By Robb Kranz
As is becoming standard on my trips south, we
finalized our destination on the way down, and
landed at the National White Water Center to
register. I’m to the point where I’ve
started to recognize the cars/bikes/faces of
the cast of characters who race, and pulling
into the parking lot was no disappointment.
We ran into Cannondale racers Garth Prosser
and Tim Doughetry and the Sho-Air/Niner duo
of Dejay Birch and John Mylne. Got through the
registration process, got our numbers and instructions,
and headed to The Lodge at Sourmash, our spacious
accommodations for the next two nights. We showed
up and were greeted by a keg of Dos Perros,
Jut and Sharp from Yazoo, and Ben Thornton from
Soulcraft, Pillsbury and Jason showed up a little
later, and with Nashville, Dallas, Chattanooga,
Asheville and Cleveland in attendance, we had
a few beers, drank a lot of water, and cooked
dinner in preparation for the next day's race.
Saturday started wet. It had rained most of
the night, and was in the upper 40s now, and
still raining. We had tried to maximize sleep,
so we grabbed a quick bagel, Chip tried to make
pancakes without proper pan lube, gave up, and
we hopped in the car, getting to the race with
15 minutes to spare, and a lot of work to do.
I think Chip would have been ready on time,
but I was in line for the bathroom, trying to
achieve race weight. We made a hurried roll
to the start area, and started searching for
the separation between the 65 and 100 mile group.
After asking the question “are you doing
the 65?” a few times, I wised up and asked
in louder fashion, “where’s the
back of the 100 milers?”
[kind racer]
“They left all ready”
[Chip and Robb]
“Oh, shit”
[enthusiastic
other racer]
“Make a hole, racers back!”
[unknown voice
(later determined to be Pisgah
Bruce)] “Ha!
Have a good race Robb!”
Here we go. Not the start we wanted. We took
off, faster than I’m sure we would have
in the typical roll off start of a hundie. We
chased one rider down early, and it happened
to be Thornton, who had also missed the start.
Good ‘ole Sourmash. He decided to “let
the skinny young kids go” and we worked
on chasing down the flashing lights of the pace
car up ahead. We caught a few early stragglers
on the 3 miles of road climbing, and hit the
single track behind roughly 245 people. Fun.
Chip hit the track first, and worked as our
negotiator, with an almost call of "two
riders back.” We made it through about
50 people before the parking lot at the top
of the initial single track. I must say that
everyone was very accommodating, and while it
was no hole shot, it did provide some fun and
took our minds off the task at hand and our
poor planning.
We road along the river for a bit, hit some
roots and rocks, and my Garmin ejected itself
from my bike. Already feeling the pressure of
starting late, I tried to leave it, but Chip
had better sense and made me go back and get
it. I wise minute spent vs. the $250 loss. If
Garmin could only produce a reliable mount for
their expensive data miner....
We passed back all those lost to the Garmin
recovery mission, hit the bridge, and passed
a ton of people up the climb. Near the summit,
race announcer Bruce Dickman egged us on about
our late start, got a little laugh out of it
and made it known that we had come along away
already to pass so many people. The second single
track section found us in limbo; there really
wasn’t anyone to chase down, so we went
at a steady but eager pace, trying to catch
the next pack of riders. We made a few more
spots and started the gravel road 65 mile “mental
crux” of the race, pushing a 32 x 18 up
and down through a monotony of endless climbs
and gravel descents plagued by breaking bumps,
sandy mud and intermittent showers. We continued
to pass a lot of riders, and I began to worry
about our pace, although I still felt pretty
good. Chip agreed and we stayed on the motor.
I found myself sneaking peaks at rider's drive
train situations in similar fashion as I do
a girl's left ring finger, trying to see who
mattered and who didn't. Such things (both really)
take the mind off the job at hand and served
as motivation.
I hung with Chip through the first 60 miles,
almost through the final pitch of the 25 mile
climb that ratcheted its way up to about 4000
feet. This climb is a monster, blessed with
a few short descents along its stegosaurus profile.
The middle section was encased in fog as we
passed aid station 3, where I yelled a hello
to the Mulberry
Gap Bunkhouse crew, volunteering their time
to help the racers who had now made their way
deep into Georgia. After forgetting how long
we had actually been working our way up, I made
the long descent, now solo, and landed at aid
station 4, where I picked up my SAG’d
Heed/Perpetuam blend, checked my tire pressure,
had my chain and brakes lubed, wiped off the
sunglasses (which later became property of the
Cohutta Management Area), shed my vest and armwarmers
and took off.
I started the next section chasing a Gary Fisher
SS racer who snuck by me after a nascar pit
stop. I thought I had pretty assuredly dropped
him on the long flat section, pushing a bigger
gear than his 32 x 20, and a quick check in
the rearview on a long straight section had
him no where in site. At the foot of the next
climb, a short minute or two later, he was right
there, having ridden the coattails of a geared
rider through the flats. Once he dropped me,
I fell into survival mode. I really had no one
to ride “with” at this point. If
there was someone on the radar, I chased them
down pretty quick, and made short work of them;
they were either cracking 100 milers, or severely
cracked (now on the course 7 hours) 65 milers.
Other than that I had no one, and kind of fell
into a cautious pace intimidated by the yet
unknown feeling of miles 70-100 on a SS mountain
bike.
….the last miles. Well….more gravel,
death march pace as the legs were over the idea
of pushing the chosen ratio up another hill.
I made aid station 6 and was promised “12
miles of singletrack” by someone who clearly
doesn’t know what single track is. I rode
about a half mile of trail, which then turned
into unkept forest road with a packed gravel
trail, which then relented into the now familiar
full-on-gravel-mind-F*#@, a particularly brutal
kind where you can look to your left and see
it snaking up and around a mile ahead. Finally,
with about 7 miles to go, I hit some singletrack
of the rocky variety, and tried to hang on the
rigid ride, with seriously fatigued hands, broken
down all day by the long bumpy gravel road descents.
My idea of loose gripping the bars to aid in
“suspension” resulted in very surreal
ejection from the bike. I was actually in the
air long enough to be aware that something was
wrong, watching my bike crumble pilot-less beneath
me, and then tuck and role (eject sunglasses)
and come to a stop, relatively unharmed. I gathered
myself and made it out of the woods, and pedaled
the last few miles to the finish. My first hundie
under my belt.
Pisgah Bruce and Jamie Pillsbury, having taken
first and second in the SS 65 miler met me at
the line. JutRut
and Sharp
were there as well, and all the other fast bearded
SS 100 racers. I turned an 8:28:something…final
results aren’t up and I barely paid attention
crossing the line. For my efforts I earned 11th,
just out of the somehow more satisfying top
ten. I learned a lot during this effort; it
was a journey into unknown physical and mental
struggle, and I've got a little better idea
of what this machine can handle before the rivets
start popping out (my thanks to Ben Thornton
for the analogy)
Things that didn’t help:
starting late, weaving through people, not really
“racing” through the last 40 miles,
first ride over 15 miles on the White Brothers
Rock Solid rigid fork, although it handles awesome
and weighs nothing, I wasn’t prepared
for the very rocky last 8 miles (which I hadn’t
known about….oops) I'll be happy to have
my cushy 100mm Magic29 back up there. also,
my bottom bracket suddenly remembered all those
dips in the South
Mills River.
Things I’ll stick with:
Ergon BD1 pack allowed me to stop at only one
aid stop, my Heed/Perpetuam blend and Hammer
Gels kept me fueled without having to actually
chew anything and risk upsetting my stomach,
Kenda Karma’s were a great choice, rolled
well, cleared mud and their light weight made
the 13,000 feel like 12,000 feet. The Dierenger
rode like a dream, helping with the bumps as
much as it could, and climbed well in the saddle
as much as I could stay there.... and I still
love the combo of the wool Swiftwicks and my
new space age looking Specialized S works shoes,
my feet were the only thing that still felt
good at the end of the day.
The Cohutta crew put together a very well planned
event, things ran smoothly, and everyone at
the one aid station I stopped at took care of
my every wish. All I did is stand there and
embarrassingly ask for things, which all got
done with a smile. Great job to everyone that
I saw at the race, Bruce with his impressive
"grapes-this-big" poach/win of the
65, and to Jamie with his casual second. Jut,
I don't even know how you finished because we
just started drinking, but congrats. And to
"Fuzzy"
John and Dejay,
it was good to share the room with some really
impressive riders who still wring the most out
of life.
