I had some serious misgivings going into this
race. The execution of the event has had a rocky
past. My own performance was also in question.
I had only done two races so far this season
and training for 100 mile races was a new experiment
for me.
The morning of, I nervously shoveled oatmeal
into my mouth as my race gut left me running
to the bathroom a few times. My traveling companions,
Keith and Topher, calmly completed their preparations
resigned to the fact we were all in for a very
long day.
In the pre-race meeting they tell us there's
going to be a two mile roll out to the dam before
the race starts. With the meeting adjourned,
we the racers started rolling out before the
motorcycle lead could get in front of us. Once
he was there, the roll out got faster and faster
as we rolled on. At this point my goal was to
simply keep it close to Topher. He was directly
in front of me and I stayed glued to his wheel.
At the dam, the pace quickened and we began
to climb. It was a short climb with a little
downhill and another climb. A funny thing happened.
I pulled away from Topher. I didn't know how
far, but I knew he wasn't keeping pace with
my climb. Was I going too hard? Was it too early?
Nope. I felt good and comfortable, so I let
it go. Soon we hit trail or at least a double
track path with some short ups and downs. The
guys around me were slower on the ups and downs
then I was comfortable with, so I raged by.
Literally I raged. Something woke up in me and
I knew I could do this. The double track turned
to singletrack and got really fast. It was swoopy,
tight and smooth. I turned on the iPod and let
it rip.
All my previous thoughts of despair faded as
I began to put together a strategy. I knew the
majority of the singletrack was in the beginning
of the race. From what I heard there was roughly
thirty miles of singletrack in the beginning
and the rest was fire/gravel road (at least
that's how I laid it out in my oxygen deprived
mind). With the singletrack flowing as well
as it was, I knew I could hammer it like a sprint
race, then use the roads to recover and continue
the race at some kind of steady road pace. I
had done most of my training on the road. If
I could put some kind of gap on the competition
in the singletrack, I would surely shine on
the road. I know. It makes me cringe as a mt.
biker to say that, but I'm also a racer. You
do what it takes.
One by one I picked off racers in the woods.
In the distance I saw Doug of Vicious Cycles.
Keeping him in sight became the next goal. In
my pursuit of crushing riders (each pass I would
second guess myself, am I going too strong,
can I keep this up, then I'd get stuck behind
someone else and have to motor around them)
I latched onto a worthy adversary. Not sure
who he was, but he raced for Independent Fabrication.
He was pacing some guy in a red kit that I could
tell was not quite as fast as we wanted to go,
but fast enough to keep a steady pace ahead
of those behind us. The three of us hammered
it. Up and down we kept it pegged sliding through
the turns and airing off the bumps. Eventually
it got to be too much for the guy in red. He
pulled off and let us go.
Up some climbs, we caught another group of riders.Leading
the charge was some big guy in white on a single
speed. He was killing the hills, powering his
way through riders in front of him. I remember
thinking I'd met my match and would happily
stay behind him. Also in this group was Vicious
Doug. We all formed a loose knit train and rolled
on together. The big SSer leading the way. Through
a dipping turn to the right, Doug lost it and
went down hard. I asked if he was ok as I went
by him standing on the side of the trail. He
said yes and I rolled away. There were at least
five of us in this little group. All five of
us missed the same turn and rode off course
for about five minutes before realizing our
mistake and turning around. Being at the back
of the group now put me in the front. I hit
it hard knowing this train would be riding my
ass pretty hard to make up for the mistake.
I also realized I had a lot of lost ground to
make up - people I previously passed that I
now had to pass again. Vicious Doug was one
of them. I kept waiting for the train to strike.
I expected the big SSer to plow right through
me. Never happened. It actually got quiet behind
me.
Mile twenty-three was the first aid station.
Doug was rolling out as I was rolling in. I
stopped to get water. As my bottles were being
filled, the big SSer rolled through without
stopping. Refueled, I got back in the chase.
It didn't take long till I caught up with Doug
and the big guy. There were a series of short
switch-backs we were climbing. The big guy was
marching right up them. Doug was having trouble.
Finally Doug stopped halfway up one and got
off. I rolled by with the big guy in my sights.
I caught his wheel just as the trail turned
into a roller coaster and Traffic's "Dear
Mr. Fantasy" came through my headphones.
Mr. Fantasy was dead on. The big guy hammered
the course. We were rolling up and down and
around in unison. Sliding and ripping through
turns at full bore. Suddenly the fun stopped
as we had to get off for a hike-a-bike. The
big guy threw his bike on his back and started
climbing. I chose to push. At the top he turned
slightly. The sideburns gave it away. The big
guy killing it was Dejay Birtch. Through a little
chit-chat, I learned he was hurting. Something
wasn't right with his crank, shoe or pedal.
Either way, climbing shot pain into his one
leg. Out of the woods and onto some roads and
double track, I could see it was affecting him.
I pulled away and started eating. In the singletrack
there wasn't much time for nutrition. I made
up for the last three hours in about twenty
minutes stuffing my face with everything from
my pockets and riding on.
I rolled into aid station two at thirty-nine
miles. One of the biggest things I learned from
the 101 last year was to make my aid station
stops short. I got my drop bag and started replenishing
my endurolytes and cytomax while eating some
watermelon. Dejay rolled in soon after me. Standing
next to me was Jeff Kerkove resupplying himself.
Part of me was freaking out because I was already
so far ahead. I just shouldn't be at this level,
while the other part of me was saying shut-up,
you're killing it. Keep it up. As I was headed
out, my worst fear came to be. Topher rolled
in with a big smile on his face.
Damn! I said, "I didn't expect you to be
here."
He replied, "Funny. I was thinking the
same thing about you."
I agreed and left as Doug was rolling in behind
him. Dejay rolled out behind me. He was close
enough that I could see him back there. Besides
a gnarly short singletrack section in the woods
behind the aid station, we hit the roads and
started climbing. I would get off to walk, look
back and see Dejay do the same. Good. If we're
both walking the hills, I only have to worry
about everything else to keep ahead. It wasn't
long before I couldn't see him anymore.
On the roads I started yo-yoing with another
Independent Fabrication geared rider. We kept
this up through aid station three at mile forty-nine.
I got out before he did and before anyone else
showed up. Shortly out of the aid station was
a huge trail climb. I spent most of the time
walking, while the IF guy granny geared it and
left me behind. (This is where it gets a little
foggy for me.) At the top there was more singletrack.
By this point, I was kind of sick of the effort
required to ride singletrack. The roads were
quick with a nice breeze. The singletrack in
the woods took a lot of effort and the air wasn't
moving really well. I rode conservatively through
the trails and over the rocks. The last thing
I wanted was to wreck fifty miles in and have
to contend with wreck induced cramps and pain.
It was hard enough dealing with those things
on their own. I think this is where I passed
Kerkove. I thought for sure he would catch me
back and pass since I spent most of the time
off the bike and carefully running through the
slick rock gardens. I never saw him again. We
were back out on the roads and I was yo-yoing
again with the IF guy. I felt good spinning
down the roads. He obviously wasn't and I lost
sight of him as he dropped off.
This particular part of the course was sort
of a dead zone. The previous aid station was
at mile forty-nine. The next one was at mile
seventy-four. The last ten miles to the aid
station was supposedly a flat rail-to-trail.
Twenty-five miles was a long way to go in the
middle of the day with only three water bottles.
Around one o'clock I joyously hit the rail trail.
I had a bottle and a half to last ten miles.
I set in to a fifteen mile an hour pace on the
rail trail. If I could hold that, I'd easily
make the rest area before two o'clock. I pedaled
and pedaled and pedaled. Five minutes went by,
ten, fifteen, then twenty. It was flat and grueling.
I drank all my water and ate some food. Five
miles in, my pace dropped to thirteen then twelve
miles an hour. I still had five miles to go.
Twinges of cramp started to hit as I was out
of water and quickly getting behind on my hydration
needs. I kept looking over my shoulder expecting
some geared rider to catch me in the flat wasteland.
Never saw any behind me. Shortly before the
end I saw one ahead. Inspired, I cranked the
pace up, rolled past him without a fight and
hit the fourth aid station to restock with my
last drop bag.
The station workers warned me I was heading
into an oncoming storm. I asked how far the
next aid station was and how much singletrack
was left. They said not a whole lot of singletrack
and the aid station was roughly twelve or thirteen
miles. At the pace I'd been running, I could
finish in the next two hours and be done with
this mess around four o'clock. Twelve or thirteen
miles to the next aid station was perfect. That
would split the last twenty-five miles up nicely.
Shortly after leaving the aid station, the storm
hit. It poured hard, but I kept at it. The rain
lasted only a little while. Unfortunately, so
did its cooling effects. The air quickly was
thick and muggy again.
The trail turned up a road with a dead end sign.
I knew what this meant. I'd seen them before
on this course. We'd ride the gravel road to
its termination then take some trail or old
logging road through the woods to the next road.
The old road was hardly ridable or I hardly
felt like riding it. The air wasn't moving at
all in the woods. I started the slide down.
Watching the time, I could see my pace was slipping.
My head was throbbing and cramps were setting
in. I drank and drank some more. I turned off
my iPod. The day's effort was catching up with
me. Earlier when walking hills, I was careful
to cut the switchbacks tight so no one below
could see me and get inspired for an attack.
I didn't care now. I stumbled and fumbled my
way up the hills. Previously I would ride the
false flats between the steeper pitches. Now
I just walked. Walking wasn't helping me recover.
I just got hotter. I kept doing the mileage
math in my head based on my current GPS reading.
It wasn't working out like I wanted it to. Every
little mile kept dragging and the aid station
didn't seem close enough. I kept drinking and
was quickly running out of water. My stomach
felt nauseous (the term boo-boo belly came to
mind, but I squashed it). Was this the end?
Finally I rolled out onto a gravel road at the
top. Just as I crested and started a slight
decent, a red tailed hawk flew out of a tree
next to me and down the road in front of me.
As hokey as it may have been, I took it as a
sign. Slowly but surely I turned up the pace
again. I drank the rest of my water and let
myself roll down the hill. I wasn't tucking
and flying like I had been earlier, but I was
moving and cooling off. I rode across the swing-bridge
I was warned about and saw some people monitoring
our race numbers. There was a table with what
looked like ice. Was that the aid station? I
couldn't confirm the mileage I expected on my
GPS. Frustrated I continued without stopping
to ask. I turned down a road and started to
really fly. There were few markers if any on
the decent. I started getting scared. Did I
miss another turn? Would I have to walk back
up? Where the hell was the aid station? At the
bottom there was another sign. With relief I
turned and saw some riders up ahead. I could
tell by their leisurely riding, they weren't
100 mile racers. I put my head down and set
out to catch them. The cramps came on hard at
this point. Both quads started to lock up. I
kept a steady pace, hoping the pedaling would
relax them. Around a few turns I hit the fifth
and final aid station. I asked how far the finish
was from here. They said somewhere between eight
and ten miles. That made the aid station between
four and six miles further then I expected.
Whatever. I was close. All I had to do was finish.
I headed out to finish and quickly ran into
the last thing I wanted to see - slick singletrack.
I regretted not asking how much I would have
to endure. Back into preservation mode, I rode
it conservatively. I made all the climbs and
obstacles and passed a few people. I wasn't
sure if they were 100 mile or 100K racers, but
didn't really care. What started out as nicely
maintained singletrack bliss, quickly turned
to a treacherous fishermen trail hugging the
bank along a creek. It was covered with roots,
rocks and off-camber opportunities to seriously
hurt yourself. Normally I would have loved this
trail. Now I just wanted to survive. I got off
and ran way more times then my friends would
be proud of. To top it off, (though warned with
signage) there were pedestrians using the trail.
They were scrambling around on the same lines
I was trying to cleanly ride. With ever lacking
patience, I got off and ran more. Then the single
track dumped us onto an old dirt road that was
completely filled with mud. Any resemblance
of clean the storm had made of me earlier was
quickly caked in thick brown goo.
The muddy road ended at the base of the dam
where we started.
Relief was short as the arrows pointed directly
up the face of the damn. Under normal conditions,
hiking this thing would have been a chore (it
really was that steep). Hiking it ninety-eight
miles into a hundred mile race was a real kick
in the balls. I seriously had doubts I could
do it. At the top I got back on the bike and
grimaced as I had to force my legs to pedal
again. There were all kinds of people milling
about. I was covered in mud and wincing. I can't
imagine what they thought. They can't imagine
what I felt. From the dam it was a road climb.
I was determined to walk no more. I hunkered
my chest down to the bars and pushed all I could
at each pedal stroke. It crested and rolled
down and around back onto the trail we started
on. I yelled out "On your left!" as
I flew by two people on the trail. On the last
road to the finish I chased down and passed
another rider struggling with his gears on the
last little climb. I powered up the finishing
chute, grabbed my pint glass and finished in
just over nine hours. I had a vague idea of
where I was in relation to the other single
speeders, but had no confirmation. I was done.
I went back to the car to start the recovery
process.
I got second in singlspeed. Way better then
I could have imagined. Apparently all the training
and support from Spot Brand / Twin Six / Bean's
Bikes has paid off. Now I have to hit the Lumberjack
and see it wasn't just a fluke.
And the Mohican - was excellent! What an adventure!
The singletrack and the forest it went through
in the beginning was awesome. The Ohio countryside
- beautiful. I would definitely go back.
Mohican
100 
