here the route turned right and up toward the pass, then beyond to Death Valley. Riders were stopping here, steeling themselves for the climb. I pushed ahead, almost giddy to start climbing, to destroy Towne with my one gear. A mile up and my confidence was waning. My legs were empty, the distressed fibers barely firing, and willpower alone was hardly enough to torque the pedals around, one agonizing revolution every 3 seconds, up the 10% grade.

OK, stop, switch to running shoes. This section was going to be on foot. I had known this might be necessary. But not so soon. I could barely handle extended 10% grades on the fixie when fresh, but I was 200 miles in now, and in trouble. The change in position as I laced up my shoes churned my stomach. I tried to ignore it and jumped up, pushing my bike up the grade. I made it a few minutes, as all energy drained out of my legs. Stop again. The vomit came forcefully, and I retched pathetically, lying on a camping pad beside the road, struggling to will myself to get back up. Pitch black, moving painstakingly slowly. Various riders passed. For a second year, the race was passing me by on the slopes of Towne. This was a long climb, much longer on foot. I tried to convince myself it was ok, to keep upbeat. I was recovering, I would be able to spin down, and get stronger through the night, as I pushed on through Death Valley. Near the top, the climb is finally back to reasonable grades. Cycling shoes back on. Back on the bike. Eat a little. Pass by the top of Towne, not stopping this time. 5,000 feet down, legs like manic pistons, 300 miles to go.

Back on the bike near the top of Towne. Death Valley awaits.

Death Valley

The valley floor arrived none too soon. Bright reflective signs announce Stovepipe Wells, but the town was behind me before I notice it had passed. It felt warm. The moon was out. There was an eeriness to the night air. The wind was nothing like the maelstrom of the year before, but was still a nuisance, pushing against me as I battled my way south, around the curves and undulations of the tortured path out of the valley. And so the night progressed. The grinding monotony of my slow journey through the dark desert was only occasionally broken - a nosebleed in the dry air, catching and passing a few riders, a handful of crackers. A brief respite at the Furnace Creek time station, still almost 50 miles from the climb out, and back on the road. 2:30 AM is a tough time, the body begging for sleep, the muscles aching from the hours and miles before, the mind dulled and a bit dazed, the world slowly pulling away, quiet and black.

Death Valley - The Climb Out

The valley is long, and seems even longer. I knew the road too well to fool myself. My stomach was not happy. I had been taking in decent amounts of food, calories, fluids. But something wasn’t quite right. My legs were weak, and the going was slow. I passed a few riders, but it was a death march out of the valley. The previous year I was fighting my way south through ridiculously strong headwinds at single digit speeds. But I felt great then, tackling epic conditions with a newfound strength from recovering from a near DNF. This time it was different. I knew all too well what was ahead of me, and I didn’t feel particularly up for it. But I would need to suffer through it. Believing in the accomplishment instills meaning to the pain. I didn’t have energy for that, so I would just grind on.

Three hours of this unremarkable drudgery, and the sky was finally beginning to show some color. The sun was rising, but it wouldn’t peek over the towering mountains to the west for another few hours. Here at the base of the 3500 ft climb out of the valley, my souring stomach and growing fatigue became too much for me to overcome. I stopped, planning to sleep a little bit, and start fresh, recovered and ready to tackle the 200 odd miles left between me and Twentynine Palms. I stumbled forward as I dismounted, my legs absurdly sore, and as I sat down in the passenger seat, knew I was going to be sick. Painfully sick, in violent heaves. From the looks of it, most all of my chosen nutrition for my trip through Death Valley was staring back at me from the sandy shoulder. Great. Stomach exhausted and cramping, but finally rid of its aggravating contents. It had taken eight hours to drag myself and my fixed gear from this camping pad on the side of the road of the climb into Death Valley, to the same wretched position on the climb out of Death Valley. I closed my eyes. I must have gained a few minutes of precious sleep, in between sips of lemon water and muscle massage from Anabelle, and increasingly impatient urgings from Bal to get the hell up.

Dawn breaks in Death Valley. Get back on the bike.

After almost an hour, I began the slow and uneasy process of dragging myself to my feet, mounting my bike, and rolling again. The longer the stop, the more painful the start. My legs were wooden and my stomach fragile, but my morale was on the rise. The morning was here, it was time to ride. With a wonderful lemon honey and water mixture in my bottles, I embarked on the monster climb to higher ground. The climb up Jubilee and Salisberry Passes averages a mild 5%, but for 15 miles. And in my weakened state and high gearing, that meant a gruelingly slow cadence of 35, or almost 2 seconds per pedal revolution. I strained against the pedals, recruiting every enervated muscle fiber I could, in a tense struggle to keep moving. The difficulty of the climb brought me back into my element; I was a little happier with each painful, agonizingly slow mile. I felt once again what I had been missing since Towne...a reason to be doing this. Challenge. Overcoming it. Knocked down twice, reduced to puking on the ground, just to get up again, and push a stupidly big gear up this climb. Yes. I am doing this. I want to be doing this.

The Escape from Death Valley

The beginning - San Francisquito Canyon

Santa Clarita. 7 AM. The race is off with the usual casual banter at the start line, words by eventmaster Chris Kostman ( don’t think about the 500 miles ahead of you, the 30,000 feet of climbing, the wind, the heat...) and a police escort out of town.

We reach the left turn marking the end of the neutral section, the pleasantries are over, and we’re heading up. The race is now strictly no drafting, but just as last year, no one wants to separate. Annoying. I try to keep it easy, to stay alone, but am still swarmed by draggers on. At one of the steeper rises I foolishly take off, wasting energy in order to get some separation. My gap thankfully sticks. I try to keep it sensible from here on, focusing on smooth pedal strokes, standing up and torquing the pedals when the grade stiffens, sitting and spinning out the tension on the flatter sections. The first summit finally comes, marked by one last, painfully steep section. I clench my teeth and power up it.

Rolling over the top of a climb on a fixed gear is a different experience - gone is the relaxing, enjoyable descent of a geared bike, the chance to rest the legs, catch your breath, enjoy the speed. Instead, the ceaseless spinning of leg, wheel, and crank seamlessly shifts from the grind of the uphill to the crazed dance of the downhill. I had trained extensively on my fixie, and had managed to improve my fixed descents, and limit the toll of the extremely high forced cadences of 150+ on my body. But still, the fixed gear descents offer little recovery to a body weary from the previous climb.

Then the right turn onto Johnson Dr, and the first crew meetup - the road here is lined with support crew, all cheering, and passing by them all is exhilerating. My crew were waiting near the end of the line, with a fresh bottle and some fruit, and I grabbed them as I passed. 25 miles down. The route then dropped quickly off the ridge into the vast desolation that is the Mojave desert, where we would trace a giant horseshoe across the expanse of rock and sand. 483 miles to go.

The Mojave, Day 1

I can’t find a pace slow enough to calm my anxious body. My heart rate is too fast. I nervously think back to 2009. Is this slow motion downfall happening again? I can’t let it. With minimal effort on the pedals I try to ease myself through the desert. It’s interesting to be in the middle of all the riders. I convince myself that I’m in my own race, that it doesn’t matter I thought I was faster. But still, no matter how easy I go, I can’t stop my heart rate from beating too fast.

The beginning of the Windmill climb

This long daytime section into Trona is only a prelude. The true tests lie ahead. The desert is there, all around, a force pulling at you, weakening you for the trials that begin at Towne. It was doing just that. I was in survival mode, far too soon.

Struggling in the desert

I stopped turning the pedals for the first time at 130 miles. 15 minutes of rest and muscle massage. But the heart rate is still unsettled. The stomach, uneasy. There was only one thing to do. Deny the impending disaster. Keep going.

Panamint Valley, approaching Towne.

Into Baker

The road stretched far into the distance under the bright desert sun, mocking me. It was hot, nearing 100. It was windy, an oppressive and steady south wind, with occasional strong gusts. I toiled on in my slow cadence, and my gaze followed the road to the base of the mountains ahead, miles away. There it curved slightly to the left to skirt the terrain. It was 35 miles south to Baker, and the sun was high in the sky. I knew I had little hope of any reprieve from either the wind or the heat. It would been have been calmer and cooler earlier; only further punishment for my earlier difficulties.

Time, like the miles, ticked by at a lumbering pace. I was weak: from near no sleep, from well over 24 hours on the bike, from vomiting, first on Towne, then on the exit from Death Valley. From the ceaseless demands of my fixed gear, which never allows a moment’s break: the torque and strain of an overgeared uphill, the frantic spinning of an undergeared downhill, and the lack of flexibilty even on the flats. I was at 12 mph, cadence in the 50s, overheating. My confidence was flagging.

I had overcome my troubles on Towne, and pushed on through Death Valley, through the night and into the morning. I had another low before the large climbs of Jubilee and Salisberry, but I had fought through the pain and fatigue to muscle up the 15 mile climb. Now here I was, in a situation just as trying, but now I was weak, laid bare in my suffering. I had little left to give, and the prospect of what lay before me was despairing. At my speed, I had hours of this until Baker. I felt pathetic. I didn’t want this. Desire is absolutely essential at times like this, and I was losing it.

It was here that my crew pulled up alongside me. Anabelle handed a bottle out the window - I could hear the ice cubes clinking inside. “It’s ice water...pour it on yourself!” OK... I dumped half the bottle on my neck and back. It was heavenly. My core temp wavered a fraction, and I was jolted out of my negativity. I chewed on the remaining ice cubes in the bottle, downed the water and handed it back. More please.

So we progressed - into the raging wind, the nondescript desert scenery, the unforgiving sun. We had ice, water and gatorade. Just by looking, there was no hint of progress. The miles counted down on my Garmin agonizingly slowly. I tried not to look. I took the bottles handed me, emptied them, returned them. The crew cheered. We had found a rhythm; the physical task itself was little easier, but once again I wanted to be there, I felt like I was accomplishing something, like this difficulty meant something. And that made all the difference.

After hours of our routine the desolation finally gave way to a ramshackle collection of restaurants, gas stations, and budget motels around I-15. Baker. What a welcome sight. We had staved off the heat until now but I needed to cool down. I eyed the AMPM across the main drag. The entrance had two sets of sliding doors with an entryway in between where AC was blasting. I stumbled in and planted myself on the floor, the wonderfully frigid air wrapping around me. Almost giddy, I smiled to myself at what I had just accomplished. For the second year in a row, I was much, much slower than I had expected, performing nowhere near what I knew I was capable of. But still I had done something. The last three hours had been some of the hardest hours I had ever endured. And I was still here. I was going to finish. Regardless of my finish time, this would mean something. My desire was back.

As I was basking in the wondrous cool, letting my core temp fall, and readying myself for the remainder of my task, Willy “Long Eared Jerboa” Nevin came in and sat himself on the floor opposite me. It was great to see him at this point. The previous year, he had given me advice on my first 24 hour race. He was one of the many who had dropped out amid the windstorm of the ‘09 508, but was resolved this time. We were only 200k from the finish. I thought back a year. For me, without a question, this had been harder than 2009. I had worked for every mile this year. No aero gear. No coasting. No sensible gearing. I realized now how much a difference it made. The 15 minutes in the AC had left me feeling refreshed, ready to go. My crew had grabbed ice, water, frozen goodies, and we were rolling again. I dismissed the 380 miles in my legs, I was a new rider. From here on out, no problem?

Leaving Baker refreshed, on Kelbaker Road

Kelso Climb

Leaving Kelso

The second dusk was upon us. The air above Kelso was crisp, in the sky an intense sunset, framing the surrounding granite mountains and high desert in dark blues and bright oranges. There were thunderstorms in the distance behind us, but I had my eyes ahead. I was feeling almost drunk with fatigue. My legs were still below me, making slow, tense circles, but I felt detached from them - from the sensations of the climb, from their sore exhaustion. The crew ambled behind me, Bal never quite keeping a straight line, occasionally faltering into the dirt or falling too far back. Maybe I was setting the example. It didn’t matter. What a moment. We had already been through so much. Nothing was going to stop us from finishing. I motioned for them to pull aside me and gushed forth. “I love you guys. This is so awesome. Thank you so much. But I can feel that I’m losing it... just wanted to let you guys know. This may get difficult.”

The sun sets above Kelso. It gets harder.

And my world began to shrink as the day slipped away, limited to the rough pavement in the headlights, the side of the road, and whatever my mind filled in to the dark boundaries. As the grade stiffened, I filled in pine trees bordering the road, and I was riding in the Sierras. I wondered briefly how I got there before I startled back to reality. My perception of time was failing me - the climb seemed like it should have been over long ago. My crew had lost track of miles and didn’t know either. I tried counting - my gearing is 262 pedal revolutions per mile. One...two...three... at a cadence of 30, I realized this game wasn’t going to help. I relaxed and simply accepted the pace, not fighting my gear, or the mountain, but instead just gently rolling up it. And after ages we were at the top.

The crew needed to switch batteries on the amber lights, and I wolfed down some remaining fruit salad. We were soon back moving, tackling the 25 mile descent as fast as I could muster. After hours of too slow, my cadence was now far too fast, and I relaxed my legs and tried to let gravity fling them around in circles, squirming to get comfortable on my saddle, sneaking quick half-stands, shuffling my numbing hands on the bars. The interminable descent that is a welcome treat to all geared riders was a complete chore to me - but after many false hopes and misinterpreted light clusters, the real Amboy time station finally came into view. The staffers were cheerful, enthusiastic about the Hawaiian theme of the control, and lamented that we didn’t want to stay and chat. I was not in the mood for “getting lei’d” jokes...I downed the pineapple juice they handed me, and motioned to my crew that we needed to keep going. It was 9 pm and I should be finishing now. But, ashamedly, my job was far from done. The finish line, and my hotel room, were still 55 grueling miles in the distance.

To the Finish

Onwards to Amboy... The road was familiar to me, both from training and the previous 508, but I didn’t recognize it in the dark. I was falling again into an uneasy confusion, and was worried that I would miss the upcoming left turn. I passed the iconic Roy’s motel and cafe in the dark without noticing. I was too fatigued to realize anything but my confusion. My tenuous grip on consciousness was soon to be lost.

The turn came, and we crossed the railroad tracks onto Amboy Road - which would take us most of the remaining 50 miles to the finish. The two bright lights behind me were alien, sinister, following me with an unblinking stare and the faint purr of an undertaxed engine. The dark shrouded the sand, the mineral flats, the wastelands we were passing unseen, with an even deeper nothing. In this unbounded emptiness my mind began to unload all the doubts, anxieties, suffering, frustration, fatigue and emotion of the previous day and a half. But my pedals kept turning, in weary, unceasing circles.

Voices were talking at me in the darkness. The vehicle had come along side me. They were familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them. My very existence now seemed a mystery. What am I doing. How did I get here. It was terribly frustrating. I got my answers. Oh. Right, the 508. I need to finish. Twentynine Palms. Yeah. But wait. A minute later it was gone - a fleeting epiphany. The road was climbing now, I was torquing the pedals. Standing up. Moving very slowly. Am I on my right bike? The words came out of my mouth. My faceless companions next to me in the dark didn’t quite know how to answer. I had the foreboding feeling that something was wrong. I was in the middle of something huge that I didn’t understand, and I could be doing something wrong that would ruin it all. Something to do with my bike. It was special, it was different? I started a race, ages ago. I was here now riding in a quiet blackness. How does this make sense. I don’t understand what I’m doing.

My crew answered patiently. You’re on the right bike. It’s a fixed gear. You’re on the last major climb of the 508. Sheephole. Keep riding. You’ve been riding since yesterday morning. You’re going to finish. OK. Right. What's your totem?? Rock..Rabbit. That's right! Wait. No...what was I doing? But how did I get here? The answers weren’t sticking. But I was trying. I’m on my bike. You’re the crew. You’re in the car. I have to keep going this way. This would be repeated many times as I slowly made my way toward the finish. Cresting sheephole, down the last descent, up the painful last 20 miles of headwind and gentle uphill. I was detached from reality, but also from any suffering that may have been left in me. It was a dream, but too vague to be a nightmare. I kept moving, at a glacial pace. I had no conception of competition anymore. My memories are only of the brief flashes of recognition amidst the confusion: the left turn onto Utah Trails. The last right onto the highway. The appearance of lights. Businesses. Other cars. Twentynine Palms. Some final hills. The fluorescent arches of the Best Western. The end.

As I rolled onto the driveway of the Best Western and crossed the finish, the bright lights and handful of people cheering snapped me out of my madness. I was here. I was supposed to feel something. But I couldn’t - I knew now what was happening, but it was as if I was only observing. Why did the achievement seem so empty? My crew parked, got out, and ran over. I hugged Anabelle. We had made it. Chris Kostman was there with a jersey, a medal, and a camera. Pictures with my fixed gear. Pictures with my awesome crew. Then off to our motel room. Haggard, fatigued, and 15 pounds lighter than at the start line, a 42 hour eternity before, I collapsed into bed. I drifted into a deep, content sleep. I was done.

The crew that made it all possible. Jordan, Anabelle and Bal

2010 508 Webcast

Ride data on Strava - (Part 1)

Ride data on Strava - (Part 2)

Devil Mountain Double 2011

2011-05-16T20:25:00.000-07:00

Results

My Ride Data on Strava

I have history with the Devil Mountain Double. In 2009, after dragging myself over the 50 miles of Hamilton and Sierra with debilitating, excruciating leg cramps, I quit at Sunol, and ended up taking a trip to the hospital. In 2005 and 2006, I did reasonably well, finishing in 14:19 and then 13:10, but still had major difficulties on the crux climbs of Hamilton and Sierra. I knew I could do better. This year I came into the ride well prepared with distance - including an extremely windy Death Valley Double on the tandem, 3 400Ks, and 2 600Ks in the preceding 2 months. These long rides were just the training I needed to address my weaknesses. Physically, they helped train my stomach to keep processing at higher intensities, and develop the leg muscle endurance required to put out a baseline of power over long periods. They also sharpened me mentally; a 200 mile ride is not nearly as imposing as it once was - and the major climbs and difficulties along the way are much easier to simply take in stride and tackle as the come.

The terrain is extremely difficult, but perfect for a double - scenic, predominantly remote, few traffic lights or stop signs. Fremont in the East Bay was where I cut my cycling teeth - so the prominent DMD landmarks - Diablo, Hamilton, Sierra Road, Calaveras, Palomares, I knew very well, having ridden them countless times. Stringing them all together in one massive ride has always held a special significance to me, from back when I first started considering attempting these “double centuries”, marvelling at the idea that anyone could even accomplish it.

So it was an easy decision to drive up this year and give it another shot. I had some lingering knee pain from the OC 600k and Temecula 600k at the beginning of April, but this seemed to be mostly healed. Regrettably, nearly all of my recent training had been on the weekends - but I had made the most of them with a series of long brevets. Bal Singh, a friend from the UCSD cycling team, burgeoning ultracyclist, and 2010 Rock Rabbit 508 crew member would be coming as well, taking on the DMD as his first double.

After a very windy drive from San Diego to my parent’s house in Fremont, and a runin with a massive tumbleweed on I-5, we had an afternoon spin to open up the legs and fine tune the bike setup, and an early bedtime.

4 AM wakeup. Grabbed some bananas, and some coffee, we threw our bikes on the car, and headed to San Ramon. We checked in and were back at the car with plenty of time until the 6 AM start. Tires inflated, chain lubed, brakes not rubbing. Numbers pinned, sunscreen applied. There was a quick deliberation about what to wear - it would be windy and maybe dip into the 30s on the summit of Diablo, but would quickly warm up for the rest of the day. So knee warmers were out. Thin long fingered glove liners and arm warmers would be my only extras. A few minutes of cold was well worth not having to lug around extra clothing all day. There was time left for another trip to the bathroom, and then the start area.

The ride director Scott had us take a moment of silence to honor Jim Swarzman, who was killed in the Temecula 600k I had ridden just 3 weeks prior, and Tom Parkes, who had a heart attack on the backside of Hamilton on the 2010 DMD. I had been thinking about Jim quite a bit since the event - Jim’s death was such a terrible and senseless blow; the community lost a great man and cyclist. I had passed through on the same road just a few hours before. It was a sobering reminder of the dangers of our sport, and the need for everyone to be vigilant in the furtherance of cyclist’s rights, and to ride as safely as possible. It was a meaningful and somber moment.

Soon after we were off toward Mt. Diablo into the blustery early morning, at a slower pace than usual. There was a large (230+ rider), strong field, including Marc Moons and Robert Choi, who have been duking out the stage race in recent years, and Nathan Parks, a strong Cat 1 road racer, who along with Kevin Metcalfe had dropped me mercilessly as I struggled up the backside of Hamilton in ‘06. Also in the field were three fellow 2010 Hoodoo Voyagers: Rick Jacobson, Chris O’Keefe, and Russell Stevens, and some 508 veterans.

After the leisurely spin to the base of Diablo, I moved to the front so I could pick my way through the awful potholed road at the base, and we were soon headed up the slopes of the first 10 mi, 3,000 foot climb. Some riders surged ahead, but the pace predictably soon slowed to the tempo we would hold for the remainder of the climb, and I made myself comfortable near the front. It was a gorgeous morning as we gained altitude, with increasingly expansive views of the East Bay, clear blue sky, and a cool, gusting wind. I began to worry a bit about my wheel choice - I had a deep 808 on the front and a 404 on back, a reverse 606 (which I dubbed..the 606..) which people typically wouldn’t ride because of high side force on the front wheel. In clinchers, they were also fairly heavy, but I still thought it was a better idea than the few riders I saw pressing their luck with tubies. The wind grabbed and tugged at my wheels on the exposed sections, but it was manageable. I talked some with Curtis and Rick about the Hoodoo, the 508, Jim, but the climb was largely focused and silent. Before too long we were attacking the last ramp to the summit. Those of us in the front yelled our numbers to the staffers, pulled a U and headed down the mountain. We had climbed Diablo in a near identical pace to ‘09, a hair over an hour from the Athenian School, at a little under 4 W/kg. I felt good throughout the climb. The ride was looking good.

I had worried about being cold on the descent, and apparently it was indeed in the 30s at the top, but I didn’t notice that as I sped down the upper switchbacks. I realized I had not descended in windy conditions with these wheels, and I was having a hard time taking aggressive lines on the tight switchbacks. I could tell I was going slow. Bal passed me, and quickly gained, latching on to Marc ahead. Nathan passed me later on, along with a few others. I felt sluggish on the descent, but saw no reason to push my speed, knowing I would catch on by the bottom.

Sure enough, due to required slowdowns to pass 5 am riders also on the way down, the group came together before the bottom, and in a large group of maybe 15 or 20 we rolled through the streets of Walnut Creek and Clayton. It was a pleasant trip to the base of the next climb. The surrounding hills, verdant and lush from the recent rains, were framed in a warm glow from the morning sun as we rolled through. We hit mostly green lights for an easy trip to the right turn that marked the start of the stair stepped, rough road climb of Morgan Territories.

A Capo-kit clad rider had jumped to the front earlier to set pace. I didn’t catch his name, and only heard him mention that he was headed only to the next rest stop, and that he’d like to get a good workout in. No one objected to his pace-setting up front, and so we made our way over the shoulder of Diablo on the pothole strewn, narrow, tree-sheltered Morgan Territory Road. In ‘09 we had attacked the climb, shelling riders and wasting energy with an uneven pace. Having our buddy out front keeping us civil and sane slowed us down a few minutes, but saved some energy and stress on the body for the many taxing climbs ahead. We passed by the bulk of the 5 AM riders on this section, most wondering aloud cheerfully “Oh, is it the 6AM group? Hi!”
The road breaks through the forest onto a grassy hillside in a final series of steep ramps, and we hooked left into a dirt parking lot for the rest stop. I rolled in at the front of the pack, filled my bottles, grabbed some PB+J squares and fruit amidst the throng of riders, and headed back to the road. I saw Robert Choi just coming in, and began spinning toward the upcoming fast descent as I waited for the rest of our group. Nathan came, then Bal, and Marc. We started down the steep, fast descent known as “The Plunge” toward Livermore, 1500 feet below.

The winds were swirling and gusting, pushing at my deep wheels and threatening to throw my bike, and there were occasional cars and slower riders, so I took the narrow, corkscrewing, exposed descent cautiously. I found out later that a rider crashed on the descent and had to be taken to the hospital. No need to take such risks. Bal, Marc and Nathan passed me again on the descent; but I was just not feeling confident handling my deep wheels any faster. Bruno and Max Mehech, a father and son pair, attempted passing me somewhat recklessly on a curve, while I was slowing for a rider ahead. As I watched them pull away, I thought back to the reasons I quit USCF racing - I don’t like those kind of risks or challenges. At least I wasn’t descending this in a road race - so there was no reason to push my luck. I still managed to average near 35 mph for the 5 mile section, and caught quickly back on to the small group in the flat runoff.

It was then a small group of us, Bal, Nathan, Marc, Max, Bruno, and I, and we formed a rotating paceline to try to shelter ourselves from the strong head and cross winds on the way to the Altamont. As we battled our way eastward with quick short pulls, I’m sure none of us were wondering why the hilly landscape is so liberally peppered with windmills. In this section we were joined by Curtis from behind, and caught up to Alan, who had blown through the Morgan rest stop. At one point we joined the course of the Wente Road Race, being held simultaneously, but only came across a few stragglers, no pelotons. The wind was certainly more painful for the racers than for us. We also came across some groups of 5 AM riders, who made some valiant efforts to integrate to our paceline.

Before long the route turned back westward, the steep 1,000 ft Patterson Pass climb between us and the stop at the base of Mines Road. What had been a raging headwind in past years up the climb seemed to be a gentle tailwind on this morning, making the climb much more pleasant. The previous day Bal and I had driven the road at rush hour, and it was a harrowing death trap - a 1.5 lane commuting corridor with trucks barreling through at 60+ mph, with little regard for the oncoming traffic. It was a completely different story on this Saturday morning: an empty road and a cyclist’s paradise, with nothing to contend with but other riders and Patterson’s steep, inconsistent grades. I had been eating consistently, drinking well, and my stomach seemed to be handling the calories without complaint. But my legs had been feeling slightly dead all day. I wondered if I was coming down with something, whether I had some other serious issue brewing, or whether I was just being overly vigilant and worrying too much. The moderate pace we had settled on was working well for me. There was an intermediate water stop at the bottom of the last pitch, dubbed the “Oh-my-God Hill” - that Nathan, Bal, and Marc had stopped at. I was ok on water, and decided to simply spin easy up the climb, taking the extra few seconds for some active recovery. It was nice being able to ease up the climb at a leisurely pace, although you can only go so easy up 15%! Marc and Alan soon joined me. By the top of the climb our small crew had reassembled, minus the the son Bruno, who had earlier been complaining about the pace and had begun to have cramping issues.

Then came a fast descent and some easy flat miles to Mines, where I restocked on water, some soda, PB+J, and a few bananas. We were all in and out quickly. Mines Road begins with a long climb followed by a gradual upstream saunter through the remote valleys of the Hamilton Range, leading eventually in some 40 miles and 2500 vertical feet to the bottom of the brutal climb to the Hamilton summit. On my past DMD efforts, this was always where I began to unwind. The heat picks up here, and now with about 6 hours in the legs, the body begins to rebel against any lapse. Unsustainable pace, poor nutrition or hydration, insufficient training. This road seems to tear at any weakness, ripping it wide open.
We kept a civil pace up the main Mines Road climb. My knee was starting to hurt, but I focused on smoothing out my pedal stroke and it was manageable. We passed Steve Smead, who was toiling up the road on his fixie. His gear was somewhat lower than what I used for the 508, but these climbs were steep, the descents long, and needless to say I was not jealous of his equipment. Although I may someday want to try DMD fixed, I was quite happy at the time with my freehub and 39-27.

We passed mile 100 with a little less than 6 hours in the saddle, and the main climbing over, took to the false flats leading to the Junction at a good clip. The area’s unique ecology and climate is a haven for birders, who were perched on the side of the road in safari vests, cameras and binoculars at the ready. My legs weren’t feeling great, and I kept my pulls measured and even. Bal was starting to drag here and began to gatekeep. I finished a pull, looked back and merged in ahead of him, hoping he would be able to stick on. The other three were looking strong. In ‘09 it was here that my heart rate began rising for the effort, the first warning for the impending collapse on the slopes of Hamilton. This time my heart rate was looking ok, hanging at a high but reasonable 160. My stomach still felt good.

We hit the two half mile pitches that mark the end of the climbing before the Junction at a strong pace over 300W. I was happy at how little my legs complained. On the following descents, again I couldn’t hold the lines that Nathan carved, and ended up gapping Marc as well. I wasted some energy getting us back up to Nathan and Alan, once again feeling stupid for my wheel choice, and surprised at the difference in handling.
We rolled into the junction at about 6:35 elapsed, 10 minutes slower than ‘09, even though I had only spent a few minutes off the bike. Our pace this year had been sustainable for me, and I was feeling confident that I could remain strong for the remainder of the ride. I filled up water, got a Coke, grabbed some food, and used the porta-potty. Alan and I rolled out after a few minutes, with Marc soon following. It turns out Nathan had quietly left a bit earlier. I expected him to drop me on Hamilton, so I almost welcomed that, as I needed to set my own pace at this point. As Alan and I were spinning from the rest stop, we saw Bal headed rapidly toward us, backward on the course - he yelled that he had blown by the stop as he passed us. Bummer. Adding miles is the last thing you want to do on a ride like this.

Alan was surprised that I had driven all the way up from San Diego to ride the DMD. I mentioned how I loved riding in the area, coming back to my hometown. Driving to a ride like this seems a lot more worth it than a long journey to an office park crit in my collegiate racing days. He mentioned that at least someone was enjoying this, because it was really starting to hurt, and he was wondering why he did this. It was just a reminder to me how important keeping a positive mindset is in endurance riding - I do this because I love it - and as long as my fueling and nutrition is going well, it’s easy to stay happy. Alan dropped back as Marc caught up, and we talked a bit on the approach to Hamilton, where he stopped for a nature break at the top of a small climb. I told him I knew I’d see him later on. He said never be so sure, this is really just the beginning of the ride. I thought about that and fully agreed - the 120 miles and 12,000 feet of climbing to this point were really only a sort of prologue, the real separation of riders only began on the slopes ahead. For now I pushed that out of my mind and pressed on, enjoying the fast terrain leading to the base of the climb.

There are large mile markers on the road counting down to the summit, and right around the “7” the fun starts. A mile at 8%. I powered up it, trying to ward off my doubts, my worry at the climbing ahead. Then a brief twisting descent, a bridge river crossing, a mini rest stop (no need to stop here), and I was at the pièce de résistance, the 4 and a half miles of 9% to the top of Hamilton, 2,000 feet above. So quickly the imagined totality of the climb, the big numbers, the memories of bad times past, the fear of a meltdown, fade into the mundane reality of actually getting up the damn thing. The miles, the minutes, the pedal strokes, the world, everything in slow motion. I was crawling,3.5 W/kg, and struggling at that, 7 mph or less on the endless turns on the dry tree-lined hillside, no real visible landmarks to judge forward progress against.

As I slogged up the mountain, I was growing light headed. My legs felt empty and my power was dropping slowly. Nothing to do but concentrate, keep pushing the pedals around, just let the climb happen. Quackcyclist SAG extraordinaire George, who had been tailing our group for much of the day, pulled up alongside me. I didn’t really need anything but to get to the top, but I took some M+Ms and encouragement and got back to work. After 38 minutes of focused, concentrated, pained, effort, I reached the summit with great relief. I hadn’t smoked up the climb, but I hadn’t self destructed. And I had a long descent ahead. Bring it on.

So I attacked the slow, winding descent of the frontside of Hamiton, taking the curves as fast as I could. It still wasn't very fast. I’ve descended this mountain many times, but never gotten much enjoyment out of it. Many of the turns have no good line and poor pavement, it’s hard to get much speed, and the descent is broken up with pesky climbs. But it still offered a welcome respite to the rigors of all the earlier climbing. Midway down the descent, I looked back and Marc had caught back up. I was surprised it had taken him this long, but I let him take the lead and followed his line. We came together into Grant Park, 8 miles from the base, and started up the 1 and a half mile climb over the ridgeline to the last section of descent. Marc dropped his chain and I spun easy for a while, thinking he would be back up soon. After a few minutes, he hadn’t come, and I couldn’t see him behind. I kept going, feeling a bit bad, but sure that I would see him soon.

Soon the climb crested and the fastest, most enjoyable part of the descent led to the right turn onto Crothers Road. On the annoying, steep out and back to the home that serves as the rest stop, I saw Nathan headed back out, and we waved. He was at least 5 minutes ahead. Chapeau, I thought.. I would try, but with Sierra looming I didn’t see bringing him back. For those spending much time at the rest stops, the Crothers stop must be great. For me, the out and back was frustrating, and I much preferred the Grant Park stop location from the 2005 ride. I topped up my fluids, grabbed some food, and headed out just as Marc was arriving. There was one thing on my mind. Sierra Road.

Only 15 minutes later and I was at the base of the 3.5 mile, 9.5%, 1800 foot climb. I know the climb all too well; it has been a centerpiece training climb for me. The steep sections, many well above 10% for long periods, make it very difficult fresh, and simply masochistic after 155 tough miles. My best climb of the road was under 24 minutes. In the Tour of California, the top riders summit in under 19. But on this day, my expectation was more like 40. The one blessing of the ridiculously steep grades is that you as long as you are turning the pedals, you’re putting out decent power. And so I crawled up the familiar grades, speed in the 5s and 6s, not able to able to will my legs to push any harder. Although it was tough, it was comfortable, and I knew exactly where I was, and what I had in store, at all points. This made it far easier to me than Hamilton. I looked back often, surveying the ever expanding view of Silicon Valley, expecting to see Marc at any moment. About 2/3rds in, a flash of green, a beard, long hair, there he was. He passed me, and offered a “great climb.” “You’re a beast” I gasped. I used him as a carrot, trying not to let him shrink too much. And I watched him, a hundred yards ahead, as we toiled to the top. 33 glacial minutes and I was over, traversing the ridgeline, then at the “Pet the Goat” rest stop.

I filled up, grabbed some food, and left, knowing Marc would catch me on the descent. The ride was looking good; all I had to do now was hang on. After the fast, enjoyable descent down Felter Rd, Marc caught me on the steep and short “Calaveras Wall”. We made good time working together on the rollers around the reservoir. Then we traded pulls into Sunol. Marc, still looking as fresh as the morning, took more time than his share at the front. We spent around a minute at Sunol, filled our bottles, and got back on the road, ready to tackle the last 25 mile section and be done with it.

A quick jaunt on the high-traffic, unpleasant Niles Canyon Road, and we were at the penultimate climb of the day, the tame, tree-shaded, riverside climb of Palomares. The climb gains 1100 feet in just under 5 miles, and consists of a few steep sections interspersed with flats, making for the most mellow climb of the ride. Marc and I took it at an easy pace, whiling away the climb chatting about the usual: riding, training, life. And we were up and over, hammering the fast descent and runoff.

On the way through Castro Valley we came across the first series of stop lights in many miles. I was tempted to roll a red at a T intersection - as there was no intersection that broke the bike lane - but Marc asked that we stopped - adding that he never violated lights. I was impressed, and thought of Jim, and all the reminders of how important it is to always ride safely - and to display to other drivers and cyclists that following traffic laws is important, even in situations where it seems “ok”. Soon enough we were on our way and up Crow Canyon road, Marc hammering on the front, me hanging on.

It was only a few miles, but plenty long enough, on the busy, unremarkable Crow Canyon Rd before we came to the final test of the day, Norris Canyon, a steep, short, unwelcome climb over the ridgeline that lay between us and the finish in San Ramon. Marc, apparently unfazed by the 200 miles in his legs, attacked the slope and I followed, with great effort. This hurt. It was only a mile or so of climbing, but he slipped away as I awkwardly muscled my gear around, my head pounding, legs resisting. I had been riding hard since Sierra and was way behind on calories and fluids. Allowing lapses in hydration and fueling are a rookie mistake, but one that requires constant vigilance to avoid. After summiting Sierra I mentally relaxed, slipping on the intake regimen, but continuing to ride hard. Oops.

Marc held up until I caught him again, and mentioned “we rode this far together, we’re finishing together.” He could have dropped me on the climb, and put a minute or two into me by the end. The competition in doubles like this is unique, much more collegial and nowhere near as cutthroat as USCF racing. Sure enough he once again easily pulled away over the top, which finally arrived for me too, accompanied by a wave of relief, and I joined him on the descent as we hammered the remaining miles to the San Ramon Marriott. We finished in 12:18, a time I was very happy with. It had been a pleasure to ride with Marc, and although we came in together, he was clearly the stronger rider in the end. Nathan was the first to finish 15 minutes earlier, and I missed the chance to talk to him. I took some iced sparkling apple juice and went back to the car to change.

My head was reeling and my stomach was shocked by the cold fruit juice. I sat in the car with closed eyes for a few minutes, then retched the past few hours worth out of my stomach. I couldn’t believe it. Or maybe I could. Even on a strong finish, I was still having these issues. At this intensity, even a few hours of inattention could push me over the edge. Mental note taken. I can not let this happen during my long(er) rides. Just a few more bottles of water to balance out the calories and I suspect I would have been ok.

My parents had moved up their flight from Vegas to be able to see me at the end, but I had just beat them to San Ramon, perhaps faster than they expected. It was nice to see them, and I’m sure nicer to them that they weren’t taking me to the hospital as in ‘09. Despite a missed turn, a lost contact, and disturbingly little training, Bal finished in just under 13 hours, a superb showing for his first double. His first 300k and 400k had only been a few months earlier; Honey Badger will be a rider to watch in this year’s 508.

Overall I was very happy with my performance. I had maintained a high intensity, about 3.3 W/kg norm power throughout the entire ride. Although there were several points of difficulty (exactly where I expected), mentally I felt strong and within control at all times. Had I been going longer I would have moderated my effort, but this was perfect training. I ended up with only about 12 minutes of stopped time, which would be difficult to improve on. I would have needed to moderate my effort, especially in the latter hours had I been going long(er), but that is to be expected, and my intensity here was already significantly higher than the ‘09 508, where I performed well, apart from my disastrous meltdown on Towne Pass. My brevet riding earlier in the year paid large dividends here, and I look forward to the coming months of increasing training as I sharpen my distance riding for Hoodoo and the 508.

HOODOO 500 - Voyager Edition Race Report

2010-09-04T13:37:00.000-07:00

Pre-Ride

The Hoodoo 500 is insane. I was scared of this ride. While I had dreamed for years of doing the Furnace Creek 508, I knew that I should not do the Hoodoo. The 508’s centerpiece climb of Towne Pass is 200 miles in and tops out at 5000 feet. The monster Hoodoo climbs of Boulder Mountain and Cedar Breaks, climbing to 9,600 and 10,600 ft at miles 255 and 407, scoff at Towne. The Utah desert air manages to be even drier than the arid Mohave, and oxygen is of course rarer - nearly the whole ride is above 5,000 feet. But the terrain is beautiful, and the challenge is alluring, in a twisted, masochistic way.

Despite (or because of) all this I found I had a strong subconscious desire to do this ride... in one weekend at the end of July I went from toying with the idea of joining a team for Hoodoo to full commitment to the solo “voyager” edition: by far the hardest way to do the race. In over 30 starts in the first 3 years of the race, only 8 Voyagers had finished the ride, just 6 of those inside the 50 hour time cutoff. The voyager division is ultra distance stripped to the bone. You may have no crew to depend or crew car to retire to. You can use drop bags at 4 designated ,locations on the course, and limited use of hotel rooms at 3 of the checkpoints. This would be me, and me alone against the terrain, the elements, myself. It would be the perfect companion ride to my fixed gear 508 attempt in October, which strips away comforts and artifice in its own way: easy gears, aero gear, coasting.

I would not have much time to prepare - I had less than a month to figure out all the logistics, prepare all my gear, and get myself to the start in St. George. And then there was my doubt about my fitness...after getting hit by a car in May, I was off the bike through most of June due to head injury, then was able to ease into riding with rides up to a few hours. The Death Ride in mid-July (on my fixie!) with my dad was my first ride over 3 hours since the accident. It went well, but I had only been able to slowly ramp up my training, my eye on the 508 in October, which already would be cutting it close with preparation time. But the opportunity, and the challenge, was too tempting to turn down. I talked at length with Mike Sturgill, the current record holder at 42 hours, about the course, the gear, his experiences. I stocked up: wool base layer, jackets (I never wear them), booties, hand warmers and thick gloves, balaclava, dynamo hub and super-bright LED light. I studied the route, I planned my the range of my arrival times, I agonized over what to bring and how to pack my allotted 4 drop bags. I pored over the historical weather reports of weather stations around the route. I fretted about the increasingly ominous weather reports - ridges, troughs, convection, instability, “the first taste of fall”, “significant chance of thunderstorms”, lows in the 30s... My goal would be to finish by Sunday at nightfall - which would be 39 hours, around my 508 finishing time. I thought it should be no problem. I would be smart, I would pace, I would not let anything drastically wrong happen; averaging 13.2 mph should not pose an extraordinary difficulty.

And before I knew it, the end of August had arrived; it was time to extricate myself from an extremely busy work week, and drive to Utah. I had squeezed in a handful of 10+ hour rides over the past weekends, even tested out a long ride with a Camelbak, which as much as I hated to wear, I conceded would be a necessity given the sheer remoteness of the route. I left on the Thursday before the ride, driving through a sweltering Inland Empire (109 in Temecula), then intense lightning storms as a crossed Baker and the 508 course, intermittent downpours as I headed toward Vegas, and then nighttime temperatures of near 100 all the way to St George.

The next day held focused, nervous preparation. A 3 hour ride up and back the last section of the course in 100 degree heat. Pack all my drop bags. Final setup of the bike (commit to no aero bars, lube the chain, tweak the shifting, test the new dynamo light). Check in (crew, crew chief, crew vehicle, all spots taken by me and my bike). Talked a bit with Dave Holt (on his way to defend his 2009 solo victory), his wife Susan, and Vinnie Tortorich (a strong ultra rider himself, this year crewing for Dave). I ran into the boundlessly happy Michele Santilhano (fresh off a successful solo RAAM!) and Bill Osborn on my way to my room. They would be doing the 2x relay. Ah, how fun that sounded. I spoke to the Planet Ultra race organizers, Deb and Brian, who were chipper and very optimistic. This would be the year the dramatically low finishing rate of the Voyagers would change. Of course you’re going to finish! Uh huh. A mercifully quick and pleasant pre-race meeting, and I was off to my room to bed. Final check, deep breath, lights out.

The 9 Voyagers: (Left to Right) Rick Jacobson, Adam Bickett, Tim Carroll, Chris O'Keefe, Steve LaChaine, Sean Nealy, Jared Fisher, Joel Sothern

Section 1 : Saint George to Kanab

My eyes opened to a harsh red 4:23, a few minutes before my scheduled alarm. I had slept miraculously well, racking up over 7 hours of a luxury I would not taste again for many hours. Jumping out of bed, I did the usual slathering of sunscreen and chamois cream, kitted up, donned my Camelbak (ugh) , pumped my tires, filled my bottles, grabbed my bike and headed for the door.

The trip to the start line was easy enough : two flights of stairs and out the door. Deb was there, but no other riders, and just over 10 minutes to the start. The other Voyagers began to emerge, we chatted, introduced ourselves, took some pictures. Everyone was there except for last year’s winner (ex-Pro) Sean Nealy, who had opted to start with the solos at 7, and Joel Sothern, who had (barely) overslept. Everyone was smiles and jokes, but behind that was nerves and edge - this was the start of something big, with a host of uncertainties. This would be hard. I thought of the click click click ratcheting of a rollercoaster being dragged up the top of its drop. The anticipation was a good feeling. It was 5. Go.

5 AM Voyager Start

We rode the first few miles through the city of St George and its outskirts together, the race only starting as we hit the open highway. Russell Stevens took off from the gun. I didn’t see any point to doing that. i stayed mostly out of the wind, near the front. Steve “BoneDog” LaChaine and I chatted about our 508 experience from last year. He had called his race at Baker, after making it through the worst of the conditions. He was one of the early wave of riders to pass me as I struggled desperately on Towne Pass (the entire field would eventually pass me on that mountain). I thought of how vulnerable all ultra riders are in the depths of the inevitable emotional waves that begin to break as the ride wears on. You can’t do anything but ride these out. Harmful ideas can quickly take root - negativity can amplify, just the simple consideration of quitting can soon become irresistible. You and your ambition are laid bare. With a standard solo ultra race, your crew needs to understand this and help you sharpen your goal and overcome the challenges. When you’re alone, it can only be you. I felt like I had this down, as long as I was physically capable of continuing.

Before long we hit the end of the neutralized section. This was it, we were on our own. Jared Fisher, all smiles, pairing carbon wheels with long mountain biking shorts, surged ahead, mashing a bigger gear than me. I kept myself contained. The road was trending up, and I felt good. The dark of the early morning was a pleasant way to begin the ride. I passed Jared on a descent, and then headed through the city of Hurricane. The route heads East on 59 directly out of Hurricane, and this is where Joel Sothern came up to me. He had left around 5 minutes late, and apparently made it up in short order. He was on a mission. He attacked the steep bottom slopes of the climb out of Hurricane at a pace that was making me hurt. I watched him quickly shrink into the distance. Now I felt the burden of all my extra gear, my full Camelbak, the large bag on my seatpost. There was no way I would, or should, try to match his pace. Godspeed Joel. I knew he would crush the ride if he could hold that.

The sun snuck out as I crested the climb, throwing light on the impressive rock monoliths surrounding me. It was a gorgeous day already. I tried snapping a quick picture and video with my phone, knowing there was no way I could capture what I was experiencing. This ride was going to be awesome. 30 miles down.

Smooth roads, wide open expanses of desert shrubs and rocks, rolling terrain, slight tailwind. I motored along, keeping a watchful eye on my power and heart rate, sipping my fuel. A green highway sign announced “Apple Valley” - not bothering to declare its elevation or population, there was near nothing there. The rumble strips on the side of the road provided a diversion: I would ride on the left side until I got buzzed uncomfortably close by a large truck or bus, then would hop over to the shoulder side. Before long I would tire of the debris on the shoulder, and hop back on the left of the bumps.

It was a fast run to the Arizona border, and I crossed a state line on my bike for the first time. Welcome to the bustling border metropolis of Colorado City, home to a collection of trailers, ranches, and three sects of fundamentalist polygamist Mormons. Signs notified me that I was not much more than 100 miles from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. The rolling terrain was a pleasure to ride, red desert floor, covered with green scrub, impressive rock massifs to the North, wide open blue skies.

And I rode on, in great spirits, onward to the comically named hamlet of “Fredonia” - I thought of Duck Soup, the Marx Brothers comedy centering on the fictitious dictatorship of the same name. My thoughts wandered, observations, musings, nuggets of “wisdom” too trivial to remember, but enough to entertain me through the trip. Fredonia was a nice tree-lined town, and was for some reason swarming with Arizona State Troopers. I passed through the town as their patrol SUVs buzzed by. Just a few miles and a state line later, I arrived at the Kanab checkpoint, in time to see Joel Sothern hastily scoot off. I grabbed some Hammer drink powder and gels, some crackers and nilla wafers from my drop bag, filled all 132 ounces of my Camelbak and bottles (which I had just finished off), and set off for Bryce Canyon. 83 miles and 4500 feet of climbing down. 4 hours and 45 minutes; right on schedule.

Section 2 : Kanab to Bryce

It was a quick jaunt through the rest of the quaint country town of Kanab, in the midst of some kind of festival with horse-drawn buggies and fragrant food. The route now headed north over a series of gentle climbs, toward the higher country of Bryce and beyond. We were skirting around Zion National Park, through red rock canyons contrasting with dramatically white mountains. Every turn brought a new view, a fresh perspective. Truly magnificent land. I was settling down to a more endurance pace, taking the shallow grades conservatively. The climb profiles were remininiscent of the 508, mile after mile of 2%, but these were stacked on top of each other, each descent dropping much less than the climb that preceded it gained. The nondescript town announcing highway signs were back: Mt Carmel, Orderville, Glendale.. each coming and going with about as little fanfare as the sign.

The wind was steady at my back, allowing me to coast and recover at speed on the long gradual descents. The road signs gave mileage: 10 to Panguitch. We would turn off soon; and it would be well over 200 miles by the route we were taking. And coming from the north, I knew to expect a fight with the wind the whole way down. I put it out of my mind and got back to enjoying the moment. But I had twinges of fatigue, and could notice my mood was starting to shift. That meant something was amiss with my nutrition: I popped some endurolytes and sipped some of my drink. I would just have to ride this out. I was feeling more tired than I would have wanted...but I was 8 hours in, progressing to ever thinner air, and I had a long way to go.

Surfing the tailwind and my wavering emotions, I came to the turn on Highway 12 quickly, and ventured east into a gusty crosswind. This stretch of highway, which I would be traveling the length of, a 125 mile trek through Bryce Canyon, through the Grand Staircase, over Boulder Mountain at near 10,000 feet, and down to the town of Torrey, would test me. I was feeling weaker than I would have liked, but I was ready. Highway 12 is considered one of the most beautiful scenic drives in the US. What better way to experience it than on a bike?

It was one more climb, on the roadside Red Canyon bike path, through Bryce Canyon, and more red cliffs and ancient eroded rock forms... fins, pinnacles and ridges, the namesake hoodoos of the race. The path pitched up in fits, and I took them slowly, grinding a slow cadence and low power out of both necessity and a conscious effort to avoid overextending myself. I was beginning to feel the elevation more. The dry, windy air had been assaulting my airways, and my eyes were stinging as salty sweat ran into them. Stop dwelling on the negative Adam, you’re in beautiful country, having a great ride. I was keeping my heart rate low, at 150, but my power was lower than I would have expected, and it was making a minor climb take forever. Maybe I should have recognized something amiss, but I was trying hard to be positive.

My spirits were raised as I hit the end of the bike path and the Chevron in Bryce, which was where I was to call Deb to check in. I judged that I had enough water to get by without stopping; it wasn’t hot and I had 2 full 33 oz. the next section, until the checkpoint in Escalante, was an easy 48 miles, and 1700 feet lower than my current elevation at 7700 feet.

Section 3 - Bryce to Escalante

It was thankfully temperate; windy, but only a little warm, and I relished the long descent out of Bryce. The terrain opened up before me; gorgeous, truly living up to its “scenic byway” status. I navigated around out of state cars crawling at 10 mph, snapping pictures from inside. I pulled out my phone and snapped some myself. I was elated. What a ride. I was through the tiny towns of Tropic and Henrieville, trending up through the varied rock panorama.

A race official passed by me and took my picture. The course is so vast and empty, even brief contacts such as this provide a bit of comfort and grounding. And as happy as I was at that moment, I was unaware that I was walking a knife edge. The road turned up, winding around and through the twisted rock, up, up, up. It was a gentle climb but I was crawling. I wasn’t feeling great, and the recovery ride effort was taxing me more than I wanted. My breath was short in the thin air, my heart was beating with the effort. The grade increased as I climbed. The screw tightened. Take it easy, Adam. Ride with it. It's only you out here.

As the road kicked up in one section, I took a minute off the bike; my first stop since the Kanab drop point 5 hours before. When my heart rate dove down to reasonable rates, I climbed back on and mashed on. A glimmer of recognition of trouble flicked across my consciousness. I wouldn’t even desire to stop unless trouble was afoot. What was in store for me. I didn’t know. But I needed to be easy on my body. And worrying about it now would help nothing. Onward and upward.

Over another ridge, drop down, and hit the real slopes. The road was a serious grade now, 10% stretches. Ouch. I was climbing at half my threshold, but could do no more. I stopped again. Another minute. Breathe. Go. Another 5 minutes on, 1 min off. The visuals of the twisting steep road ahead was beating me psychologically. Get a hold of yourself... one more 2 minute stop, and in slow motion I attacked the last twisting rocketing steeps which dropped me on the summit. It was marked by a sign : 7630 Feet SUMMIT. They don’t even bother to name them in Utah.

And then a glorious drop into Escalante. Nothing to do but down. Gurgle. Something was up. I stopped and promptly puked. I hadn’t even been feeling nauseous. This was trouble. Flashbacks of my meltdown on the 508 came flooding back to me. No. I was doing everything right. I sipped some water and carefully chewed a few bites of banana. OK. Calm down in Escalante, and press on.

I finished the remainder of the descent into Escalante uneventfully, and chatted a bit with Brian at the checkpoint. I was second in behind Joel, but he had arrived and left a whole hour before me! His pace was ungodly. We wished him luck; either he was going to crash and burn, or completely destroy the rest of us. I was sitting at 203 miles, 11,000 ft of climbing and 11:45 ride time. I got out my drop bag, changed into my new clothes, threw myself on the bed and started chomping on ice, sipping water mixed with some Mountain Dew. I was going to confront this issue now. Take some time off the bike, let my stomach recover, and finish strong.

Jared Fisher and Russ Stevens came in close behind me, and were clearly feeling much better. They grabbed stuff out of their bags and were out quickly. The clock kept ticking. I couldn’t worry about that. Brian mentioned the race starts in Escalante. Always a good sign to be puking before the start. I called my dad, who had flown in to Vegas and had now made it to St George to see me at the finish. I let him know I had some problems, but it was under control. I thought I believed it.

An hour later I had sipped a good amount of fluids, and replenished my electrolytes. I packed up the warm stuff from my drop bag for the long, cold night ahead. Sean Nealy arrived as I was packing my gear. He had started 2 hours after me, but was still off Joel’s pace. He would quit before the next time station. I had spent well over an hour and a half at the stop. I headed out into the waning hours of the evening. I had an adventure ahead to get to.

Section 4: Escalante to Loa

I set out tentatively from Escalante. I didn’t know what to expect. About the climb ahead, which I had never ridden. About my body, which was clearly in distress, but was hopefully under control. About the weather, which was forecast to be perhaps the coldest weekend of the summer, with chance thunderstorms. But certainty is boring - the accomplishment depends on challenging the unknown. So I told myself.

The route east from Escalante is a pleasant warmup to the brutal climbs that lay ahead. The surrounding red rock formations were lit up with the setting sun, and I seemed to feel ok as I spun through the scenery up a gentle climb. It topped out with an expansive vista over a maze of formations. The road quickly dropped down among the rocks, a thrilling rollercoaster of twists and turns. A car stopped in the road in the middle of a blind turn halfway down provided some extra excitement - but it was indeed “stop your car” beautiful.. I wouldn’t need to worry, I’d have plenty of time to admire the sunset. As I hit the valley floor along the Escalante River, my stomach asserted itself. I was going to need to stop again. I parked my bike at the bottom of a steep kicker, took a step, and promptly watered the sandstone. That must have been everything I had taken in Escalante. My hour plus of work slowly sipping fluids, gone in a few seconds. Great. I sat on a rock slab and laughed to myself. What was I going to do now? I nibbled some banana and took a sip of water. I guess the only thing I could do was slowly start over. And keep going.

I closed my eyes for a few minutes and took some deep breaths. This was going to be a tough night. I thought of Towne Pass on the 508. There too, the sun was setting and my race was turning uglier by the minute. Nowhere to go from here but forward. It had already been 20 minutes when I picked myself up and began crawling up the steep climb. “The Hogback” as it is known; a jaunt up to the top of the ridge 1300 feet above, in about 8 miles. Apart from some shorter steep sections, it’s a pleasant enough climb. My tactic would be survival: my stomach was extremely sensitive now, so I would go as slow as I could stand to give it as little additional stress as possible.

The base of "The Hogback" and the beginning of my troubles...

It seemed to be working. At my glacial pace, my heart rate was 130, and my stomach was hanging on to the banana, and what little fluids I had sipped. An hour later, the sun had slipped below the horizon and I had made it to the top of the ridge. Things were going to be ok. I got off my bike and took out my warm jacket, balaclava, knee warmers, and long fingered gloves, and sat down to put them on. With the change of position, the all too familiar wave of nausea broke over me and again I heaved into the dirt what little I had consumed over the past hour. OK. This wasn’t going to be so easy to fix.

I lay on my side, curled in the fetal position, and planned my next move. It was now dark. I had to make it over a massive mountain. I couldn’t keep anything in my stomach. I tentatively sucked some water from my Camelbak anyway. Maybe some would stay down. I was parched. The air was drawing moisture out of me, and my stomach was giving up the rest. I closed my eyes again. It had to go away eventually. A few solos and their crew cars passed by. Most stopped and asked me if I was ok. Yeah. I’m fine. Just uh, trying to get my stomach back in order. No, I don’t need any help, thanks. Repeat, ad nauseum. Hah. I wasn’t in the mood for my own lame jokes. This was ridiculous. What was wrong with me? A few voyagers passed as well. One of them, Tim Carroll, stopped for a while. I explained my situation. He said I should just keep trying, lay down like that for a while, but get back on the bike soon. Yeah. He went on ahead.

There was too much traffic here for me to get any rest. Why was I stopped at the top of a climb anyway? I got up. Dusted myself off. Made sure I had all my gear. You have so much of it racing with no crew. The change in position prompted another series of heaves, mostly dry this time. Surprisingly, apart from the stomach, I didn’t feel that bad.

The descent down to Boulder was fast, and would have been fun on a clear mind. But it was a few easy miles anyway, and easy miles were hard to come by now. It was cooling off, but I could tell it wasn’t near as cold as the forecasts had predicted. Good thing. I had enough to deal with.

I tackled the climb with the same mindset: easy, steady, just keep the pedals turning. I’ve always had a hard time doing a real “recovery ride.” But nothing teaches you to go slow like a seriously upset stomach and 250 miles in the legs. I made it 20 minutes, and stopped. I needed more fluids. Getting off the bike again made me puke. OK. I still sipped some more water, and lay down on the dirt again. Tim rolled by again. He had spent a few minutes in Boulder filling his bottles. He kept going. I got up and followed the pace set by his blinking rear lights a few hundred yards up. His positive attitude as well as his figure in the distance was encouraging.

And the night wore on as I inched up the mountain. The full moon was up now, some wispy clouds, and a sky full of brilliant stars. I noticed all this, but was in no mood to enjoy it. I spent more time on the side of the road. I kept trying, and failing, to keep water down. But still, I could ride. I could make out the top of the birch tree lined ridgeline in the moonlight, and I knew I would eventually make it there. The climb would end. Tim was also having some difficulty, and we leapfrogged each other a few times. He stopped by me again near the top, offered more words of encouragement and pressed on. Relay teams were passing me now. It was late.

A quiet eternity later and I was on the ridgeline. A short false summit, a descent, and an easy last mile of climbing, and I was at the top. SUMMIT: 9600 feet. I snapped a picture, almost incredulous that I really had made it. I tried a few times but the sign kept reflecting the flash. What was I doing? I really was a mess. But hey, I actually dragged myself up here. Fresh, the 14 mile climb from Boulder may have taken a bit more than an hour. Tonight, it had taken 2 hours, with another hour on the side of the road. It was midnight. I had planned to be in Loa by now. A car with race officials cruised by. You sure you’re ok? They asked. Yea. They probably wondered why the hell I was stopped at the top of the climb. It was ok, I didn't know either. And I still couldn’t keep fluids down. They left. I started the descent.

But as ready as I was for an unbroken descent straight into Loa, that’s not what I got. There were 100 and 200 foot climbs peppered throughout the descent. I didn’t mentally prepare myself, and I was near the edge. Such things should seem minor after climbing thousands of feet, but they mattered. I stopped again at the base of a little kicker. The race officials were back, and this time they wanted to follow me down. I guess they were concerned about me. Understandable. I wasn't in the mood to talk, lying on the dirt on the side of the road. I made sure they knew I needed nothing, but said they could follow if they wanted. I grinded out the pesky hills, and swooped down the rest of the descent.

The town of Torrey is a few miles of false flat from the bottom of the descent. But I wasn’t mistaking it for flat - I was so weak I climbed the 1% grade as if it were 10%. There could have been a headwind, or not. I hadn’t kept down food for over 8 hours. Finally I rolled through the town of Torrey. I toyed with the idea of stopping. I was out of water. I had Perpetuem but my stomach wasn’t even taking water, so I didn’t try. But then I saw the red glow of a coke machine by a closed burger shop. In a wishful delusion I thought it would be a good idea to try and drink some coke. I dug and found some dollar bills in my bag. I fed one into the slot. Nothing. I tried to smooth it out, again. It sucked it in halfway, then back out. I tried again. No luck. I was getting pissed. The effort made me puke again. This was pathetic. I lay on the bench by the coke machine, looking at the wet splotch I had left on the concrete, lit up by the machine.

Eventually I convinced myself that I needed to get the remaining 15 miles to Loa. This bench, this temperamental coke machine, this shuttered town, they had nothing for me. There was a room in Loa, a change of clothes, a shower. I could sleep, recover, put this night behind me. I got back on my bike, draped myself over the handlebars and closed my eyes, trying to steel myself for the next effort. It was a slight uphill, and a bit of a headwind. It shouldn’t seem long after what I had just gotten through, but I had metered my mental effort based on the climb. I should have known better.

Michele Santilhano, then Tim Carroll (who had actually backtracked a few miles to find a dropped jacket) passed me while I was standing at the side of the road. I watched their lights blink as they moved into the distance, and finally got back rolling again, using their lights to motivate me. Surprisingly, I was starting to feel a little better, and I began to make up ground. I had my negativity in check, and the remaining miles to Loa, even with the slight uphill and the headwind, seemed doable again. My progress was raising my spirits - and really, I was amazed that I still was riding - weak but not in pain - with absolutely nothing in my system.

I caught up to Michele and chatted with her for a while - there is no drafting allowed in the race, but two riders may ride side by side for 15 minutes. She was a having a great ride, and her good cheer was somewhat contagious. As I vented some of my frustration with my stomach issues, she mentioned how she was puking for hours on her swim across English Channel, but overcame it. And that it was still early, there was plenty of time left for me to recover and have a great ride. I knew it, but being reminded of that helped me. I asked her about her successful RAAM this year - she said it went through without a hitch - no physical issues, no crew issues, it was a great ride. Amazing. Truly an incredible athlete.

And finally the lights of Loa were upon us, and the Snuggle Inn, checkpoint 4, was just ahead. It was a quaint country inn, and I set down my bike outside and eagerly headed toward the room for voyagers, imagining a nice warm bed, a shower, an opportunity to settle my stomach. I opened the door of the room to a different scene: Steve LaChaine and Chris O’Keefe were already in the one queen bed, stuff was strewn everywhere in the small room, there was no window, and the warm stuffy air smelled terrible.

It was after 3 AM and I plunked myself down between the wall and the bed, scrounging an extra blanket and pillow, and trying to make myself comfortable. I got some ice from the machine outside, mixed the ice with coke and water and started sipping. My only mission was to get my stomach settled. But sipping wasn’t doing it, I was desperately thirsty. I took a few gulps of my drink, then a few more. Aahh.. feeling guilty, I took a few more conservative sips, as if my stomach would forget my overindulgence. I lay down and shut my eyes, and it didn’t take long for me to start feeling sick again. I took a few deep breaths hoping it would pass, but no. I bolted up, saw the bathroom was in use, and made for the hall, getting out of the room just in time to spew my drink all over the (thankfully tiled) floor, then again outside. After some help in cleanup from the gracious volunteer manning the checkpoint, I took a shower, rinsed out my mouth, changed into fresh clothes from my drop bag, and tried once again to get some rest, giving up on my stomach for a while.

Although the room was nasty: five guys, jammed in a small space, in the middle of an extreme endurance event, and in various states of digestive distress, spirits were fairly high. Everyone was committed to finishing, and everyone (me included) was enjoying the ride to some degree. There was a bond between all of us arising from the extreme nature of our undertaken task...very few people would ever attempt such a race, and here we all were right in the middle of it, in a rare chance for comradery in an event that consists mostly of isolation and introspection. It was fun talking to everyone, but it wasn’t conducive to rest. I was committed to leaving, but only when I was well. Tim and Rick were feeling fine, and headed out around 5. I planned with Steve to leave after sunrise as the next section can get very cold, and I was still unsure about my stomach. Chris headed out by 6, and I got some more rest, chatting some more with Steve, sipping on fluids again, even gambling on some pretzel sticks staying down.

And finally it was morning, and time for me to leave. I had gotten maybe a few 10 minute sessions of sleep over my 4 hours in Loa, but more importantly, my stomach had conceded the fierce battle that it had waged since the previous afternoon. That was all that I needed. I gathered my stuff quickly, and headed out. Steve was going to stick around a while longer, but I needed to get back on the road. I had arrived at Escalante at 4:45 the previous afternoon, and was leaving Loa, only 83 miles further on the route, over 14 hours later. Only six hours of this time was spent riding.

Section 5: Loa to Panguitch

Judging by the profile, this section should have been a fast and easy interlude between the climbs to Loa and the monster climb to Cedar Breaks. The stage consisted only of a gentle 1,000 foot climb followed by 80 miles of flats into Panguitch. But I knew better than to expect tailwinds and free miles, and withheld any expectations of ease. As I toiled up the steep initial grades of the climb out of Loa, my weary legs ached in complaint. My muscles were tight, my stomach irritated from hours of vomiting, and I was still no where near properly hydrated. But, cliche or not, it was a new day, and the warm morning sun was lifting my mood, making me believe that this was a whole new ride as well.

It was longer than I expected, but the climb finally topped the ridge and gave way to a steep, fast descent to the valley floor. At the base of the descent, Trevor King and his crew were stopped on the side of the road. Trevor, only 20 years old, was doing well. His crew was applying his sunscreen, and I thought of how luxurious it is to have a crew handle everything for you. As it was, I hadn’t packed sunscreen to Loa (expecting to pass through in night), but I had gotten this far without help, and wasn’t about to ask for assistance (which also carries a time penalty). They mentioned something about wind coming up. I offered that it probably wouldn’t be too bad, and pressed on. As I made the left turn onto southbound 62, I immediately realized my uncharacteristic optimism was misplaced.

I was fighting to go 11 miles per hour on a slight descent. It might have only been “near-gale” on the Beaufort wind scale, but whatever it was I had 70 miles of SSW travel to Panguitch in a strong SSW wind. At this speed my estimate of 4 hours from here to Panguitch was going to be off by hours. I quickly got discouraged, and angry at the course. I already had relived the terrible stomach problems of my 2009 508. Now, just as in the 508, my recovery would be tested with a fierce wind on a traditionally easier section. But in the 508, the wind battle was at night, in Death Valley, with blowing scorpions, dust, and tumbleweeds. Then I was passing crew car after crew car of riders, defeated or waiting it out, with my own crew in tow for the ride. It felt epic, and I fed off that. But now, I was just tired, and in the bright flat sunlight the road stretched endlessly onward into the wind. And there was no one around. One mile of the headwind ticked by.

I was starting to unreel mentally. This was dangerous. I needed to get a hold of myself. I put down my head and watched the pavement for a while, clearing my mind as best I could. This wasn’t about the wind. This was an internal struggle. So I take a few hours longer to get to Panguitch. So what? This ride is two days long. Take a deep breath. Don’t dwell in the insignificant discomforts of the moment. Rise above them. The miles melt away, the day goes on. I almost laughed at my own platitudes as I was calming myself: I was something in between Tony Robbins and a zen monk. But it was in a meditative state that I was able to let go of the frustration of the wind, of focusing on the many slow miles still ahead, of the negativity of the moment. And eventually I lost the harmful self-awareness of the challenges I faced, and the simple joy of cycling slowly replaced it..

And so I made my way slowly southward through the windswept valley. The road rolled up and down, curved slightly, but never enough to give respite from the wind, which was now gusting over its steady baseline. After a long, painstakingly slow 30 miles in the wind Highway 62 finally curved westward, following the dry Sevier River up a canyon toward Highway 89, and offering shelter and calm air for a few precious miles. I knew that the left turn on Highway 89 would have me heading south yet again, and I fought the desire to cling to the blind hope that the wind would be gone in that valley. I could already feel the air swirling as I approached the turn. Yes, another 32 miles of brutal headwinds, this time trending uphill, all the way to Panguitch. How do I handle this? Fake bravado? Just how I like it. Bring it on.

Hours passed. The road sweeped through the town of Circleville, offering a break from the wind for a few minutes, and a tour of the Piute County seat, its most populous city at 505 residents. Ranch houses, road, and wind. The road now rose to Panguitch, the wind amplifying the effects of the slight grade. The wind was wearing chinks in my meditative armor. It was taking effort to rein in my negative thoughts, and I was tired. My mouth was dry. My eyes burned. I continued to battle the wind and my psyche all the way up the rise to Panguitch. I considered matter-of-factly that this was probably the hardest thing I had ever done. And it was far from done.

Traffic was increasing; it was midday now. I watched the cars pass me, cutting through the headwind without noticing. They must be getting terrible mileage, I consoled myself. A road sign read PANGUITCH 10 . I had been hoping it was closer. 10 miles is still almost an hour in this wind. I thought back 24 hours, when I was on the same road, heading north, 10 miles south of Panguitch. All that, and I’m still riding. The road then levelled for a final, exposed slog into the city. The town was visible in the distance, and I watched it hungrily, as it grew ever so gradually. A few miles out of town I caught a glimpse of three riders: and figured they must be Chris, Rick, and Tim. In the slow last few miles, I reeled them in. I rode alongside Chris for a few minutes, and he mentioned that Tim and Rick were considering quitting. No way, not after getting through that! He agreed. And finally, after 7 brutal hours in the wind, with great relief I pulled in to Panguitch’s own Color Country Inn.

Tim, Rick and Chris had ridden many of those tough miles with each other in sight. Always at a distance of course, as no drafting is allowed in the race, but I imagined there was a mental comfort in keeping others nearby. Staffer Tom Parkes eyed us mock-suspiciously, as we all arrived at the motel at 2:07 PM. It was a reunion from Loa, except for Steve, who was still on the road. I wondered if he would quit. That section was brutal. I sat down on the bed inside and realized I didn’t feel good. Looking around, it didn’t seem like anyone did. I nibbled on some food, filled my bottles, and changed my clothes again. I didn’t want to dwell on how I felt, but I was worried about the 4500 foot ascent that started right from Panguitch. Chris left. I took a few more minutes to collect myself, and was surprised when I saw an hour had almost passed from our arrival. I threw all my extra gear back in my drop bag. Tim and Rick would stay a bit longer, trying to digest the Arby’s they had somehow managed to get down. I grabbed some pretzels, nilla wafers, Hammer bars and gels, and hopped back on my bike. Time for a little climb.

Section 6 : Panguitch to Cedar City

The road shot up right from the edge of Panguitch. I was calm, if a bit nervous. This one last test, I told myself. Just get yourself to the top of this mountain. There were still over a hundred miles from the summit to the finish, and although they are mostly downhill, I imagined more punishing headwinds, other unforeseen difficulties. But for now, I just needed to keep the pedals moving, and chip away at this massive obstacle. I knew I would be on these slopes for a long time. It was 30 miles ahead and over 4,000 feet above to the summit, and here I was ambling along at 5 mph. But my stomach had settled once I got moving again, and although my power was anemic, my heart rate had relaxed to the 120s, a typical late-ultra beat for me, and I was good for the long haul.

The steep base of the climb gave way in a few miles to more tentative grades, making upward progress only in fits. After an hour the route topped a basin and circled Panguitch Lake, a pleasant resort community. I thought of lounging out on the lake, relaxing, soaking in the sun. But I had everything I needed and pressed on. A car passed, I noticed the motto on the Utah plate: "Life Elevated." No kidding. The wind was at my face, but it was manageable. The climb was frustratingly inconsistent, rise a few hundred feet, drop a hundred, repeat. But I knew well to let this go, let each hill pass, let each mile flow from before me to behind me. I was progressing up the mountain, and I was enjoying it now. Wide open grasslands, stands of aspens and pines, fresh mountain air.

The meandering middle section of the climb came to an end around 8500 feet, and with a renewed purpose and steeper grades the road began tackling the remaining 2000 feet. It was 2 and a half hours and just under 25 miles from Panguitch. I took a gel and some water, chewed on some pretzels. Had to keep the crew chief happy, he thinks I’m not getting enough calories and fluid. Wait, who? I don’t think I have a crew...oh...right, I’m just slightly losing my mind. My crew chief was me. But seriously, shouldn’t piss him off. Eat something. Take a drink. I shook the delusion; my tired mind was only bothering occasionally to weave together the threads of my consciousness.

I watched my legs trace labored circles. They looked small, my fatigued muscles twitched with the effort. The altitude, my weariness, the grades, the wind...for a host of reasons my speed was flirting with 5 mph - and I was below 50 rpm in my generous 39-28 gearing. My fixed gear training was paying off - this was a time I needed to maximize my torque at low cadences. How strange I thought - the crux of the ride, a near 5,000 foot climb at altitude, with 400 miles in the legs - and I was calm, relaxed, enjoying myself. I was letting the mountain and my body dictate the pace, and I was just along for the ride. It was a novel vantage point; most rides I would be attacking the terrain, but I had neither the desire nor likely the ability to do this now.

As the climb topped out it passed through a large grassy meadow. There was a sizable flock of sheep grazing on both sides, some crossing the road. The sun was low on the horizon, and I stopped to pull on my warm gloves, jacket, and balaclava as the sheep watched me warily. I could tell I was moving slowly even off the bike, as I fumbled with my clothes. It was already chilly, and I knew I would get colder as I descended. Another few steep ramps and I had reached the summit of the climb, and the entrance to Cedar Breaks National Monument. No time to stop and sightsee now, I wanted to get down this 5,000 foot descent before dark.

But the descent was still further ahead - there were some rollers on the ridge to contend with. I had been experiencing increasingly intense deja vu over this section. I had an unshakeable feeling that I had ridden this climb before, the scent of the trees, the rolling terrain, the thin air, I had definitely been here. Of course, I had never been there before and I knew it. My exhausted brain was misfiring, creating and then recognizing the same memories.

Well over 4 hours after leaving Panguitch, I was finally over the summit, past the rollers, and on a fast, effortless ride into Cedar City. The high speed westward descent had me staring straight into the setting sun, there was heavy traffic, my hands were half numb, and I was cold, but it was still a glorious 20 miles. Dusk had fallen as I rolled through Cedar City, and pulled in to the penultimate timetstation, a Chevron in the shadow of I-15.

Chris was coming out of the convenience store and ready to head out, as I parked my bike and stretched out my back. He was feeling good. He left to grab some food as I called Deb to check in. She offered the encouraging news that the winds had died down on the return leg to St. George. I hadn’t even let myself consider such a possibility, not wanting to risk the disappointment, but the news sure sounded good to my weary ears. I filled my bottles and grabbed some apple ring candies inside. The clerk looked me up and down, surely wondering what the hell I was doing out there. I smiled to myself as I left the store. He had no idea.

Section 7 : Cedar City to the Finish

And again I was rolling, 30 miles to Newcastle. Around 80 to the finish. I was invigorated. It was in the bag now. I needed some music. I threw on Crystal Castles - abnormal, exhilerating, ridiculous, dissociated experimental electronica- perfectly matching my skewed mental state. I got in my drops and headed west. staring at my spot of light in the sea of darkness. There were people running beside me, frolicking in my periphery, cheering me on. Kids, must be. Nice of them. Wait. They disappeared, of course, when I looked to the side. OK, brain, funny. I know they’re not there. I looked back at the road, and they returned, laughing at me. Alright, they could stay, they were all the support I was going to get.

My phantom entourage and I ventured further into the rabbit hole of my faltering consciousness. In a mild headwind, up and over a long climb then descent, finally reaching the sign announcing Newcastle. I passed through the sleeping town in a few blocks and back into the dark nothing. Bench Road. It was bumpy, more twisty than I expected. I was completely disoriented now. Just keep following the road. Some vicious sounding dogs chased after me. I’m pretty sure they were real, but I didn’t know.

The turn south onto Highway 18 came as a relief, and almost a surprise. I was so far out into nowhere I almost thought I couldn’t be on course. It was just a tired paranoia. There hadn’t even been any turns. Through the town of Enterprise, back into nothingness. One more climb. Then I was descending.

The brisk midnight air hit me and aroused a confused swirl of association to my waking dream. Fog in the dark to my right, blasts of cold air, like a sea breeze. Rolling terrain, heading home. It was reminiscent of riding along the coast, in my nascent cycling days back as an undergrad in Santa Cruz. Highway 1. How nice.

Wait a minute. What was I doing on the coast? Was I on course? I stopped, looked around. That doesn’t help, nothing really to see. I turned around and rode backwards. My Garmin beeped. Off course. OK that's not right. I pulled out the route sheet. 18 until a right on Snow Canyon. OK. I need to get to Snow Canyon. Where is that? Must be ahead. I turned back in the right direction and continued. More descents, more rollers. I was only tenuously convinced of my route, of what I was doing out this late. 1 AM? Didn’t I finish the Hoodoo already? No, I couldn’t have, Snow Canyon. You have to call in to the finish. I don't think I did that yet.

My brain was grabbing half finished thoughts, ideas, fears, jumbling them, stitching them together into a muddled consciousness. I tried to reach through the fog and clarify my purpose. Snow Canyon. You have to go there Adam. That’s all. Remember that. Pay attention. The GPS says 10 miles. Go that way. The numbers didn’t really mean anything to me at the time. But I got through those miles. And there was a sign, and a right turn. Snow Canyon. I stopped. What did I have to do? Call the finish.

As the phone rang, I worried that I was doing something wrong. I had finished and I was out riding meaninglessly. I was off course. I wasn’t really at the final checkpoint. But no, I was indeed at the final checkpoint, Snow Canyon, and I was waking up - the impact of where I was and what I was doing was finally sinking in, trumping my confusion. Deb answered and I kept it simple: I’m at Snow Canyon. Great! She said. We’ll be here when you come in. I couldn’t help it, I started blabbering on, something about my strange trip down the coast...as I realized my delusions I cut myself short...um...I’ll tell you about it when I come in. I called my dad, who was waiting in St George. Then I hopped on my bike. Awake. Aware. Ready to finish this thing.

I bombed the Snow Canyon descent, bunny hopping over the speed bumps at the top, relishing the twists and turns of the narrow road. And then I was out of the canyon, on the wide city streets leading into St George. I hammered the route with what was left of my muscles. Nothing to worry about now. What a feeling. I searched through the haze of my memory of the last 6 hours, trying to make sense of the experience. I gave up. It didn’t matter, up a hill to a final right turn, and a traffic light. I waited for the green, and could see the finish. And I was in the parking lot, and through the line. 2:34 AM.

Some pictures, some congratulations. A hug from my dad. It was great to see him. A chair. My dad, Deb and I chatted for a while. The gist: It was really hard. It was windy.And I finished. I was tired. We headed up to the room, I showered, and lay in bed. It was a big deal. I was done. But it was hard to process things at this point. I went to sleep.

OK dad, it's your turn now...

The event was so draining that I didn’t have it in me to feel strong emotions at the finish. But I couldn’t get the race out of my mind...and still can’t almost 2 weeks later. It was an incredible experience. The voyager edition was a remarkable challenge, and made for a completely different experience than a crewed race. It is a journey of introspection; you can learn a lot about yourself in such trying circumstances.

At the breakfast the next morning, the voyagers reconvened. I was happy to see that Steve, Chris, and Tim had all finished in the last hours. Rick pulled out after making it into Cedar City. That meant a staggering 7 out of 9 of the starting Voyagers finished - more than doubling the total finishers since the first Hoodoo in 2007. Even though the conditions were tough enough to cause all but 5 of the 13 solo crewed riders to quit, the ethic among us voyagers to finish was contagious. And it was unquestionably worth it. It was a great group of people to share such an epic adventure with.

Finishing Voyagers at the breakfast - Steve, Chris, Me, Russell, Jared, Joel (Tim was still sleeping)

My time of 45 hours was much slower than I expected, and I was disappointed and frustrated in the resurgence of the stomach issues that I suffered through in the 2009 508. My stomach issues cost me at least 8 hours between Escalante and Loa but even subtracting that, and assuming near no rest, I would have still been a few hours behind Joel Sothern’s smoking sub-35 hour time. Riding into the second night exposed me to the mental challenges of sleep deprivation - something I’m going to have to address for longer rides in the future (like...gulp..RAAM?).

As much as I would have liked to at times, I have no crew to thank.. But many thanks to Deb and Brian of Planet Ultra, and all the volunteers for the tireless work involved in putting on this exceptional, and exceptionally brutal event for a small group of crazy ultra riders. And thanks to my dad, who traveled all the way to Utah to watch me finish! Thanks also to Mike Sturgill who gave me lots of helpful advice as I was hastily putting together a race plan throughout August.

The Hoodoo course is unique. It is both beautiful, and punishingly difficult, more challenging than the 508 (especially in the voyager division!), and more spectacular. It is now a smaller and lesser known race than the 508, but it deserves to grow. I think it’s safe to say I’ll be back.

Hoodoo 500 Site

2010 Hoodoo 500 Results

Old Town 1000k - By The Numbers

2010-05-18T08:59:00.000-07:00

Loop 1

4:06 AM to 5:28 PM Friday

12:17 rolling time, 1:05 stopped time

16.5 mph rolling, 15.3 mph overall

Norm Power: 232

~ 8584 Calories Expended

Distance: 203.3
Climbing: 13,875 ft.

Avg HR: 140 bpm

Avg Cadence: 68

The challenging first loop was 204 miles and had 14,000 feet of climbing.

I managed to keep my heart rate below threshold for the entire duration, and as a result was able to continue processing fluids and calories without a hitch. It helped also that the latter half of the loop is predominantly downhill. Notice the lower power for the second half. This left me feeling great at the end of the first double. My cadence was low, and would remain so throughout the ride.

Loop 2

5:28 PM Friday to 1:48 PM Saturday

12:05 rolling time, 8:15 (!!) stopped time

16.2 mph rolling, 9.7 mph overall

Norm Power: 211

~ 7758 Calories Expended

Distance: 195.7

Climbing: 9,650 ft.

Avg HR: 126 bpm

Avg Cadence: 62

I started the second loop with almost 6 hours off the bike. I don't know how necessary this home nap/rest time was, but since I was going to be traveling unsupported I felt that it was the smart thing to do. I maintained consistent power, and kept the calories coming in. I had no problems staying awake over night, as I had slept over 4 hours in my downtime. My main problems in the night were the <40 degree temps, with strong winds, throughout the night.I spent another hour off the bike in Hemet, and had an additional hour for other brief stops and stop lights. My heart rate had settled at this point into the 120s, very low for me, but typical of my sustainable ultra pace.

Loop 3
1:48 PM Saturday to 3:35 AM Sunday

12:47 rolling time, 1:00 stopped time

17.1 mph rolling, 16.1 mph overall

Norm Power: 189

~ 7628 Calories Expended

Distance: 219.8

Climbing: 4634 ft.

Avg HR: 121 bpm

Avg Cadence: 61

This out and back along the coast has very little total climbing, but it is distributed mostly in pesky ups and downs through Orange County that, along with copious stop lights, rob speed and take extra energy. Despite my deteriorating mental and physical state through the latter half of the loop, I maintained very constant power, and very low heart rate. Though my power was significantly lower than the other loops, I find that as I tire it becomes much harder to pump out watts on flatter terrain, and I am happy with this as an "infinite" steady state. This explains my lack of stomach issues: I was relying very heavily on fat stores for energy, which is exactly what I wanted. I estimate I consumed less than 1500 calories on this whole section, while expending over 5 times that. Notice how much lower my speed (blue line) was for a relatively constant power: the return trip may not have been all uphill as it seemed, but there definitely was a headwind on the way back.

Overall

37:14 rolling time, 10:20 stopped time

16.6 mph rolling, 13 mph overall

Norm Power: 213

~ 23973 Calories Expended

Distance: 618.6

Climbing: 27,914 ft

Avg HR: 129 bpm

Avg Cadence: 65

What a ride. I proved to myself that for such events, a crew is not necessary, but makes a huge difference. I found that with proper nutrition and pacing, I am capable of settling into a steady state for very long periods of time. I would have liked to do this with much less than 10 hours of stopped time, but now I know that I was within my limits, I will be more comfortable to push this in the future. Although it is still years away, I feel more justified now in my dreams for solo RAAM.

Old Town 1000k Brevet - Ride Report

2010-05-14T17:50:00.000-07:00

Ride Results: here

Event web page: here

I blinked my stinging eyes hard. Opened wide. It was all still there.

The familiar downtown shops of Del Mar were now rendered sinister in the yellow moonlight, an empty ghost town. My pedal stroke was more square than circle, and I winced as each downstroke shot a fresh stab of pain through my left knee. My bike creaked in time. My chain faltered occasionally, clicking and complaining rhythmically, as if it too just wanted it all to be over. I busted over the crest of the hill, and graciously let gravity pull me toward Torrey Pines beach.

-----

Espresso. At 2:38.

It was at 2 am, over 2 days earlier, that I had woken up for this ride. I grabbed an espresso and headed toward the unlikely start location of the Mission Valley Resort, along highway 8 in San Diego. A group of five of us had decided to show up for the Old Town 1000km brevet, a completely unheralded, but insanely difficult challenge. Three of us had been in the previous year's 508. Then there was John, who had ridden to the 4 am start from over 100 miles away, and Kelly who was a brevet regular. A few quiet words from Dennis Stryker, the organizer, and we were off into the cool early morning air.

The five of us chatted as we ambled through Old Town, then downtown, as if out for a casual morning spin. I talked with Andi Ramer about the 508, and of our plans for the future. I asked the brevet regular Kelly what his sleep plans were, indicating I had no real idea what I was going to do. He had brought a blanket, he said, and was going to sleep under the stars. Luckily, the route passed by my home twice more during the ride. My sleeping was going to be in my bed.

The route was just over 1000 km long, spread over 3 loops. The first is a grand loop of the southwestern corner of the county, heading east through the hills and desert along the border to Jacumba, then up and over Laguna and back around to Ramona, through Julian, via the awesome Sunrise and Old Julian highways.

The second loop heads to Hemet and back, using Old Highway 395 as the centerpiece, and adding a loop on each end, the northern side including a significant rolling climb in the mountains surrounding Hemet.

The third loop is an out and back up the coast, all the way to Bellflower in the LA Basin. On paper, the loops decrease significantly in difficulty, but an extra 200 or 400 miles in the legs tends to skew your perceptions.

I found myself setting the pace at the front after a few miles of our leisurely start, and after crossing an overpass, looked back and saw I was alone. I hadn't meant to go solo so soon, but was now able to settle into a comfortable endurance pace. I cleared my mind, looking forward to the adventure ahead with a relaxed anticipation. Another 600 miles or so, no big deal. The route headed eastward on a bike path, then wound up and down through Chula Vista and Bonita, through nicer areas than I had imagined, but with more stop lights than I would have liked. The city riding was over before long, and the sun rose as I passed by the Otay Lakes, eastward bound through gorgeous rolling hills, toward the looming mountains above.

The road trended up, but gently, and I relished in the moment. It was a beautiful Friday morning and I was out on the bike, with nothing to do but ride. And ride. And ride. The traffic was light on highway 94, and the climbs were gentle but persistent, as I passed by ranch homes, rocky desert hillsides green from the recent rains, and charming "downtown" areas of the small ranch communities. Jamul, Dulzura, Potrero, Campo, all passed by quickly, each marked by a few homes, a gas station, a schoolhouse, a church, and a cafe or two. The surrouning arid landscape was striking: endless lines of rounded, boulder-speckled mountains in all directions, desert scrub, trees scattered about, giant blue sky.

I passed by the turn to La Posta Road, infamous as the beginning of the long climb of the Boulevard Road Race which I had helped put on, and raced, multiple times as member of the UCSD cycling club. My path now traced the Boulevard race route backward, climbing up toward the crest, and the town of Boulevard. The road curved around granitic hillsides and under towering railroad bridges, the border fence often in sight a few miles south. The ever present stream of border patrol vehicles was a constant reminder. I was still feeling good as I steadily climbed toward the Tecate Divide at an elevation of near 4,000 feet. I was getting my calories and fluids in, my stomach was processing, my power was pegged right where I wanted, and my heart rate was reasonable for the effort.

70 miles, 6000 feet of climbing, and a little over 4 and a half hours after starting, I crested the Tecate Divide, and began the descent into the deeper desert, to the small border outpost of Jacumba. It was a small town a stone's throw (even with my cyclist arms) from Mexico, squeezed between the border fence and I-8. There I met John, the only support I saw the whole ride, who kindly filled my bottles with ice and water, and signed my brevet card to indicate I made it to the first control. I filled all my bottles with Perpetuem, stuffed a few more gels in my pockets, and was on my way. These kinds of stops always take longer than you would expect when you need to do everything yourself. I also felt that my bike was awfully slow. I had a pack on the back, non-aero wheels, and 25mm tires...a far cry from my full on TT setup for the Davis 24 hour. Together with the large amount of climbing, this amounted to an overall average of around 15 mph, and a moving average of just under 16. I would have to be accustomed to a slower pace, and get used to the fact that I would not be able to blaze the remaining 540 miles. This was all just a part of the peculiar sport of randonneuring.

The border, from Jacumba

I headed back up the hill I had just descended, toward the Tecate Divide, leaving behind the border, and traveling north to Mount Laguna. I had about 5,000 feet of climbing ahead of me in the next 40 miles, but I felt good, and my spirits were high. The progress was slow, but I was falling into the zen state of ultra distance riding, just taking the progress as it comes, not obsessing about how much was left. My brevet companions passed heading the other way, on their way to Jacumba. I figured I was around an hour and a half ahead of them. It was nice to see them, it looked like we were all having a great day, and I thought how it must be easier to be traveling with a group on such a ride. But I was enjoying the solitude. The community of Boulevard passed, then Live Oak Springs, and I was again traveling on the Boulevard Road Race course, annually the site of the intense anaerobic suffering of a hilly road race, now an arena for an altogether different sort of venture. The rough patchwork road of the descent in this section was traffic-free, and I was able to pick my line through the holes and bumps. The road flattened out again, and I passed by Kitchen Creek Rd, a favorite climb of mine, featured in the Laguna Classic I had done a few weeks before. The road then crossed the PCT and began a steady climb of almost 3,000 feet to the Mount Laguna summit. I approached the climb calmly and steadily, maintaining even power and low heart rate, doing my best to keep my cadence up. Riding the fixed gear has encouraged my tendency to climb with a very slow cadence, getting out of the saddle frequently, and this is something that I wanted to counteract, to avoid causing too much stress to my legs on such a long event. It was well over an hour later, after traveling over 13 miles of 4-5% grades, that I finally reached the Laguna Summit, surrounded by forested slopes.

Some PCT thru-hikers were hanging out at the Laguna general store, at the beginning of their 2600 mile journey, and I jealously recommitted myself to the 4+ month trek from Mexico to Canada. Soon. It was ok for now, I was on my own adventure. I had traveled 200 km out of the 1000, already with over 11,000 feet of climbing. The terrain should be much more accommodating from here. It was already after noon: I had just under 8 hours of riding time, with a little under a half hour of stopped time. I filled up my bottles at a campground on the crest, and began the long, cruising, ridgeline descent of Sunrise Highway to Julian.

Enjoying the descent was made much more difficult by how cold it was. It was about 40 - but to a San Diegan dressed only in a base layer, jersey, wind vest, arm and knee warmers, and thin long fingered gloves, that might as well be 0. My fingers and toes progressed from a dull aching to a half numbed, throbbing pain. Next time, I'm bringing hand warmer packets. My fingers were useless. It was tough to shift. I needed to get to lower elevations. The Sunrise Highway was happy to oblige though, diving down along the ridgeline quickly, and I made it to Julian, and Control 2, within the hour, my appendages grateful for the warmer temperatures.

I bought some chips and skittles at the Julian Market, my first "real" food of the ride. I bought the (tasty!) junk in order to collect a receipt as proof of reaching the control, but absentmindedly forgot to request a receipt. I did text the organizer (texting would be my only contact with any race official for the remainder of the ride), and took a poorly framed picture of my bike next to the store. It was nice hanging out in Julian, but the time was passing all too quickly, and I hopped back on the bike for a section I have ridden many times before, the descent down busy highway 78 to Santa Yzabel, then down the wonderful ranchland backroad Old Julian Highway to Ramona.

A nice cruise on Old Julian Highway, down through countryside verdant from the recent rains, and I was passing through bustling downtown Ramona, at 15,000 the most populous city, and the first traffic lights, I'd seen for 140 miles. I shook out the legs, still feeling good. It was just another 40 miles to the finish of the loop, with just a few smaller climbs. Up and over Highway 67, through my normal training grounds in the lower San Diego foothills, covered with chaparral and round granite boulders. Through suburban Lakeside, with increasing commute traffic, and far too many stop signs and lights. Then it was on to the bike path alongside 52, which was a nasty little climb, right on the side of the freeway during commute time, the path completely covered with broken glass and debris. I wiped my tires as much as I could, and was amazed and relieved to make it up the 2 mile climb with no punctures. Then it was a quick shot around Qualcomm Stadium and through Fashion Valley, back to the Mission Valley Resort. It had been 13 and a half hours, 205 miles with over 14,000 feet of climbing. That would make one of the tougher double centuries on the California circuit, but I was far from done. Luckily I was in good shape: no major aches, pains, or cramps, my legs were only reasonably sore, and my stomach was still working. My hydration, judging from the amount of times I had to relieve myself, was also going very well. I slathered on some sunscreen at my car, and headed back to my place in La Jolla.

I had decided over the course of the first loop that I would take a sleep break at my house. I felt good enough, but who knows what another 12 hours would bring. So I rode the half mile off course to my place, took a shower, fixed myself a bagel and soup, had some fruit, drank a few large glasses of water, and went to bed at about 6:30. I woke up at around 11, and thought for a minute as to my plans. I needed to get out there. I kitted up with fresh clothes (what a luxury!), fixed myself some espresso and a bagel (another luxury!), and went down to prep my bike. I lubed the chain, pumped up the tires, adjusted my lights, switched to night lenses, refilled my Hammer supplements and fuel, debated with myself whether I really wanted to take a third bottle in my jersey again.. (I ended up taking it) and headed off into the night. As is always the case with time off the bike, it had taken too long, and it was almost midnight by the time I left the house.

The Velvet Underground kept me company as I ventured through the familiar roads of North County on a cool, quiet night below a full moon, hiding in thin cloud cover. Up through Rancho Santa Fe, over some rollers, then the long shallow climb up Del Dios to the reservoir. Climbing at night is still something novel to me; with less visual clues it becomes easier to withdraw into yourself, concentrating on nothing but keeping the pedals turning, the rhythm of your breaths, the tactile joy of the cool breeze on your face. I took pleasure in how good I was feeling. I had just finished a double, and I was out for at least another 24 hours. How could it be so easy? I thought of all the preparation and support surrounding an effort like RAAM, or like the previous crewed events I had done. I had none of that now, and the self-reliant edge that this brought to my ride was invigorating.

The route then skirted the edges of Escondido, to San Marcos and the loop's first control. I passed by an industrial area with trucks loading and departing, truckers starting journeys, making deliveries. I thought of our similarities, traveling solo through the night, nothing but the road ahead and a goal of miles to make. The clerk at the Circle-K (the control) eyed me up and down as he rang up my pretzels and fig newtons. You have a race today? Well, I'm in one now, actually... 250 miles down, 370 miles to go. He wished me luck, and I left as a drunk couple sloppily dropped a 24 pack onto the counter. Yup, 1:50 AM.

And then it was back into the night. I was still on roads I frequent: the spin up Twin Oaks Valley Rd to the rolling climb up Deer Creek Rd, over I-15, left on Champagne Blvd/Old Hwy 395. This would be the hilly frontage road that would take me all the way to Temecula. It's a beautiful ride in the daytime, up and down through the iconic granite spotted peaks of the area, but my world was now just the patch of lit pavement in front of me, and the sporadic middle of the night traffic on 15. I put away my music (it was the Pixies at the time, too aggressive for my mood) and relaxed into a sort of trance: I was still awake and alert, but calm and detached from everything but the rhythm of my cycling. The miles and the hills came and went, and I was descending into Rainbow and beyond to Temecula, still feeling fresh and unburdened, my mind not dwelling on all that still awaited me ahead. But I could not ignore how cold how I was: my sweat from the climbs worked all to well to freeze me on the descent into Temecula. My hands were numbing and my core was chilled. I blew into my long fingered gloves as if it made a difference, rubbed my arms, and thought of fireplaces and fleece blankets.

The cold and discomfort I was now feeling ripped me from my meditative state, leaving me too much in the moment. It was windy and freezing and I had about 30 miles and 2500 feet of climbing until Hemet. I was starting to feel sorry for myself. Pathetic. I tried to snap myself out of it, and force myself back into my detached ultra mindset. It doesn't work that way. Near the end of Temecula, there was a bank with a digital sign: 4:03 AM - 41 degrees. I laughed to myself, and dwelled on it as I kept going. It was almost two miles later until I realized something didn't seem right. I looked at my GPS. Off course. Great. I had been climbing for over a mile. I flipped around and rested in my aerobars, crusing back to the missed turn, which happened to be right at the sign. 4:22 AM - 40 degrees. Wonderful. Colder and later now.

And this was how I started the endless climb to the summit of the foothills high above Hemet. Headwinds and rolling climb for mile after mile. The terrain was packed with ranch houses, which seemed strange in such a desolate place. Vicious dogs barked as I passed. None came out to greet me, thankfully enough. I was still able to take in fluids, and except for the bitter cold, no doubt made worse by fatigue, and a stiffening right Achilles tendon, I was feeling good enough physically. My battle on this climb was a mental one. But I was winning - daydreams and emptiness were slowly replacing the obsessive mile-counting, the worry, the self-pity, the conscious suffering. And as the sky gradually brightened, and light began spilling onto the horizon, I tackled the final portion of the ascent to the ridgeline, and with a left turn onto Sage Road and a palpable sense of relief, I began the descent to the desert floor below. My fingers and toes were entirely numb and my teeth were chattering as I hurtled northward over the bumpy road. Perhaps no one had ever looked forward to arriving in Hemet as much as I did then. There must be a Starbucks there. Toasty inside, a comfortable chair, warm coffee, a breakfast sandwich, a break from the cruel elements. It was these thoughts that propelled my weary body through the next painful and windy miles, until the first main street of the city, which just happened to have a Starbucks on the corner. It was 6 AM. Hallelujah, they would be open, my vision was realized. I rolled up, ordered a coffee and breakfast sandwich, collapsed into a chair, and closed my eyes as my fingers, my toes, and my will to ride slowly pulsed back to life.

It was nearly an hour later before I was back on the bike - but the stop had done wonders. I was energized, refreshed, and relaxed, ready to pound out some more miles. The sun had already permeated the desert landscape, and it was significantly warmer out. I stopped by the official Denny's control. I was impressed that homeowners here actually realized they lived in a desert - and had rock landscapes or (tacky) artificial turf instead of actual lawns. The path south was flat and easy, heading through Inland Empire communities with too many stop lights. After some miles I rejoined the path out and retraced the route on Old Highway 395, this time toward Escondido. The series of climbs on this section of the route were enjoyable. It was warming up, and turning into a beautiful day. Lots of other cyclists were on the road, all heading the opposite direction, on an organized ride of some sort. I watched a group of beginner riders toiling up a minor climb, slowly moving up the hill with forced cadences, as I descended on the other side. That struggling to overcome unites all cyclists.

The remainder of the loop was fairly unremarkable. I kept in a solid endurance state, my body's only complaint was some Achilles tendon pain that I periodically deal with, but this was relatively minor. I kept the calories coming in, at around 150-200 an hour, and was hydrating fine. Before long I was traveling through downtown Escondido, again frustrated with lights, and then on to the very familiar Pomerado road and a windy, ugly tour of Miramar, Kearney Mesa, and Mission Valley. It was around 1 in the afternoon, and the loop had taken me about 13 hours. Even though I was feeling good, my miles were coming slower than my optimistic estimates. I kept having to remind myself I could not compare these 200 mile loops to supported double centuries. My bike was already slower, due to the extra gear, bag, and training wheels/tires, than what I would ride on a fast double. Adding to this all the time required to check in at the controls, stop for water, take care of nutrition, and rest (which unfortunately did prove necessary ), and I had to adjust my expectation of what a respectable speed is.

I stopped off briefly at my car. 400 miles in the bag. I had some goldfish crackers in the car that I happily scarfed down. For shorter, more intense events I try to keep almost exclusively to liquid nutrition, and I find that Hammer products work great for this. But on ultra events of this length, by the second half of the ride I am typically at a pace where I can handle solid food, and it provides a much needed break from all the high calorie fluids. I was off soon, heading around Mission Bay, I treated myself to a vanilla cone and an ice soda on the McDonald's on the way back. Refreshing.

As I scarfed down the cone, I got a kick from what I must look like: grimy from hundreds of miles of windy, dusty roads, bloodshot eyes, lycra-clad, soda in one hand, ice cream in the other. It was great. I got back on the bike.

The route for the 3rd loop crashed my Garmin, so I had no choice but to stop off at home to pick up the route sheet. In and out of the house, pumped up my tires, back on the road. Guess I'd have to navigate the old fashioned way - actually reading a route sheet. But it was just an "easy" out and back up the coast. I was headed to LA, starting a double century (218 miles, actually) at almost 3 PM. No problem.

I had made some plans to ride with friends as I headed north out of La Jolla, but I blew through, just wanting to be alone with my goal - a goal whose realization was now tangible, likely, even! And here I was, heading down Torrey Pines road as I have done hundreds of times before, all the coast-bound cycling riff-raff enjoying the beautiful Saturday afternoon. I'm often peaved with riders along the coast, especially the less experienced folks who are prowling trying to race anyone who might threaten their "domination." The typical pattern, if you must pass such riders, consists of either them latching on, without saying a word, or sprinting past, only to drastically slow, and start spinning and gasping for breath a few hundred yards up the road. This played out a few times, but I just ignored it, almost completely removed from my surroundings. Being in such a state on a race through nowhere, such as the 508, seems completely fitting: arid, endless desert environs match this ultra mindset well. Being in this dissociative state when in the middle of a cycling thoroughfare, like this section of the coast, is surreal.

As I cruised through all the familiar beach neighborhoods, the lights, traffic, and other riders reinforced why I prefer inland riding. But I had a tailwind, and the riding was easy. Near Encinitas I struck up conversation with a guy who seemed to be going about my pace. Turns out he was new to San Diego, and newly hired by Qualcomm. Although I was feeling somewhat antisocial, singlemindedly focused on finishing my ride, it was nice to meet another QC'er, and we chatted a bit as I showed him the route through to Pendleton, where he turned around.

I'm in a minority among cyclists for my preference to ride I-5 over the meandering route through Pendleton; I've always preferred the free tailwinds from passing cars, the direct, flat shot through to San Onofre, the avoidance of the hassle of showing ID and going through the gates. Today was no different. The shoulder was relatively debris-free, and I rocketed north, enjoying the afternoon. I reflected on how unexpected it was to still be enjoying myself, a day and a half after starting the ride.

The afternoon wore on as I made my way through the beach communities of Orange County. It was a gorgeous Saturday, and all of Orange County apparently had the idea of heading out to the beach. As I attacked the hilly, traffic riddled PCH from Dana Point northward, I had to dodge errant pedestrians, avoid pulling out parked cars and opening doors, and had to stop at numerous lights. As is all too typical when the riding starts getting tough, I noticed that I was watching my miles. Still over 50 to go, and counting down far too slowly for my tastes. I contrasted this section of PCH, traffic choked and dangerous, with Highway 1 of Central and Northern California, long glorious stretches of unspoiled coastline road. But I was getting through it: now Dana Point, now Laguna Beach...Newport Beach... It was still an enjoyable ride, but as my body was tiring my mental state was also declining, and I found myself drifting into negative thoughts...I longed for the open countryside, where it is much easier to just clear your mind and ride.

The bike path into LA

But the miles slowly ticked away, and I eventually came across the Los Angeles County line, and the "River" bike path I had been waiting for the sight of for hours. And I was finally off the PCH, alone on the path on top of an aquaduct culvert...en route to the last Control in Bellflower, my turnaround point. I watched my shadow, cast by the orange sun, low on the horizon, on the fences of the houses lining the path. I almost felt like I was finishing. Relief again flooded through me, as I made my way inland. There were a few confusing forks in the bike path, where the culverts split and then joined again. I was fairly sure I was on the right path. Miles later I pulled out my route sheet and realized something was wrong - having to backtrack a few miles. I hated this path. I hated this city. I ground out in anger the remaining miles, finally arriving at the AMPM in Bellflower as the sun set. OK. Time for junk food. Cracker Jacks and chips. Tasted great. I called my family, thought they must be worried, I hadn't talked to them since the day before. They were. Just 110 miles more. Isn't that dangerous, PCH at night? Yeah. I'll be careful. Good luck, stop at a motel if you have any doubt! Yeah.

I put on my wind vest and arm warmers, clipped in and headed out into the darkening dusk. Back on the bike path, I got confused within a few minutes. The dips, exits, and forked paths are much harder to identify at night, even with my bright light. I found myself taking the wrong direction on instinct several times, only realizing my mistake a little later. This was going to be a long night. I passed under dark overpasses, by sketchy people ambling along the path, mile after mile of bike path, watching the furthest lights, what must mark the coastline, grow slowly closer, dancing on the stagnating water at the bottom of the culvert.

Finally, I reached the last lines of lights I had been watching for the last 10 miles. I was near a dock area...this didn't seem right... this must be past the PCH. Seal Beach. OK. Again delayed, I backtracked to the PCH and headed south, anxious about the traffic, in the dark, on a weekend night. At least I was somehow wide awake, and didn't figure I had to worry about drifting to sleep on my bike, but heading back through all the beach communities, this time at night, had me worried. My left knee was starting to ache on each downstroke, my drivetrain was creaking loudly, I was starting to unravel mentally. I had thought earlier that the ride was almost too easy, and practically dared it to challenge me. Now I was getting all the challenge I could handle.

On a ride of this magnitude, it is easy to over-trivialize the distances you are traveling. What remained was only a small percentage of my total ride, I had ridden 850 km already...what was 150 km then? But the remainder was still a significant ride by any account, tougher still in the dark with a persistent headwind. The body is in a fragile state during such bouts of extreme endurance , regardless of how well things have been going, and the hours of riding that still remained before me were more than enough for everything to come crashing down. My physical and mental state was indeed eroding.

Crashing waves, dark highway, loud passing cars, a pained pedal stroke: this was my world for the next 7 hours. I tried to embrace everything, knowing I could do nothing to change it. My mind was wandering with a growing delirium, invoking grand storylines on my sad trek down the coast. This was Dante's Inferno, and I was on a voyage passing through the levels of hell manifest by each beach community. How many were there? I never read it. Newport Beach. Laguna Beach. Dana Point. San Clemente.... There were a lot. It was getting late, the traffic was dying down, slowly being replaced by taxi cabs and cop cars. I felt safer than I thought I would. My cadence was tortured, ugly, way too slow. I stood up frequently, struggling to find a better movement for my knee. The hills were relentless, robbing all momentum. I knew the miles were ticking by slowly, but I didn't look down to check, I needed to forget about that.

I did forget. I had made it through, into San Diego County, to a bike path and the entrance to San Onofre. I was once again alone, off the streets and away from the cars, into a blacker world. My mind started playing more tricks. The endless parking lots through the state beach are flat, but some demon had skewed it in the night, tilting it up. I swear I was climbing. I shook my head, looked again .. looked to each side, yes, it must be uphill. The yellow moon above, peeking through ominous clouds, reinforced the sinister nature of the night. The world had an evil tinge. I was battling my body and the terrain, and now also my brain chemistry. I watched lights in the distance, convinced they were other riders until they formed into buildings, signs, nothing. Delusions. No one else was out here.

I emerged much later from the bike path, and made the turn toward I-5, and what I was hoping would be a very quick freeway trip. Four or five police patrol cars greeted me, scrutinizing me with their spotlights. Hi. Yes, I'll just be going on the freeway now. The 8 mile stretch that followed is almost enjoyable during the day, but everything was different now. The debris littering the freeway was harder to see and avoid. The cars passed, fast and close, it was windy, the same trickster must have tilted this road up too, and the headwind was still in full force. The section lasted forever. I passed the rest area midway through, making my way through the dark lot with parked semis and minivans, the occupants napping peacefully. No rest for me until I was done with this damn thing. And back to the freeway, the lights of Oceanside taunting me in the distance. But I pulled them ever closer, pedal stroke by pedal stroke, mile after mile, until finally the "Bicycles Must Exit" sign, and escape.

Back in home territory now, I rolled past the marina area, the by the pier and beachfront, which has marked the start of RAAM for the past few years, and on towards Carlsbad. The street traffic was almost all patrol cars, and they shadowed me, shining their lights on me, I'm sure wondering what the hell I was doing out there. I was irritated. Get off me. Leave me alone with my suffering.

A section of the southbound coast highway around Carlsbad is closed, and I was planning on riding on the other side of the road for the brief stretch, as no one was on it. But the cops had set up a blockade, forcing me to go the detour route. The curvy route, with some ups and downs, convinced me I was going miles out of the way. From the map, it looks like it barely added any distance, but I was angry. At this point, I didn't want to travel an extra foot.

Back to the coast, and more grinding, struggling to get comfortable. My butt was sore (I notice this now, after almost 600 miles?), my knee was getting worse, my head was swimming. I hadn't had much of anything to eat or drink in the last many hours, but I didn't feel like this was an issue. It probably was. It's hard to make yourself do much of anything in a state like this, but put your head down, grit your teeth, turn the pedals.

Drunken crowds were spilling out of the bars in Encinitas, the first people I had seen in hours. Huh, makes sense. It was nearing 2, last call. The groups clustered around Roberto's 24 hour greasy Mexican food. Mmm I could go for one of those burritos. I watched all this as if a detached observer from a parallel world, on an oddyssey through a twisted version of a recognizable landscape.

And I finished off the coastal communities, Solana Beach, Del Mar: my knee, my ankle, my chain, crank and cassette, all joining in a chorus of complaints. On to the biggest climb of the night: the formidable (for the coast) 400 foot Torrey Pines climb. Hah, bring it on Torrey. I stood up and "attacked." Feel the wrath of my beaten body. Torrey answered and my light went out, leaving me to finish with my weak AA powered backup. But the excitement of the top in reach, of being able to practically coast to the finish from there, allowed me to dig out some extra power, cresting the hill in 9 minutes. But given my state, I was happy with such a time, not much more than half the speed of my best.

Up and over, I settled into the aerobars and mostly coasted, pedaling primarily with my right leg as the left was now almost too painful to use. My hands were raw from the vibration. I hadn't worn gloves since the previous morning. Dumb. I was starting to notice how tired I was. Nothing mattered anymore. I was done. Down Torrey Pines, down Gilman, down the Rose Canyon bike path, around Mission Bay, up the last overpass to Taylor St, a few more pedal strokes, and the deserted parking lot of the Mission Valley Resort. Done. 1000 KM. I unclipped, set the bike against the car, fumbled for my key, and collapsed into the front seat of my car. I closed my eyes and my head was spinning. I smiled to myself. No fanfare, no people, nothing. I was left sitting in my car, alone in the middle of the night, pondering my personal achievement, my prize the ability to relax, stop riding, go to sleep. 3:35 AM. It had been a long 47 and a half hours.

Huh? You mean it's over?

Old Town 1000k Brevet - Finished!

2010-05-02T11:46:00.000-07:00

No doubt the hardest thing I've ever done. I finished this morning at 3:35 AM: 622 miles in 47 hours and 35 minutes. Full report to come. Route info here.

The Descents of the 508

2010-04-24T10:59:00.000-07:00

When you tell most people about fixed gear riding, they imagine the biggest challenge comes from climbs. This may be true for steep grades of over 8%, but you will find for most riding, far and away the largest challenge, and where the most time is lost compared to standard road bikes, is in the descents.

When climbing, you lose some of the momentum of keeping a higher cadence, and you are forced to put more strain on your muscles from the larger gear. In comparison, descents with a freehub are just that - free. Your heart rate can settle down to a minimum, your legs can completely rest, and you can stretch out and assume any position you want.

On a fixed gear, your position, legs, and cardio system must all accommodate the rapid cadence required to go at higher speeds. Training and technique development can lessen the impact of high cadence motion, but it will always be there. I was able to sustain decent speeds on the descents of the Mount Laguna Bicycle Classic, maintaining speeds over 30 fairly comfortably, but in reviewing my data, I see that the effects of the higher speeds were taking a toll on my performance. Both in raised heart rate levels (which compromise digestion and recovery) and leg fatigue (especially for climbs directly following a descent). For a century ride, this is an acceptable tradeoff. For something as epic as the 508, I will have to be more careful.

Full analysis here.

In brief, I marked all of the sections where I topped 26 mph, and made totals of distance and time for each. Over the whole course for 2009, I spent 133 miles more than 25% (of distance) at speeds above what I should sustain with my chosen gearing (46x16). On these sections I averaged 33.5 mph, totaling almost 4 hours of descending or very fast flats.

It is an oversimplification, but I think I can get a good estimate of the extra time my descents will take by simply multiplying by the ratio of my proposed average speed. I think it's a safe bet that I can average 26 mph on all these sections, taking into account all the lost momentum from the 45 mph+ descents, and my decreased capacity to descend as the race wears on.

A 26 mph average (average cadence a civil 125 rpm) would add 75 minutes.
A 28 mph average (average cadence 135 rpm) would add 49 minutes.
A 30 mph average (average cadence 145 rpm) would add only 30 minutes. (but is doubtfully sustainable).

Seeing these numbers - I think it is worth it to limit my speeds early on (note that over 100 of those 130 miles comes in the first 220 miles of the race!). Although it is frustrating to lose time on descents, the 45 minutes gained by the significant effort increase from 125 --> 145 cadence would likely be more than made up for by the decreased leg, and cardio stress of the lower cadences.

It will be important not to overestimate the time gained by fast descents - or underestimate the toll fast descents will take on my body. All the time I spent over 26 mph during the whole 508 was less than the time it took to travel the 44 miles from Furance Creek to Ashford Mill, during the hellish windstorm in Death Valley!

Mt. Laguna Bicycle Classic - Fixed Gear Report - 4/17/2010

2010-04-21T22:39:00.000-07:00

I was going to have a low-key weekend. It was two weeks after my successful, but very taxing Davis 24 Hour Challenge. I had thought I was recovered the previous weekend - but riding my worst Fiesta Island TT to date convinced me otherwise. So I was thinking of a week of light training and a couple longer rides on the weekend. Then I got a mail from Chris Kostman / AdventureCORPS with a reminder that it was the last day to register for their Mt Laguna century ride. I hadn't signed up for a century ride for years, as this is a typical training distance for me, and so the significance of such rides isn't usually enough to be worth the hassle and expense. But I have a stupid goal of doing both the Death Ride and the the 508 on my fixed gear this year, and I know I need to push my limits on the bike. So I signed up for the Laguna ride, thinking it would be a good way to force myself to go out and get a punishing fixie workout, while getting to ride in some of my favorite terrain. It was also a way to find out what my limits were on the fixed gear - in March I had a rough time at the Death Valley Double - but for general issues mostly unrelated to me doing it on the fixie.

I woke up at the ungodly hour of 4 am, threw my bike and gear in the car, and headed out toward Pine Valley, a small town in the shadow of Mt Laguna, 50 miles east of San Diego. An hour later I arrived at the already bustling Pine Valley Park, regged in temperatures in the upper 30s, and kitted up. I rolled over to the start in time for the greeting by Bill Walton (basketball legend and now, cyclist!) and some words from Chris. We were off at 6 am. I had some words with George "Red Eye Vireo" Vargas and Ton "Desert Fox" van Daelen, the only riders I knew, but it was quickly down to business, as we headed up highway 79 at a decent pace.

This would be the most gentle climb of the day, gradually gaining in elevation from a low of 3500 to 6000 feet, with interspersed flats and descents. It was a gorgeous, but frigid, morning as we made our way north, passing through green meadows and boulder-strewn mountain sides. My numbed hands and toes eventually gained feeling back as the sun rose over our small group, which had been quickly whittled down to about six. I felt good today, as I had for the past month; my strides at improving my everyday nutrition seemed to be working wonders on the heart rate issues that have plagued me in the past (even as recently as the Death Valley Double).

There were a fair amount of shorter steep pitches, but I was able to stand up and maintain my momentum, muscling the gear (46x16) to the top of the grade without too much difficulty. But it was on one such hill that I heard a pop and my rear wheel skip for a second. At first I thought it was just my chain, threatening to hop off from the torque. But then I noticed later on the descent that my bike felt a bit squirrely and hard to control. I just chalked it up to my imagination and kept riding.

We pacelined through more open grassland as we gained in elevation. Actually, it seemed like very little rotation was going on. As opposed to the Death Valley Double, where I did a fair amount of the pacemaking, I hung out near the back this time, seeing no reason to over expend myself early. I knew the climbing would start again soon in any case. And it did - as we hit Sunrise Highway.

The Road to Laguna.(Photo from AdventureCORPS)

The stretch of road that lay between us and Mt Laguna is one of my favorites, and certainly some of the best riding within reach of San Diego. The road skirts a ridgeline among pine trees, chapparal and grassy slopes, with expansive views of green, rounded mountains to the west, and to the east, a precipitous drop of over 5,000 feet to barren desert and dramatic rocky peaks. I pushed harder, reveling in my surroundings. The Sunrise Highway closely parallels the PCT along this section, and riding this road always brings back fond memories of my PCT hike from Warner Springs to the Mexico border. But I was going much faster now, and landmarks that were a day apart then were now separated by an hour.

I was now climbing off the front of our group at this point, but maintaining a comfortable pace, well within my limits. My 10 minute high on this section was 340, with an average HR of 173, which was worlds apart from my performance in Death Valley, where I tried starting at the same pace (340 for 5 minutes) but this sent my heart rate well above 190, and my form only worsened from there. But most of all I was surprised that I was able to comfortably hold around 35 on the descents, at a cadence of over 150. Having learned my lesson from the painful descents of the DVD, I had swapped the bargain saddle my fixie came with for my saddle of choice (Specialized Toupe) and lowered the seat. It made a world of difference. No longer was I bouncing, on the verge of control, but I was able to maintain a smooth cadence, and remain comfortable at fairly high speeds. My cornering was still suspect though, a quick glance back, and the pronounced wobble on each rotation confirmed what I had been hoping wasn't the case: I had broken a spoke.

I didn't want to deal with it at this point unless it was absolutely necessary. In rides like this, especially when you’re enjoying the day, and in good form, the urgency to keep going can overshadow common sense. Clearly, I was going to have to deal with my wheel sooner or later, and it was only going to get more and more out of true. But no, I felt good, I kept going. My bike would just fix itself, right?

As I approached the ridge, the grades eased and I did as well, finishing the last 7 miles of climbing at around 300W NP, my heart rate a manageable 164 bpm. Near the Laguna checkpoint, two riders from the group caught up to me, and we rolled in, got our numbers marked, and rolled out. 2 hours in, 35 miles down, 282 NP, 160 average HR, 3700 ft of climbing. Not a bad start to the morning!

As we headed down Sunrise Highway, I knew what was ahead: 14 miles, and 3,000 ft of descent that would bring us to the base of the legendary Kitchen Creek climb. My companions quickly dropped me, even with my newfound fixie descending skills, as my 150 rpm spin was no match for a tuck and a freehub. I bid them well as I headed down the slopes at my own pace, happy that at least I was (relatively) comfortable, and in control. Except for my unraveling rear wheel, that is... But no matter how much better I had it, it still is much harder to recover when your legs are being flung around 2 and a half times a second. Interestingly enough, my HR tracked very closely with my cadence for the descent: with my cadence and my HR both in the 140s for the 20+ minute descent – as if my heart gave up and just let my legs do the circulating for it.

A few miles and some rollers after the descent bottoms out comes the left turn to Kitchen Creek Road. This is an awesome climb - not the least of which is the 4 mile section closed to cars - creating a bike path turned up the side of a mountain - dropping you off into the forest on top of Laguna. The climb also plays the centerpiece in one of my favorite epic solo training rides (course like this). Typically by the time I reach this climb, I'm many miles into a ride, and I'm fatigued, making the climb a difficult slog (but enjoyable nonetheless). This time, I was 50 miles in, but felt great. One little problem. My wheel was now undoubtedly rubbing, badly, on each rotation. I couldn't put this off any longer. I saw my two companions just up ahead, but I had to stop.

I jumped off the bike right before Kitchen Creek kicks up in earnest, dug a spoke wrench out of my bag, and got to work. Thankfully, I was paranoid enough about my wheel-building skills, and the high torque that comes with fixed gear riding, that I had carried a spoke wrench. I found the offending spoke, bent it around some others, and got to adjusting the spokes around the area. In my haste I rounded off one of the spokes. Then I made a series of adjustments the wrong way. The wheel was getting worse. I finally got a handle on it, and the wheel finally spun well within the brake pads all the way around. It had taken 8 minutes. 2 more groups had passed me.

Time to get back to work. The road hovers between 8 and 12% for the next mile and change, and my legs immediately protested. The crest of the section was always in sight, but it came oh so slowly, as I methodically worked each leg around...my cadence falling to one revolution per 2 seconds as I reached the top of the section. Following was a welcome descent, followed by a more humane approach for the next few miles to the base of the closed road section.

A checkpoint was set up where the road turns to a bike path, and I got my number marked as I passed through. I thought of the hot summer day a few years back when I stopped at that spot for some shade from the brutal sun, dehydrated and in bad shape, with 100 miles left to ride home. Later that day I would need to get IV fluid replacement for severe dehydration ... but not this time, it was gorgeous, in the 70s, and I was feeling good.

From this point on the Kitchen Creek "Bike Path" cuts its way through desert scrub, winding through valleys and over ridges at gentle 5% grades. I was able to keep a good rhythm, and remain seated most of the time, pedaling reasonably smooth circles at a cadence approaching 50, power around 275W, HR pegged at a 165. The climb has a few intermediate descents as it crests ridges on the way to Laguna, and passing the gate on the north end of the car-free section, the route rolls meanderingly upward under tree-cover. Over an hour after the climbing begun, finally I reached the Sunrise Highway, with a few miles left to again visit the Mt Laguna high point. I took a glance back at my 31-spoked wheel, which seemed to be holding up quite well after the roadside repair. I pulled in to the checkpoint, got marked once again, topped off my bottles, one with Heed, one with Perpetuem, and headed down Sunrise Highway for the second time on the day.

The descent was enjoyable and quick, even without the blessing of the freehub. The pavement is smooth, the turns are generous and nontechnical, and the traffic was surprisingly light. I was comfortable enough to fully enjoy the westward views of the East County mountains. I descended a bit slower this time, as my mind was on the upcoming climb up Pine Creek, and my legs were being given little chance to recover.

I stopped by the Pine Valley Park to get marked for my final loop, with less than 30 miles to the finish. The route materials claimed of grades of 20% in places. I have to admit, I was skeptical. Exaggerated accounts of grades abound, and I figured that sure, maybe the inside of a few switchbacks might reach that – but the overall stats (2000 feet in 7 miles, or just around 5%) were more telling. I was wrong.

The road starts out innocently enough, a cozy one lane, following the Pine Creek past serene mountain homes and trailheads, but then continues, diving into a rabbit hole of pain - a reality tilted upwards. It was a few miles before the real grades started. But they did.

I've found the biggest difficulty of the fixed gear is the massive amount of torque you are forced to supply on steep climbs. On a geared road bike, you have a good amount of control on your cadence. *MATH ALERT * Power = cadence * torque, and on a standard road bike, you have a good amount of control on your cadence : a standard road span of 53/39, 11/26, gives you the ability to change your cadence by over a factor of 3. This ability is of course lost on a fixed gear. On a hill, the grade determines your speed given a power output, because nearly all of your effort goes to overcoming gravity. This means that the grade actually dictates the torque you must apply to keep moving up it. So no matter how slow you go, you still must apply the same torque, which provides the same strain on your legs. A grade of 10% requires a constant torque of more than the max torque of a full out sprint effort for me (as a former track/crit racer!). But these weren’t 10% grades, these were 20% for extended periods. Compared to my standard road gearing, the 20% grades became 40%. Compared to a triple, almost 60%. My ambitions of surviving up this climb in the pedals was about to be crushed.

I passed by a rider inching up the climb, then a mountain biker spinning at 100 rpm up 15%. I had enough in me to pass them and get out of their sight. But not much more. On one of the nastiest stretches I had come to yet, a large pickup was headed down the road. There wasn’t enough room for both, and I relented to my screaming legs and pulled over to let him through. That was it. There was no way I’d be able to do a standing start in the middle of the grade I was now on. I accepted my failure. I started walking briskly and awkwardly up the slope, my cleats slipping on the steep pavement, looking for a place to remount. There was a small flat spot about a fifth of a mile up the road, and I gave it another shot. I made it a short distance, but was starting to realize this was going to be hopeless. Another quick walk and another attempt at getting on. As I tried wrestling the right crank up, my cleat popped out and I almost was catapulted over the bars. Uh oh. I’ve never in my cycling career needed cleat clovers, so I hadn’t thought to bring them. But now I had destroyed my right Look cleat in just a few minutes of walking. Without being able to clip my right shoe there was no way I could make up these grades: at cadences of 20-30, you need every muscle active at all times. I walked more, for some reason not taking off my shoes. This was going to be a long climb.

Occasionally I had opportunities to hop back on the bike for a little while, being very careful to plant my cleat in the pedal and not pull up throughout the stroke. I still got almost thrown off a few times – the pedal stroke is an engrained movement that is very hard to change on the fly. There was a water stop in the middle of the climb, and the volunteers kindly only took my picture for the brief time I was able to ride in that section. But again the grade shot up, and this time I took off my shoes, and hoofed it up the hill in socks. Even on foot my heart rate was in the 170s at 3-4 mph. This was quite a hill. It was over a half hour from the bottom before I would finally emerge onto the tame upper slopes of Pine Creek Rd. Surprisingly only one rider (George) would pass me on this stretch, as I was putting my shoes back on on the top of the ridge. At this point the road dove down off the ridge, in tight steep switchbacks, and then leapt up toward again toward the summit. It wasn't over yet, and I again had to dismount. I had hoped to catch back up and ride in with him, but realized I had to take the rest of the ride very gingerly: it would take some care not to get flung from my bike because of my unattached right shoe.

Surviving the Pine Creek Climb.

Finally, I rounded a corner and with great relief saw the right turn onto the Sunrise Highway, meaning only some rolling hills to the final summit of the ride, and a smooth descent from there to the finish. Of course now, a descent was not just an enjoyable freebie. In addition to not being able to coast, now I was only able to clip in with one foot. I hobbled the remaining miles to the rest stop, only having my right leg thrown from the pedals a few times. I grabbed some ice water, and headed out on my way to Pine Valley. The 10 mile descent would take not much more than about 15 minutes on a standard bike, and I had done it in 20 minutes the last two times, but I knew this time would be more like 30. I thought of all the bad things that could happen with me getting my right leg thrown off...how was I going to do this? I experimented with holding my right leg out of the pedal’s way, but this was very uncomfortable and harder to balance. I found that I was marginally comfortable with just maintaining downward pressure on the pedal all the way around the stroke, and riding my brakes to keep it around 25 (cadence in the 120s). No longer could I let the pedals jerk my legs around – I needed to go through the full motion this time, a crash course in pedaling circles. Joyous riders zoomed past at almost double my speed, probably wondering what on earth I was doing. I made slow, steady progress down the hill, and following the cliched but useful ultra-event mantra : "all things (headwinds, ascents, sketchy broken cleat-ed fixed gear descents..) will come to an end" it finally bottomed out. Not thinking, I sped past the entrance to the park, only realizing later that I was following another rider headed toward the Pine Creek loop... not again thanks… I turned around, and a few minutes later, my bonus miles complete, I at long last pulled in to finish at Pine Valley Park.

It was a full 6 hours and 26 minutes: 6 hours of riding, 15 minutes of walking, 8 minutes of wheel repair, 2 minutes of stopped time, 27,012 pedal rotations, and 3 summits of Laguna with over 10,000 ft of climbing. Yet still it went by fast. I was done with riding, and it was only lunchtime! It had been a while since I finished an event ride without feeling completely wasted. The course is still about as challenging as you can get for a 100 miler, while keeping a good balance, and the terrain is undeniably awesome for riding. The loop format works out quite well; the descent of Sunrise Highway anchoring each loop was enjoyable, and didn't feel repetitive. There is still great variety in the terrain, and I doubt anyone would complain about being bored. I liked that the loops increase in difficulty, and that the ride ends with a bang - even though it turned out I couldn't handle it on my particular bike choice. This also could add an extra challenge to riders who are just pushing their endurance to century rides - most rides are organized for an easier last half. Not this one!

I did this to get a better feel for my current capabilities on the fixed. Well what did I learn?

My fixed gear ascending and descending is coming along nicely.
Fixed gear climbing wears you out faster due to torque requirements - this is primarily an issue with grades > 6%
I have a limit on the fixed - and Pine Creek Rd far exceeds that. I need to ride the climb again on my road bike, but it is definitely one of the hardest climbs I have ever done, maybe the hardest for its vertical gain. And I've done a lot of climbs.
I have yet to find a good excuse to back out of the Death Ride fixed or 508 fixed.
Carry cleat covers (maybe running shoes for the 508) or use mountain bike shoes if attempting to do such antics again.

Power Data

The ride is pretty much all climbing or descent. I stayed strong and consistent for the first two climbs.

The Cuyamaca climb section was 2 hours at 282 NP / 160 HR

The Kitchen Creek climb section was 1 hour 30 min at 276 / 164 HR

The data from the Pine Creek climb is more or less useless because of how much walking I did!

79/Sunrise Highway Climb Stats

Kitchen Creek Climb Stats

Pine Creek Climb Stats

One thing to notice is how much work I had to put out even to keep walking on these grades - my heart rate was the higher in this walking section than either of the other climbs. Once I finally got to the mild grades of the Sunrise Highway, my legs were near shot, and my power fallen for the same HR : 203 NP with 165. I will have to be careful of such efforts on the DR or the 508, although there are no 20% grades on those rides!

Death Valley Double Fixed Gear - Ride Report - 3/6/2010

2010-04-18T12:45:00.000-07:00

Before the Ride

My solid 4 hour (over)-training ride now complete, I drove down from Towne pass and headed toward Furnace Creek. I walked out onto the sand dunes by Stovepipe Wells, sat down on top of a tall dune, stretched, and relaxed. My heart rate was still elevated from my earlier effort, but the stark beauty of Death Valley was calming.

Once in Furnace Creek, I checked in at the Ranch, then set myself up in a campground (really a big parking lot with RV hookups) across from the Furnace Creek Ranch. I had last been through Furnace Creek at 3 in the morning during the 508, in the middle of a brutal windstorm, trying to claw myself back into the race. It was decidedly more calm this time around, and the weather reports were now looking better than they had all week, with only a small chance of rain.

I worked on my bike for the morning. Checked the chain tension (finally starting to get a feel for the “art”), made sure the tires were good, bottles ready with fuel, clothes set out. The next day would be my first double century on the fixed gear. In fact, it would also be my second and third centuries on the fixie! I still felt more or less confident in my ability on the bike, and wasn’t too worried, given that the Death Valley Double is among the easiest doubles on the calendar. The climb out of Death Valley over and Jubilee Pass and Salsbury Pass is long, but never too steep, and the climbing is basically complete after mile 80. Seemed like all I would have to do was hang on until that point, and it would be a cruise.

I tried to get to bed early, curling up in the back of my VW Passat wagon. I didn’t sleep well. I never got comfortable, and I noticed I felt more tired than I would have expected from my effort that day. I was trying to drink water, but it wasn’t enough to hydrate me in the dry Death Valley air.

Furnace Creek to Ashford Mill

I finally woke up around 5 and headed across the road to the start at the Ranch. It always seems to take longer to prepare than you plan for – and I managed to barely make it to the 6 am start. A few words from Chris Kostman of AdventureCorps and we were off. I always love the beginning of long rides. It was a pleasant morning, and we had a faint wind at our backs as we headed south. I talked a bit with George “Red Eyed Vireo” Vargas – who himself has done the 508 on a fixed gear (the 7^th, and last successful, finisher). It was probably his account that planted the idea in my subconscious ... long before I was even sure whether I would attempt the 508 solo at all. Graham “Python” Pollock and Ton “Desert Fox” van Daelen were also in the group. I’m not the only 508 veteran to whom Death Valley holds a special importance.

I often find myself a bit frustrated with the beginnings of doubles, as very few people ever want to work. I ended up taking some long pulls myself, hoping other people would start rotating. It would be many miles before we finally did get a semblance of organization going. Many of the riders still aren’t comfortable with, don’t know, or don’t care, that it’s most efficient to maintain a quickly rotating paceline. But in my impatience to get things moving, I wasn’t paying attention to my body. Judging by my power numbers, I was just fine, and not overextending. But my heart rate was far too high, and something just felt off about my form. I was pulling too long and too hard given my form, and even this early in the ride, it was starting to catch up to me.

We pulled into Ashford Mills after about 2 hours of riding. I thought then about the comparison of the same section on the 508, where I thought it must have taken about twice the time to travel that distance. It did:

Furnace Creek to Ashford Mill - 2009 508

4:03, NP 211, Avg Power 206, HR 139, Avg Speed 11 mph

Furnace Creek to Ashford Mill, 2010 DVD
2:06, NP 239, Avg Power 211, HR 157, Avg Speed 21.2

The first thing to note here is that an average power of 206W during the windstorm of 2009's 508 was good for only 11 mph (over 4 hours!) on this section. On the DVD, in a group, with calm conditions, the slightly higher average power of 211 W (239 normalized because of some spirited pulls) yielded 21.2 mph (just over 2 hours). There couldn't be a starker example of the effects of air resistance.

The other crucial thing here is my body's response. On the 508, I had recovered from my early difficulties, and was in "endurance mode" where I'm able to churn out consistent, mid-range power, with low heart rate, for very long periods of time. So I averaged 133 bpm on this section for the 508, indicating a very sustainable pace. My body on this morning seemed to be revolting, however, and my moderate effort over these first two hours had my heart rate up to 157 average, with spikes up to 189 (!) which, while somewhat sustainable, hinted that something was wrong. Heart rates this high can compromise digestion, and the fact that I was this stressed early on in the ride did not bode well for the remaining 150 miles.

Ashford Mill to Shoshone and Back

Our group had been whittled down to about 6 at this point. A few of them grabbed water from the stop and jumped off before I could refill my bottles. 5 of us were back together after some chasing, as the road tipped up toward Jubilee Pass. I didn't know quite how to take this climb on the fixed gear, but even at the tame 4-5% grades of the climb, I felt uncomfortable at that low cadence. So I took off. I upped the pace to what would normally be a sub-threshold climbing pace, of about 340w, for the next 5 minutes, but it was clear that I could not keep this up. My HR had shot up to 190 as I hit a flat spot in the climb. I had a sizable gap at this point, but I knew I needed to back off. As I continued up Jubilee, my power kept falling.. 320, 315, 310, but my heart rate kept rising...180, 185, 190.. I was alternating sitting down and standing up, muscling the cranks sloppily, at a forced cadence in the 40s. Phil Kelly caught up to me midway on this stretch, and I could tell he was having no difficulties at this pace. I would expect to feel the same, but was undeniably deep in the pain cave.

I crested the pass with Phil, but he quickly dropped me on the mile-long descent leading to the base of the Salsbury Pass climb. My aching legs were unable to keep a cadence higher than about 120 down the grade, good for only around 28 mph, on what is a 40+mph coasting descent. As the climb resumed, I went from struggling to keep my legs spinning at 120 rpm to wrestling the cranks to keep turning at 40 rpm. This would be a long 9 miles of climbing ahead.

In times of difficulty on the bike, I tend to focus intently on countdowns: feet left to climb, miles to go, time left at this pace. But of course, your mileage ticks ever so slowly when you watch it. I was in survival mode now. Never had I been in this much distress so early in a ride. I tried to put it all out of my mind - concentrate on breathing smoothly, relax your body, even out your pedal stroke.

Nearing a half hour into the climb I finally found some sort of equilibrium at 240W, with my HR hanging at my threshold of 180. This was around 2/3rds the power I would expect at this level of exertion, but I had to take what I could get. I came up on a water stop, halfway up the climb, that I stopped at to get some fresh water. I didn't need it. My fatigued body was just looking for any excuse to stop for a minute. George Vargas passed me at this point, and I was jealous of the effortless cadence he was producing.

Suffering, while Red Eyed Vireo calmly zips up his jersey. Midway up Salsbury Pass.

I got back on the bike after a glorious 45 seconds of no pedaling at the water stop. My legs immediately resumed their complaints. The demands of the high torque required by my gear were accumulating, and for the next 15 minutes, I could only muster 220W, which of course, means that my cadence was even slower, dipping into the low 30s at spots. As I neared the top I was able to push a bit harder, finally reaching 2 miles to go, 1, half a mile to go, then the always wonderful view of a downturn in the road ahead, and the little green rectangular sign marking the summit of the road.

The climbs out of Death Valley during the 508. Easy endurance pace at ~200 watts, HR kept quite low at avg 139 bpm.

The same climb during the DVD - I struggled, averaging 260W (NP 274), but HR averaging 180 for almost an hour an a half. All saving only 13 min versus the 508. Notice the consistently dropping power throughout the climb.

I took a deep breath. The last time I had descended this road it was a joyous, 45 mph freefall, with wide open desolate desert valleys spreading out before me as I rocketed eastward, rewarding me for making it through Death Valley. This time it was no reward. My legs were being jerked around. My butt hurt. I was bouncing around on the too-soft, cheapo saddle that I should have replaced after buying the bike. What was I doing this for? Oh yeah... the "accomplishment." Great.

As I pulled into the checkpoint in the small town of Shoshone, Graham was just heading out. I filled my water bottles with Heed and Perpetuem, spun my wheel to see if I had torqued it out of true (nope, it was ok..) stretched out my aching legs, and returned on the road back to Death Valley.

I was sore. There was a long way to go. I especially wasn't looking forward to the climb back up to the pass, which was steeper (but shorter) in this direction. I kept Graham in sight, and he provided great motivation for me to hold a decent pace. I was feeling ok, but my stomach was a bit unsettled. My flagging energy levels warned me that my calories weren't processing as they should. But I had to keep pressing on. I concentrated on just pushing the pedals through. I stared down at the slowly moving pavement. I looked at all the riders who were coming down the descent, headed toward Shoshone, coasting happily toward the checkpoint.

Graham's figure up the road was shrinking a bit. I tried pushing harder on the pedals. They resisted. As I approached the summit, I felt the beginnings of a bonk, and the road kicked up steeper. I had been averaging about 240 w, with a calmer HR of 168, but my legs were screaming for a shorter gear. My cadence dropped to 30, and I shamefully unclipped and draped myself over the handlebars. I knew I was close to the summit, I needed to get on. But it was too tempting to stop. I gave myself one minute. Back on the bike. I knew I was in trouble: I only have to fight the urge to stop on a climb when my body is on the verge of shutting down. This was bad. I did my best to ignore the sign. What could I do now, anyway? I battled the rest of the half mile up to the summit. Riders were happily taking pictures of each other by the Salsbury Pass sign, as I struggled silently past. I was happy to reach the summit, but I was not looking forward to the 14 miles of descent that lay between me and the valley floor.

My descent was ugly. Jerky. Painful. My hands were half numb as I maintained a death grip on the brakes. My feet were dragging my legs, against their will, in fast circles that they flailingly tried to mimic. My saddle was putting pressure in all the wrong places, as I bounced on it haplessly. Sure, it seemed like a great idea at the time to change as little as possible about the bike, which I bought for only $249. So I didn't swap out the big cushy saddle it came with. It was the whole idea of simplicity, of doing an epic ride on the simplest, cheapest of equipment. Major mistake. This wasn't like foregoing the slight performance advantage of aero wheels or a lighter frame. A properly fitting saddle is a basic bike-fit essential. I was barely topping 26, but it still felt like I was hurdling down the mountain on the edge of control.

20 minutes of this torture later, and I had to make the brief, sharp climb up to Jubilee Pass, and the quick transition from too fast cadence to too slow cadence was jarring. I barely kept the bike upright on the last kicker of well over 10%, at 5 mph, and then made my way painfully down the remaining 5 mile descent to Ashford Mill.

Ashford Mill to Furnace Creek

I pulled into the rest stop, parked my bike, and filled my bottles. There were many other century riders at this point, their turnaround was just up the road at the top of Jubilee. They were relaxed, enjoying the beautiful day. I was a world apart from them. I felt like a zombie. It was only mile 100, but I was toast. The remaining miles were all flat to rolling, so I figured I would be fine. But up until now I had given my body almost no rest - as the stress of the descents on the fixie did not offer any respite. I saddled up and made my way back north, toward Furnace Creek. I didn't make it far before I realized this was going to be tougher than I had been counting on. Everything after this point was supposed to be an easy spin. My exhausted legs, my near-bonked energy levels, the headwind, and the hills, which seemed much more brutal than I had remembered, all claimed otherwise. I once again stopped, dismounted, and sat on my top tube, staring down the road stretching endlessly beyond me.

OK. Now what was I going to do. I sipped my water bottle. I felt a little bloated. My stomach wasn't doing its job. Not good. I wasn't getting calories through, and was bonked. Groups of riders started whizzing past. I saw one of the six riders that had been in our group from the morning pass by, and he slowed, asked if I was ok, congratulating me (undeservedly!) for being on the fixie. I was completely worthless right now, but this gave me enough of a push to jump back on and catch him. The effort wore me out, but I hung out in his draft, and was able to recover a bit.

He ( I believe his name was Glenn) was riding with his wife, who was doing the century route. They were both on Storcks, completely tricked out with top-end weight weenie components. I asked him what his bike weighed, guessing 11 pounds. It was under 10, as he was riding it. His wife's was around 12. Ridiculous. It provided quite the contrast to the 25 pound monstrosity I was wrestling with currently. They were from Tahoe - and apparently this was their first ride of the year outside. Amazing. They offered to pull me back in to Furnace Creek. I graciously obliged. I took pulls when I could, but I was mostly sucking wheel, and watching the miles tick by painfully slowly. 44 long miles. This is psychologically taxing terrain. There is very little to mark your progress against, as the road rolls on relentlessly from one small hill to the next, traversing the east side of the valley.

We stopped at the Badwater rest stop for a good long while. I had given up "racing" way back on the slopes of Salsbury, so I was fine with sitting and relaxing at Badwater for a while. I was still hoping my stomach would start working again, but I still felt its contents sloshing around... threatening to come back up. Once you get situated at a rest stop, time passes very quickly...I ended up spending almost a full half hour there!

The remaining 17 miles back to Furnace Creek were slow, and I still spent most of them hiding in Glenn's draft. My heart rate had calmed down, but I was still nauseous and bloated. We averaged less than 16 on the return trip. Glenn was going to call it a day at FC, as his knee was hurting, and his wife's century ride ended at FC. I toyed with the idea of doing the same. No. Not an option.

Furnace Creek to Stovepipe Wells and Back.

I checked in at the Furnace Creek stop. It was late. Well over 9 hours had passed. Best case, I had imagined finishing in the low 10s. Not today! It was after 3. I had less than 3 hours to finish the remaining 50 miles before I would need lights. That should have been no problem, but I was weak, and it was windy. I rode over to my car, slumped in the seat, and closed my eyes. OK. Get lights. Get back on the road. Just a little bit of rest... I looked at the clock. 15 minutes had passed since I arrived. I needed to get moving. I grabbed the lights I had brought, not intending to use them. I tried flicking them on. They looked a little dim. Great. I needed to move.

I jumped back on my bike and started toiling toward Stovepipe Wells. I had spent over 30 minutes at Furnace Creek. Shouldn't have done that. When you're far enough gone, saving time seems to matter less and less, and when you're stopped, it seems to pass faster and faster. A few miles out from Furnace Creek, a good sized, well moving paceline caught me. Someone yelled "latch on!"

We were moving, over 20 mph, and I could muster brief pulls at the pace, although it hurt. Finally my legs were recovering a bit: we were now at speeds that my gear choice (46x16) is optimized for, as 21 mph gives 90 rpm. My power and speed were now settled in my ultra endurance range - which I think indicates my energy is coming almost entirely from fat burning. This is a NP of 180 or so, HR in the 130s. My stomach was still upset, but I think it was ok, as at this intensity, I depend very little on caloric intake. As long as I maintained reasonable levels of electrolytes and hydration, I'd make it. Still, I dreaded the approach of every hill, of which there are several sizable ones on the stretch, as I had barely any power above what we were averaging, and I had to struggle on the descents to stay with the group.
We saw the leading riders, on their way home, 2 hours ahead. I put my lackluster performance out of my mind, and concentrated on the road ahead.

After an interminable amount of time, I finally saw the Stovepipe Wells sand dunes in the distance, and continued to watch them as they neared. We arrived at Stovepipe Wells, and put on our lights. It was starting to get dark, and threatening clouds were moving in. 25 miles to go. More pacelining, more hills that I was scared of being dropped on (even though certainly no one was hammering them!), more eyeing the mileage left as it dropped ever so slowly. About half an hour left it was time for our lights. My woefully dim front light gave me excuse to hide in the draft for the rest of the ride, as the clouds ahead finally made good on their promise and sprinkled us with intermittent showers. It was all wrapped up now, and I finally could put on a bit of a good attitude. I was going to finish what I came to do: a fixed gear double century.

We finished with little fanfare, a challenging 2 hours and 45 minutes from when I set out from FC, over 12 and a half long hours from when I first departed FC that morning. I checked in, rolled to my car, and struggled to throw my bike in the back as the rain started in earnest. I was done. I had no stomach for the after-ride pizza that was being provided at the finish. As much as I liked the idea, it was far beyond my capability to eat anything. I needed to get back to the motel.

Stats for the first 85 miles, marking the end of the last climb to Salsbury Pass.
246 NP for 5:05, 164 HR
6800 ft of climbing this section

Stats for the last death march of a century. Over an hour off the bike!
Power output of 181 NP (indicating "endurance mode" - fat burning metabolism only)
5:25 moving, 94 miles
138 HR. 2100 ft of climbing.

Full ride, 11:16 rolling, (1:20 off the bike), 196 miles
NP 217, HR 150
8900 ft of climbing

Post-Ride

I collapsed in the front seat, and started driving. I didn't feel well. I had over 100 miles to drive to Ridgecrest. All of a sudden, I really didn't feel well. I pulled to the side of the road, and threw up the sum of my liquid intake for the last many hours. Ugh. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and started driving again. Here I was, in the same place, about 3 hours later, heading toward Stovepipe Wells, counting the miles down yet again. Many doubles riders were still on the course. Many of them coming towards me had blindingly bright lights, more distracting than an oncoming motorist with the brights on. Riders should point their lights toward the road, it must be detrimental to safety to be shining lights that bright in driver's eyes. Finally I hit the base of the climb to Towne Pass. I had to stop and throw up again. This time I was empty, heaving in vain. I pressed on. I was about halfway up when I needed to stop again. I lay back and closed my eyes, thinking of the night 5 months ago, when I was also throwing up on Towne Pass. At least this time I didn't have to get out and ride 300 more miles. I slept for about an hour, and finally felt good enough to press on. It was a long 100 miles left to drive, tracing the 508 route backward, over Towne Pass, through the Panamint Valley, then Trona, over the mountains into Ridgecrest, Motel 6, and finally, I was able to surrender to a well deserved deep sleep.

Death Valley Double, Prelude - Towne Pass and Emigrant Pass

2010-04-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

There's something special about Death Valley. There's a reason Chris Kostman of AdventureCorps chooses to hold almost all his events there. "Epic" is a favorite, albeit overused, description pervasive of ultra events - but Death Valley seems to fit the bill here. The desolation, vastness, towering peaks, extremes in weather, temperature, elevation, and otherworldly terrain set it apart. The Death Valley Double course is an out and back entirely along the route of the 508. Apart from a 3,000 foot climb out of Death Valley, and a 1400 foot climb back in (and their requisite descents), the terrain is all flat to rolling: perfect for fixed gear riding.

Death Valley is a long way from San Diego, so I headed up a day early - to get some riding in the day before (on my standard road bike), and hopefully stave off my high heart rate issue - I have found that I do not have difficulties due to overly high heart rate if I have done a hard ride before. I'm still not sure of the mechanism at work here - it could be that my electrolyte levels are evened out by the exercise - or the fatigue and recovery process suppresses the heart overactivity. In any case, it gave me an excuse to ride some awesome terrain on Friday - both sides of Towne Pass, and Emigrant pass, for 9300 ft of climbing in about 60 miles. I tried to climb steady, well within my capability, and target for endurance climbing at around 4 w/kg. I knew something was wrong pretty quickly, as my heart rate jetted past my target endurance threshold HR (165-170) immediately, and then shot into the 180s, beyond my 20k avg HR only a few minutes after that. I was in for a tough ride.

I was able to push on, my heart rate far too high, yet my perceived effort much lower, as I really was at what should be a very sustainable pace.

What surprised me most was the difficulty of the backside of Towne Pass. The frontside is well known as the most difficult climb in the 508 - yet the backside is certainly harder. I only started the climb from 2200 feet, which is at the junction with the road to Emigrant Pass, and it still is a 7.5 mile climb averaging 7%, with many steeper pitches. No wonder it's such a fast descent! As I was struggling up the climb, performing far worse than I would have liked, I thought of the masochists in the Badwater Ultramarathon - taking this climb on foot, in July, after already having spent the day travelling through Death Valley. Ridiculous. Someday...

The last climb up the frontside of Towne Pass was painful and the road was steeped in memories from last year's 508. By that point in the race, I was a cracked shell of myself, crawling up the mountain in over 2 hours, then spending 7 hours puking, and finally, recovering. This time was slightly less dramatic, and much faster, yet still my HR was insanely high (189!) and my power fell of quickly, averaging only 259. I could only hope that this would break my body in for the following day. It wasn't to be.

of fixies and the future

2010-04-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

Finishing the 508 was an overwhelming experience – and I consider it the biggest accomplishment of my cycling “career” to date. But the completion of this major milestone left me in need of a new goal – I know that just finishing the 508 again will never be as meaningful as that first time. And so it is with cycling – ultra cycling in particular - as a sport of progression, it is an endless search for that elusive sense of accomplishment that comes with proving to yourself that you can do what once seemed impossible. Every time you expand your known abilities, you have to make it that much harder on yourself the next time. I’ve followed this journey from the first time I rode home from college on my cheap mountain bike (Santa Cruz to Fremont), through centuries, double centuries, USCF and collegiate racing, 24 hour TTs, then the 508. So what’s next?

I left myself plenty of room for improvement in the 508. Although I finished, I had serious issues, mostly stemming from the high heart rate issue that I first identified last year in some doubles. On some rides, particularly when I’m trying to taper, and am in a well-rested state, I will find myself with a much higher heart rate for a given power than I would normally have – and this eventually leads to serious stomach issues, which are disastrous for long endurance events. I have made some strides in the past six months in identifying and working on this issue – and have found it primarily seems to be due to nutrition and electrolyte levels in the weeks prior.

To move on with my ultracycling, I will certainly have to figure out this issue. I once took it for granted that I would be completely wrecked at the end of a double. I now realize that I shouldn’t be. That if everything is right, I will slow, and my power output will decrease, but I will not end nauseated, cramping, and limping it in. I’ve found that correct and consistent use of Hammer fuels (Perpetuem, Heed and Hammer Gel) and electrolyte replacements (Endurolytes) to be crucial components in proper fueling – but if my body is overloaded to the point where my stomach is not processing, things will turn south no matter the quality of my fuel.

My main concern now is understanding, and optimizing, my body’s response to extreme endurance events. I think that figuring this out is best done concentrating on my own performance, without concerning myself so much with competition until I feel I have full understanding of my sometimes catastrophic meltdowns. So I’ve come up with a new way to push my own boundaries while still finding out more about my own physiological responses to ultras – all the while giving myself a bit of an excuse to not worry about competing at the very top. I’ll do them fixed gear!

That was a long-winded bit of explanation, but many people would ask – why I would ever want to even attempt ultras on a fixie. Well, simply, it’s a way for me to better explore my own abilities, while still pushing my boundaries. Also, riding the fixed gear is a whole new experience – wonderful in its own way. It is truly a pure experience, where I find that I feel more of a connection with the terrain, and I must work for every mile. Much of the 508, especially the first day, is fast descent or tailwind propelled flats – even in the weakened state I was in for the first day of the 2009 508, I averaged over 23 mph for 150 miles. Without aero equipment, or the ability to go much over 30 mph, there would be no such “free ride.”

My first event of the year would be the Death Valley Double, which I would do on the fixie. So how did it go? Report to come!

508 Time Lapse!

2009-10-13T07:45:00.001-07:00

More to come - annotations, soundtrack, etc..

This was taken on a cheap Canon digital camera with CHDK firmware. This allowed me to write a script which took a picture every 15 seconds. The camera was mounted on a GPS stand on the window. The below video was created by stitching these images together at 10 fps.

The video starts out with the crew driving up to meet me at the first support point 25 miles in, then providing leap frog support throughout the first day. It then documents my dramatic downfall on the slopes of Towne Pass. It resumes hours later and 10 miles down the road, early Sunday, around Stovepipe Wells, Death Valley, remaining unbroken until Twentynine Palms, right before the finish.

Rock Rabbit's First 508. Gratuitously Long Report.

2009-10-11T20:49:00.000-07:00

Following is the narrative report of my first Furnace Creek 508. I tried to keep the jargon and the numbers to a minimum. Obviously, I didn't try too hard to keep the words to a minimum! I'll be adding detailed data analysis of my ride later. Photos courtesy of Jordan Bickett, Alan Bickett, Chris Kostman and Ron Jones. More info on the race at the508.com

Meet Rock Rabbit

I opened my eyes. The hotel alarm clock's harsh red digits were staring at me. 5:40. Time to get up. In the next 48 hours, I was going to ride 509.5 miles through the California desert.

My crew chief Mavis "Ischyodus" Irwin, a veteran of the race, and also a veteran crew (for incredible ultra rider Cat "Bumblebee" Berge) was already up and out of the room, not sure where. My "DS" and racing buddy Alex was as well. My brother Jordan was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes. I pushed myself up and found that I was asking myself the unanswerable question that I had heard countless times in the past few weeks. "Are you ready?" Only one way to find out. I had slept ok, but I was a bit tired. I threw on the skinsuit and aero helmet I would wear for the first 200 miles or so, slathered on some sunscreen, and put my bottles on my bike. I knew I was forgetting something. My tires. I started trying to pump them. No air was going in. I took off and rescrewed on the valve extender (they're 404s). No luck. Great. I tried the other wheel. Same thing. Here's where I needed to take a deep breath, and either switch to my (much less aero) Ksyriums, or put a new tube in. No, race nerves and bullheaded obstinance kept Alex and me fiddling with these until it was time for me to roll to the start. I felt my tires, and said screw it - I only had to ride 25 miles on them, until I was meeting up with my crew and switching to the TT bike.

Tense, but jovial mood at the start line.

I put my underinflated tires out of my mind and rolled the quarter mile to the start hotel, where riders were congregating for the 7 am start. I saw a few buddies from doubles, Jon "Snoopy" Shellenbarger, Rob "Loggerhead Shrike" Treadwell, Kevin "Wolverine" Walsh, and Eric "Rooster" Wilson, who would be crewing for Kevin, and chatted a bit. I got a chance to meet Chris "Ram" Ragsdale, and said a quick hello to Michael "Alpine Ibex" Emde, competing this year for a 4th straight 508 win. We had met earlier in the year at the Davis 24 hour; we rode close much of the race and I got a glimpse into perfect crew/rider interactions - they have it down to a science. Before long race director Chris Kostman was saying a few words, the anthem was played, and we were off, amidst a police entourage, sirens blaring.

The first few neutral miles through Santa Clarita would be the only time we would ride together, and there was an unmistakably ominous air lurking behind the casual paced group ride. The familiar whir of wheels and gears in the crisp morning air was comforting. There were some jokes about the length of the ride, some introductions, and some more of the unanswerable "are you ready" queries. Dave "Mudcat" Holt, an incredibly strong ultra rider in his mid-50s, predicted to me that someone would jump out of the pack this year as a real standout. He added it could be me. Well that would be nice, I thought, and tried to steel myself against the upcoming ride, convincing myself to have at least as much confidence in myself as others did. I talked a bit with Michael Emde, and he mentioned I had the advantage of being close by, and could check out the course, the road conditions, etc. I smiled to myself at this; he'd done the 508 4 times, won it 3 times: sure I had gone and driven the course, and ridden some of it, but I didn't see my advantage. As it turned out, there was a sweep of the podium by Washington riders, even though there were only 4 in the race!

The warmup was soon over. The race was on. The road kicked up, and we turned left onto San Francisquito Canyon, the start of the first climb. Ragsdale and Emde took off. I surged a bit and kept an eye on them slowly gaining on me. My plan - my mantra - in the days leading up to the race was to pace myself early. I knew all too well that the 5-10 minutes I could gain by overexerting early would cost me much more later on. Then why, only 5 minutes into this climb, was I already feeling like I was going too hard?

Early on in San Francisquito Canyon

My heart was pounding in my chest. I looked down. My power was just where I had wanted it, between 275-300w. My heart rate was dashes on the display. Great. I fiddled with it a bit, and by the time it came up it was reading 185. No no no! My goal was to keep under 170. What is going on?? Nerves? Am I sick? I was well rested, my training had gone perfectly, I thought everything was in place. I tried soft-pedaling a bit to bring down my HR. Some of the riders from behind caught up to me on a flat section, and swarmed around me. We can't draft, and here they were pulling right in front of me and slowing down. I can't have this. I took off again when the grade increased. Of course, so did my heart rate. It flirted again with the 180s.

By this point my mind and body were locked in an intense dualistic Cartesian battle. But my mind was losing - as it usually seems to on the bike. I was furious with myself - I knew I was on the verge of throwing away my race in the first hour, but my legs kept turning...this pace shouldn't have been too hard; I was sitting right about my tempo endurance power- but my heart was still racing. I tried to justify - I would have a long tailwind section to recover, this would be over in less than an hour, I would be ok. But I was nervous. As I approached the community of Green Valley, my aunts, uncles and cousins that lived in the area cheered me on from the corner, and I smiled as I passed, trying to put my inner struggle out of my thoughts, and ease myself over what remained of the climb.

On the upper section of the climb, Brian "American Kestrel" Ecker, who had been slowly reeling me in, passed me. This was a test. I needed to let him go. I grit my teeth and kept my pace, eyeing my heart rate, trying to make it go down a few beats. OK. He can go. He shouldn't have been able to pass me. But he did. Keep in yourself, Adam. The climb ended. I tucked down the small descent toward the area where our crews were first meeting up with us. As I passed the crew area, I let myself forget about the hole I had dug myself so early, and enjoyed the moment - the crews cheered as I passed - there's so much good will between competitors in this race - and I saw the Mojave desert laid out in front of me, expansive and barren. We would be going far beyond the mountains that lined the bleak horizon.

Full stop! Approaching the first crew meetup

I finally came to my crew, at the road's high point before dropping into the desert, waiting and ready with my TT bike. It had only been an hour and a half since the start, but, preoccupied and worried with my performance on the climb, I felt like I had already gone through a lot. I hadn't. But seeing them comforted me. I unclipped and jumped on the TT, and was off in a few seconds, rocketing northward, the wind at my back and 480 more miles of road ahead.

Now we began the leap-frogging support that we would employ for the next 9 hours. To avoid choking up the roads too much before the riders have spread out, the race rules dictate that all support must occur from the side of the road before 6 pm - so the crews drive a bit ahead of the rider, prepare bottles, clothes, bikes, or any other demand, and hand them off as the rider passes.

Morning leapfrogging

I was feeling good on the TT bike. My power was around 200w, lower than I would have liked, but this kept my heart rate in the 150s, which I could live with. It was still too high. But I stopped thinking about this. I soaked in my surroundings, and started feeling almost euphoric. I was flying through the desert, at over 25 mph with little effort, in my aero TT position, with my crew, and everything I might possibly need, never more than quarter mile away. The reality of the what I was doing began to set in. And it was ok. I was ready. Bring it on.

My crew reminded me to pace myself, take my electrolyte capsules, drink my calorie mixes, keep my water intake up. We were a machine. Just had to keep everything running. I let my mind wander. I was climbing again before I knew it, this time, a moderate 1500 foot climb in the hills skirting the northwestern corner of the valley, through windmills and dry amber grass. This is the California I know well. I kept my pace at about my San Francisquito pace, a little lower, with my heart rate in the mid 170s. I figured this was ok : I wasn't nauseous, and I was enjoying myself. It was a beautiful day. Such seemingly trite observations come to me often while riding, but they mean something when you're out there. The end of the climb came quicker than expected, and with a sharp right turn, I began the quick, ruler-straight descent into Mojave.

Windmills Climb

I had passed Kestrel at the top of the climb, and he passed me again midway down. I was already going well over 40 - and figured I might as well rest my legs, rather than try to eke out a few more mph with a lot more effort. When I hit the flats again, as we zig-zagged our way to the other end of the valley, the varying wind directions made me notice I really wasn't at my best. I pressed on - nervously watching my heart rate climb into the upper 150s and above. Before long I was passing through the first checkpoint, in the strange, failed desert utopia California City. 83 miles, with about 5,000 feet of climbing in just under 4 hours. At least my speed didn't betray how I really felt.

My crew pulled in to check me in, and I blew past, only to flat my Hed3 moments later. After an inexplicably long amount of time (which was really only a few minutes) my crew arrived, we threw on a new wheel, and I was back on the road.

In this next section to Trona, it was starting to heat up a bit, though thankfully only into the mid 80s, and I began to feel stomach discomfort. I took more water, more electrolytes, and switched to Heed and Hammer Gel, which had no protein or fat and I hoped would be easier to digest than my standard Perpetuem mix. My crew handed me ice-filled knee-high pantyhose for me to stuff in my jersey, which felt great in the desert sun, and I kept drinking my fluids, hoping for my stomach to calm. The rolling desert roads flew by in the strong tailwind, and I was climbing up to the throwback towns of Randsburg and Johannesburg before I knew it. This climb was never steeper than around 5-6%, and I was able to meter my effort fairly well. Still - my heart was straining. I had now put over 1/5th of the ride in the bank - and was working on my second century. I began to see the crew of Charlie "Water Dragon" Engle occasionally. Charlie is a premier ultra athlete, and was going for the Death Valley Cup record - the combined time of the 508 and the insane mid-summer Badwater running ultramathon from Badwater Death Valley to Whitney Portal.

Rollers, desert, and a tailwind.

The Randsburg climbing section went well, and after a quick tour through the 1920s in Randsburg and Johannesburg, and a short jaunt on 395, I made the left onto Trona road, now on the path to Death Valley. The wind was still on my side, and there were some insanely speedy, yet gradual descents, where I topped off around 60 for minutes at a time. My mental unease and stomach issues melted again into euphoria as I stabilized my top tube with my knees and tucked, blasting to Trona.

Leapfrogging in the afternoon

Nearing Trona, I was back on flat terrain and reality began sinking in again. I wasn't feeling better. There was a long way to go. When your nutrition, hydration, and electrolyte levels are on the brink - and they always seem to be for me in events like this - minor depletion in any of them can cause drastic shifts in mood and perception. I felt this. I knew I was in trouble. A few miles out from time station 2 the road veered into the wind for a short bit, I stood up and immediately was shocked with a violent cramp in both quads. My concern was growing to a full panic. I popped more electrolytes. I reasoned that if I got some more sodium in me, I might be able to work through this. I had just done 130 miles on the TT bike, after all, and I had just recently gotten it back from frame repair, so had had no real time to endurance train on the aggressive position. The cramps may go away. The cramps did seem to subside a bit as I passed through the industrial desert wasteland of Trona. A weathered sign listed the churches of the community: there were 12! There didn't seem to be that much more more than 12 houses. I scanned the bleak surroundings, which seemed even more unforgiving in the harsh midday light. Images of the desert settlement from There Will be Blood flashed through my head, along with the demonic string section from Johnny Greenwood's eerie symphonic score.

My crew was filling up on gas ahead. I wanted them closer. Such things seemed to matter more in these moments. But I didn't really want to let them know the direness of my situation. I wondered what I should tell them. A gentle 1000 foot climb, the "Trona bump" was coming up in a few miles. I decided I would switch to the road bike here. It would spare my muscles, hopefully stressing my cramping VMOs a bit less, and give me a second to rest. I could stay on this bike until after Towne Pass, and then reassess my condition. I had spent only a few minutes off the bike (because of my flat) in 150 miles.

Around this time my crew showed up, we did the bike switch, and they outfitted me with the 2-way radio setup I had brought for the leapfrog section. Once in the heat of the race, you don't want to mess with extraneous things, but the moment we first connected on the radio I wish we had set it up way back at my first bike switch. "Roger that Rock Rabbit" Alex's voice came back in my ear, and it was awesome. I was in some hellish, solitary version of the tour. Alone, off the back, legs cramping, crawling along, but with Bruyneel in my ear, allez allez allez. I crested the Trona Bump without too much difficulty, albeit slowly. I was seeing Water Dragon's support truck more often now, I knew he must be closing in. By this point, I was beyond worrying about that. This was now my race against myself.

A twisty, fun descent followed, and gave way to more tailwind propelled flatlands. I had another puncture on this section...we switched out the wheel, and I took the opportunity to change out of my skinsuit into a normal kit, and switch out my aero helmet for my standard helmet. I grabbed a few slices of bread in a vain attempt to calm my increasingly restive stomach. I was well aware that I was pedalling ever closer toward a likely doom on the slopes of Towne Pass, and the Welcome to Death Valley sign only reinforced this (its placement is strange, as it is located in the Panamint Valley). Yet still there was only one direction to go. What were any of us in this mad race but lemmings, trying to find some sort of fleeting self-discovery on a foolish, pointless trek between two points in the middle of nowhere? Shut up Adam, you're getting loopy. Take some more electrolytes. Don't think. Turn the pedals.

The approach to Towne Pass

And then it came. The right turn onto CA-190. The highway itself is spectacular, snaking over mountain passes and through desert, from Lone Pine at the foot of Mt Whitney through Death Valley. But scenery is not on the mind in times of crisis like this. The winds had shifted. I was near knocked over as I began the approach to the bottom of the pass. The road followed the alluvial fan gradually up the mountain until it curved out of sight. It didn't look too bad. The mountains were dry and desolate, and they rose 3500 feet above us, but were not too imposing. That didn't matter; I had ridden it before. I knew it was one tough climb. 10 miles at over 6%, with the middle miles above 9%. At this point I had finished a 9 hour double century with over 10,000 feet of climbing. But what was behind me didn't matter in the slightest. My legs were cramping. My stomach was sloshing with undigested fluids. This was not good. I stopped at the bottom and let Mavis massage my legs, giving myself time to breathe and collect my thoughts. The fact that I wanted to stop and rest here was sign enough. I should be charging up the climb as I had a month prior on my route scouting trip, the exciting prospect of a 20 mile descent into Death Valley leading me on and over the summit. Instead I was sitting in my car on the side of the road, watching the race come at me from behind. Water Dragon pedalled by.

Grinding away up Towne

I got back on my bike, my stoppage time now over doubled from that 15 minute break. I put my head down and half closed my eyes, not seeing anything but slowly moving pavement. 15 minutes later, I needed to stop again. My legs were jello, except for the occasional excruciating spasm. I collected myself for 5 minutes, and Mudcat passed by. This spurred me to get back on the bike, and I crawled up the climb, pushing just around 6 mph on a 7% grade. A cramp stopped me again, and I limped up to my car, trying to avoid my increasingly alarmed crew, who thought I just needed to be goaded back onto the bike, that I'd be ok. I managed to get back on and complete the whole 2 mile, 9% section in one go, inching up it at under 5 mph. I collapsed into my car again. Leah "Mighty Mouse" Goldstein, Israeli national champion in the Road Race and TT, calmly rode past. I moved to get up, but fell back into my seat as I threw up what looked like 2 water bottles worth. I knew it had been coming. And now my stomach was relieved - empty. Maybe I would be all good now. From my past experience, I knew better than that. But what else could I think? Desert Locust and Wolverine pedalled by. Someone was playing Shania Twain on their roof mounted speakers. I tried to smile and greet the riders as they passed. It was an empty feeling - one of resignation - of complete removal from the race.

Sunset, nearing the top of Towne Pass

It was now approaching dusk, and we put lights on the bikes, and the extra reflectors and blinking lights on the car. I took down some fluids and bread and began working on the remaining 1000 feet of climbing. The sun had gone down and I had puked once more by the time I dragged my broken body up to the Towne Pass sign at the summit. I was sick again, and in considerable pain from the cramping. Emotionally I was numb. This was exactly how I felt when I dropped out of the Devil Mountain Double earlier in the year, and I ended up in the hospital that night. How was I going to save this one? My crew asked me to pull over so they could switch drivers. I obliged, getting off the bike briefly to stretch. As I unclipped and tried to bring my leg over the saddle, it siezed up and I near fell over. I needed to lie down. I stumbled to the car, sat in the front seat and retched out everything I had tried to eat over the last segment of the climb. I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. We were going to have to stay up here. I was dangerously dehydrated. My stomach was not keeping down fluids. My legs were useless.

Mavis and Jordan. Our parking place for 7 hours. Hmm, what's the splotch on the dirt?

Minutes turned into hours. No one mentioned quitting. I wasn't going to bring it up. I heard my crew chattering at points about writing down numbers, and figured it may have to do with hospitals or dropping out somehow. I ignored them. I had one concern. Get water down, and keep it down. A doctor, who was crewing for another rider, came and checked me out. He reassured that I would be fine - that I just needed to get fluids processing again. That's just what I had thought. If only it were as easy as willing it. Every once in a while Alex would try and convince me to just get back out on the bike. We could go from there. No. There were gale force winds out there. I still was nauseous. I wasn't getting out there until I knew I was staying out there. Having to puke or a debilitating cramp in the middle of that descent is not something I wanted to deal with.

My crew wanted me to get out there - but they were patiently waiting. I can't thank them enough for how they handled this situation. None of us knew what to do. But I felt like I finally had a plan. Stay calm - get the fluids down. When they stay down, get the hell back out there. I might actually be able to save this one. That's part of ultra cycling - working through whatever's thrown your way. Analytic problem solving is actually a component of the sport - when you ask your body to do absurd things, you need to be ready to handle it when it balks at your requests.

It was after midnight, and the tail end of the pack had already straggled through, when I finally felt like my gut may be working again. I began drinking more , getting calories in, electrolytes, and they stayed down - I was finally able to satisfy my body's desperate need for everything it had been rejecting for the past hours. As the nutrients worked their way through my body I could feel them rejuvenating me. Outside was cold, dark and blustery - not exactly an inviting time to begin the 5,000 foot descent down to the Valley, but I could do this. I had to pee! Yes. I was hydrated. I bundled up, even putting on Alex's sweatshirt, having no idea what to expect. I had been so low for so long, it didn't matter. We were finally moving. I relieved myself, switched my lights on, and we cruised down the descent. The way my bike was handling, I could tell we were going over 50, although I couldn't see anything but a narrow patch of pavement in front of me. It was thrilling. I was back.

We hit the valley floor and I shed all the extra clothes I hadn't really needed in the first place. It was a warm evening, and I went with just my jersey and bibs. The full moon was high above, and our spirits were soaring. I looked back to Alex, driving the crew car, and we knew this was happening. We were going to do this. We had been through the purgatory of Towne, and we had survived. We had a purpose, and we only had 275 mi to the finish. He drove up alongside to pass off a bottle, and in my joyous carefree mindset I declared "this is badass!" .. the crew smiled in agreement.

There was a headwind, but it wasn't bad enough to dampen the mood. I got in the aerobars and powered through. I felt great. I looked down, and my heart rate was a relaxed 135, at the same power that had been sending me into the 170s earlier in the race. Perfect. My body was back. My mind was back. Let's finish this. Death Valley's strange, beautiful landmarks eased by, sand dunes, the devil's cornfield, Stovepipe Wells, barely visible, reflecting a pale glow from the full moon. We reached the race's namesake and halfway point, TS3 at Furnace Creek, surprised to see that the race staff was still there, ready to write down - Rock Rabbit : 3:19 AM - as we passed.

Wheel change in Death Valley

Soon after the time station, the route climbs a small hill and bears right onto Badwater Road. As I followed the turn to the south, a sudden wind gust threw me toward the center line. I tightened my grip and hunkered down, chin near my bars. It was 45 miles to the start of the climb to Jubilee and Salsberry passes, and the exit of Death Valley. I was now moving at 10 mph, on what appeared to be flat ground. I had expected an easy night spin over the small rollers down to the climb. Looked like I was in store for something entirely different.

I had caught up to the tail end of the race, and was now passing riders and crew. Most were parked on the side of the road, perhaps trying to wait out the windstorm. Some were pedalling, some were walking, leaning into the wind, trying to keep from being blown off the road. I felt alive, I felt invigorated, I was clawing my way through the valley despite everything it was throwing at me. I embraced the wind. I was thrown from one side of the lane to the other, but I went with it, kept the pedals turning, tried to keep my aero helmet down on my back, although the wind grabbed and wrenched at it. I tried briefly to ride my TT bike, but my left knee wasn't having the more aggressive position. I had been in the wind an hour. I was only averaging around 11 mph. Sand, dust, and rocks sprayed in the air. I tried to yell to my crew as they pulled alongside, probably about how ridiculous the conditions were, but realized neither of us would ever be able to hear each other. I shook a bottle, and got back a full bottle of Perp. We'd have to use gestures.

And we grinded through the valley, the wind swirling and gusting against the mountain faces directly to our left, bouncing back on all sides, pushing us back where we came from. I tried to relax in the wind - move with it, through it, let it throw me from side to side in the lane, as long as I kept moving foward. It wasn't going to stop me. We would get to the climb, we'd get out of this forsaken valley, and there would be other obstacles to conquer. As dawn crept over the mountains and spilled into the valley, I thought back to the start line, almost a day earlier, and what lay between then and now. I smiled as I reached the sign for the long abandoned Ashford Mills ruins. The rocks were awash in an pinkish-orange glow. The climb was nearing. I was thankful to be on my bike for this moment. The winds were beginning to soften, enough for me to motion up my crew and give them a "good morning." It hadn't been easy to reach this sunrise for any of us.

Sunrise and full moon, exiting Death Valley

The climb of Jubilee and Salsberry Passes is pleasant and well graded, about 15 miles between 4 and 5%. The wind had now completely abated, and I sat up and spun the climb, enjoying the moment, and conserving for the long day still ahead. As I made my way toward the summit, crew car after crew car passed by, abandoning their 508 bid, beaten to submission by the brutal conditions in Death Valley. The mass exodus was a sad sight; but it reminded me how happy I was to still be on the bike. I crested the climb after an hour and a half, relaxed into my aerobars and let gravity do the work. My legs appreciated the break; it had been over 7 hours of battling headwinds and hills since I had been able to coast.

As I passed through Shoshone and TS 4, I thought back to family and friends who were watching the time splits online - I hoped these would be updated - I wanted everyone to know I was still going. I was ok. I didn't quit.

Headed to Baker

As I hit a headwind again on the long slog to Baker, I realized the toll the night, and the previous day, had taken. I had been up for over 28 hours (with a few fitful moments of sleep), riding for 20, and I was tired. My crew must have been filling up on gas, and I started to get anxious, looking back, seeing only empty road. The road was a slight incline with a headwind, and I was dragging. I needed calories, I wanted my crew. It was 10 more miles to the top of Ibex Pass - and I begain eyeing the side of the road, thinking about taking a quick break. Don't do it. I looked back again, to see my crew right behind me. Relief washed over me and I forgot about stopping. I waved them up. Perpetuem please! Ice! I gulped down the liquid calories. Still tasted good. Most people gag at the thought of such a long ride with a near liquid-only diet - but I don't think they've ever tried it. It's far more important to minimize stress on your stomach and keep processing calories than to have gourmet solid meals on the bike.

Another fast, effortless descent followed after cresting Ibex Pass, and the road to Baker stretched out in front of us, miles visible at a time. I was feeling good again, and the endless straight road didn't bother me, the miles were ticking away. I would get to the finish. I passed more riders on the way to Baker - including my friend Kevin Walsh - and they looked to be struggling. Many would drop out at Baker, mile 385. The long night in Death Valley affected everyone - and was the main reason for the over 50% DNF rate. Riders who quit at Baker may have expected another 120 torturous miles of headwinds over the hilly terrain. The winds seemed to have been shifting, and I was starting to hold out hope for a tailwind.

As I made my way through Baker, TS 5, my tailwind dreams - which I certainly didn't really expect - were beginning to be realized. I crossed the 15 freeway - teeming with traffic between LA and Vegas - and as I headed toward the 2,700 foot climb leading to Kelso, a faint tailwind whipped at my back. I couldn't believe my luck. More crew cars were ahead, and I powered up to each one in turn, using them as carrots , a mental diversion to the length of the 23 mile climb. I felt like I was hammering, but my fatigued legs were only capable of around 200 watts. That was ok...my heart was calm, staying in the 130s, I wasn't cramping, I wasn't bonking, I was happy. I never would have dreamed that I would be enjoying this section!

Near the top of the climb, the freshly laid, smooth pavement gives way to gnarled, ancient, pavement substitute: I imagined the pavers throwing rocks over the road, dumping buckets of tar on their rock piles, and calling it a day. I had not worn gloves up to this point, and my hands had started to numb. But by the time I picked my way up to the top of the climb, dodging a pothole here, razor sharp rock there, my hands were smarting. I pulled over and added gloves, vest, and warmers. I tried to shake the mix of pain and numbness out of my hands and got ready for the descent. I wanted to bomb it - but I didn't want to taco my wheels, and my hands hurt. So I babied it on the descent, trying to weave through the line with the smoothest pavement - I thought of Boonen in Paris Roubaix. Can't have been as bad as that! Man up. Finally the road condition recovered, and I blasted through Kelso - really a set of train tracks and a museum - and headed up the climb to Amboy. Another gentle climb of around 12 miles, through the beautiful Mojave Preserve. The granite outcroppings the climb passes through were catching the afternoon sun - the sun would be setting before too long! The climb topped out and we stopped to put lights on the bike. Where had the day gone? It hadn't seemed too long ago that the sun was rising in Death Valley. Only one long descent, and one big climb to go. I was giddy - the finish line was now a palpable reality. I took a quick look around to enjoy the view, and jumped back on the bike.

In the Granite Mountains climbing above Kelso.

The pavement was smooth now - and the descent to the last time station near Amboy was long. I just relaxed in the aerobars, crusing at around 30. I was feeling good, but no need now to kill myself, I still had one climb to go. I got the thumbs up as we passed - meaning no penalties, and no need to stop. So we rolled through the time station, and headed west on the old route 66, until meeting up with Amboy Road, which would take us all the way to Twentynine Palms.

I handed back my bottles for a refill, grabbed the strange but tasty mixture of snack foods they handed to me - nilla wafers, goldfish, and pretzels, took some bites of banana, and headed up toward the last big climb of the day - the curiously named Sheephole. I asked Alex for the champagne - I was getting ready for the celebration - and mentally ready to be done. But there were still over 3 hours of riding left. I knew this, but kept pretending with myself that it was already all over. As the sun went down, I powered up Sheephole - standing up most of the way, feeling awesome. It still took most of an hour to climb, and I welcomed the dark, high speed, descent that followed. When the road curved westward and began its last gradual ascent to the finish line, a nasty headwind reared up to greet me. I knew this was coming - although for some reason I envisioned the section as 10 miles. It's 23. The headwind was nasty - and I stood up and tried my best to hammer through it. The road is straight and unremarkable - and in the dark there were no real landmarks or progress markers. My Garmin mount had broken in the rough pavement section so I didn't have any data to look at. Maybe it was better, I just needed to suffer through this last section, and bring it home. An eternity later we arrived at the left turn on Utah Trail, which took us to CA-62 and the last 5 mile trek, through rolling hills and the whole length of Twentynine Palms, to the finish. The city is amazingly long and spread out, and the 5 miles dragged on - through intersection after intersection - over hills - until finally the Best Western sign was visible in the distance. Looking back, I see why it seemed so long: between the headwind and uphill, I averaged only 13 mph for those last 23 miles. Passing crew cars, perhaps heading from the finish, cheered as they rolled by. And then we were turning left, into the driveway. Lots of people. More cheers. And I was done.

An immense feeling of accomplishment welled up in me as I crossed the finish. Not even a twinge of disappointment for my performance - which by the numbers was well below my target. That didn't matter anymore. My parents were there - my sister was there, it was wonderful to see them. My crew hopped out of the car and jumped on me. We had done it. I got my medal and jersey. We took pictures. I chatted a bit with crew and folks about - about my remarkable recovery from an almost certain DNF. Other crews had seen me during my stay on Towne - and it meant a lot to see their enthusiasm and happiness for my turnaround.

Finally! Rolling across the line.

I was starving - and attacked the leftover KFC that had been my family's dinner. First substantive food in 2 days! We all then quickly went to bed. The next morning was the post-race breakfast - a hearty affair put on by a local church, with tasty, freshly made eggs, hash browns, and pancakes. Everyone was in good spirits, whether they finished or not, and it was a great end to what the best race weekend I've ever had. As we all said our goodbyes and headed home, I was left wondering what this race really meant to me. Such a race really does provide for introspection, but it's not easy to process the results. What I do know is that I am deeply grateful to my crew, and to my friends and family. Because of them I was able to find in myself what I needed to persevere and pull through - and complete what I consider the biggest single athletic accomplishment of my 25 years.

Giving my very relived mom a hug at the finish

Chatting with the Water Dragon crew - great folks!

As has been typical of my progression with cycling - I may soon look for bigger goals than completion of a race of this length, as the novelty of the accomplishment fades. A large part of the significance of these events is proving, in the face of doubt, that you can do it. But even so, I know this will be a major landmark along the journey.

One thing is safe to say: I'm coming back next year!

38 hours and 16 minutes out on the road.
Just over 30 hours moving.
Just over 9 hours to the base of Towne Pass. (~200 miles)
Almost 9 hours before leaving the top of Towne Pass. (~10 miles)
19.5 hours from the top of Towne Pass to the finish. (~300 miles)
509.5 miles.
27,000 feet climbed.
115,000 pedal strokes.
18,500 calories burned.
Around 6,000 calories ingested (that didn't come back out!)
4-5 pounds lost (makes sense with the caloric deficit above)
Numb hands and feet for 1 week.

Done.

2009-10-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

38 hours and 16 minutes after departing from the start line in Santa Clarita, I rolled into the Twentynine Palms Best Western to surprisingly raucous cheers. A 508 finisher. The journey may have taken a lot longer than expected, but what a ride.

Team Rock Rabbit!

My crew: Alex, Jordan, and Mavis were absolutely incredible. THANK YOU!

Lots more to come.

And it all comes down to this.

2009-10-01T09:31:00.000-07:00

I am running out of things to do. Good thing. In 45 hours I'll be racing. No matter what happens, this will be an extraordinary weekend. I pick up my brother tonight. I pick up my crew chief, Mavis "Ischyodus" Irwin tomorrow morning on the way up to Santa Clarita. Directeur sportif Alex will meet us in the afternoon. The race is on at 7 am on Saturday.

I was going to write more about the details of the planning and preparation - and maybe I will assess how the logistical aspects worked out - after the race. But really, it's all unremarkable. Bike maintenance. Car maintenance. Buying stuff. Organizing stuff. Drawing out plans. These details have consumed every spare moment for me in these weeks leading up to the race, but they're not what this is about. So what is it about? I ask myself that often.

There's the simple visceral pleasure of turning the pedals on roads way out there.
There's the striving for a goal.
There's the enduring through suffering, and overcoming of adversity to achieve this goal.
Then there's the progression of these goals ... and the strengthening of yourself as an athlete.

The excitement of the unknown - of pushing your limits - but then expanding them. Of being able to do feats that are mind-boggling for the vast majority of people - that were even mind-boggling for yourself in the recent past. This gives a sense of purpose to life that can all too easily be mired in the drudgery of the everyday. Now.. is riding 500 miles really sufficient "meaning"? It'll do for now.

This is my take on the lure of ultracycling. The 508 embodies this for me at this point in my cycling "career".

One Week Out.

2009-09-24T11:22:00.001-07:00

The Furnace Creek 508 is "only" 509.5 miles. Just 2.5 times the length of a double. But it's much more than that. This is obviously true at the physical exertion level. But the addition of a crew brings in all kinds of logistical issues. There's the in depth planning. There's the endless need for more stuff. No longer are you limited to one bike, and whatever minimal added things you want to bring with. In a way, this makes the adventure that much more epic - because you are forced to put much more into it, and this in itself gives the race more importance. I've never prepared so much or cared so much about the outcome of an athletic event than I have for this race. But as much as I love buying new bike gear - part of me wishes there was a way to do it without so much stuff. Alright, I guess I could do it with less stuff. But the need for support, and all the extra complications that come with it, is still there. I can't wait to be out there on the road - all of the prep completed - only having to worry about the next pedal rotation.

Many people don't understand how bike racing is a team sport. But what may be even more surprising is that solo ultra endurance racing is also very much a team sport, but in a different sense. Our crews are absolutely essential - and I do look forward to sharing this experience with mine.

Pics below of my climbing bike (decked out w/ TT wheels) and my support car rack setup. Yep, I'm not using a van!

I am... Rock Rabbit

2009-09-13T10:52:00.001-07:00

Every 508 racer chooses a totem. Mine is Rock Rabbit. Also known as the pika - a little high-altitude, hay-collecting rodent with a funny shrill squeak. I saw a lot of these guys on the John Muir Trail last summer. I have a tendency to be a bit of a rabbit - going out too hard and paying for it later - and this is something that I'll definitely have to watch during my race. It's difficult to transition from pacing for crits, road races and time trials to pacing for ultras. I've found that I can be totally comfortable with a pace that in reality is way too hard for a long event. Keeping constant tabs on power levels and heart rate is key for this.

Tapering? Not yet...

2009-09-07T21:10:00.000-07:00

My plan was to begin tapering for the 508 after my intense week of training. But I'm still 26 days out, I was feeling great, and I needed to take my newly built up Scott Addict on a long ride (pictures to come). End result? A very enjoyable ~8 hour, 143 mile ride out in East County, 8800 feet of climbing, in warm temperatures (probably around 90).

I didn't have my power today (don't have my Quarq installed on my new bike yet) , but I was able to approximate my endurance pace by keeping my HR around 160 on climbs (around 80% of my max). After years of training almost exclusively with power, I'm learning that, at least for ultra training and racing, heart rate may be a more important pacing tool. Today, despite the heat and a relatively fast pace, keeping my heart rate low kept my fluids and calories processing, and I felt great all the way through the ride. It's looking good for the 508!

At this point, I know that there isn't really enough time to make significant fitness gains - and I just need to be concerned with maintaining fitness and coming into the race well rested. But I do think I can still make gains with heat acclimation, and with fine tuning my hydration and nutrition plan. Really, I'm just enjoying being out on the bike, and I don't think that's harmful at this point.

508 Training Week Report

2009-08-31T10:40:00.000-07:00

508: T -33 days. But the last 10 days have been excellent preparation. I've now driven or ridden basically all of the 508 course, gained more insight into my handling of heat, how to keep my fluids and calories processing (and how NOT to), and gotten in some big miles. Will add writeups, data, etc. as I have time. Took 5 days off, and in that time squeezed in over 700 miles, finished my 508 recon, and was a groomsman at my friend's wedding. Overview of my training vacation. From Friday Aug 21 - Sunday Aug 30. More detailed info with power numbers to follow...

25 mi 1500 ft - Spin ride on my La Jolla training loops
115 mi 4300 ft - An out and back - between north of Amboy and 29 Palms. It was hot, muggy, and even stormed for a while. I ended up severely dehydrated. Puked. Needed 4L of IV.
53 mi 5200 ft - 508 route - climb south out of Kelso, and Towne Pass
118 mi 12,500 ft - Similar to Day 1 of Everest Challenge - Rock Creek and South Lake climbs.
101 mi 4,000 ft - Double day - "easy" ride out to the bay, Calaveras loop, rode with my Dad back from his work.
78 mi 4,300 ft - Ride through Palomares, Redwood, Pinehurst, Moraga, back over Palomares.
155 mi 12,100 ft - Epic ride - Felter Rd, Mt Hamilton, Mines Road, Palomares, Calaveras. HOT!
32 mi 400 ft - Flat spin ride down to the bay and back
38 mi 2,000 ft - Calaveras loop with my dad
63 mi 4,000 ft - Calaveras + Palomares

778 mi >50,000 ft climbing

Preparing for the 508

2009-08-21T21:47:00.001-07:00

I'm lazy. I created this blog a while ago, with the idea that I would write up all my epic rides, post my power data, provide my analysis of the data, and chronicle my ultra cycling progression. Almost half a year later, and none of that has happened.

But now, the 508 is just 6 weeks away, and I've cleared out a week of work to get in a serious training session. I'm thinking of one last brutal week before I start a long taper. A perfect time to actually start writing. The 508 is a non-stop 509.5 (hmm..) mi ultracycling race - really just a very long time trial - running from Santa Clarita through Death Valley to 29 Palms. It's also my biggest goal of the year; well, the biggest goal of my athletic life to this point. And it's really kind of terrifying.

I rode quite a few double centuries throug the early part of the year. I did my first 24 hour in early May, and despite some disastrous mechanical issues, I was pleased with passing 400 miles. And I realized I may actually have a shot at riding over 500 miles. I did two doubles after that, the Central Coast Double and the Heartbreak Double, and I ended up cracking in both of them. This is when I realized I had been running (ok, cycling..) myself into the ground. I started taking it easy. At about this time, work was getting pretty hectic. I managed to get in a 300 mi ride (Grand Tour), but dropped at this point instead of finishing the Quad Century. After this, a long business trip ended with me off the bike for 10 long days. It was nearing mid-July when I realized that the 508 was less than 3 months away, and I was nowhere near as prepared as I needed to be.

I started preparing. The urgency of the ever shrinking gap between me and the start line in Santa Clarita proved to be motivation enough. I rode a chunk (near Trona) of the 508 course in 105 degree temperatures. I speed-hiked Mt Whitney, then rode up to Whitney Portal (4700 ft climb) after. I climbed Horseshoe Meadows and Whitney Portal the next day (~60 mi, 10,000 ft climbing) I did a century comprised solely of Torrey Pines climbs (30 climbs, >13,000 feet gain). I climbed Mt. Soledad by every major route (14 climbs, ~70 miles on the mountain, 9500 ft). I rode 2 non-stop centuries on short circuit courses of .6 mi and 1.5 mi to work on mental tenacity. I rode 90 mi to the start of an organized century starting at 2 AM, rode the century with my dad, got a ride home, and then did a 1.5 hour intensity ride upon returning. But I still am completely in doubt whether I'm actually ready for this race.

I leave tomorrow to drive up to 29 Palms and ride the end part of the course. I think I'll keep driving North from there, maybe through Death Valley along the 508 course, and eventually make it up my parent's home in the Bay Area. Forecast for 29 Palms? 95, with 30% chance of thunderstorms. Nice.