Day 1 (Panorama to Invermere)

Have you ever woke up and immediately felt a sense of dread come over you?  It really is a strange feeling.  One moment you are in a peaceful place dreaming about puppy dogs and rainbows and then suddenly you’re jarred awake with thoughts about how life is really going to kick your ass.  That was my wake up call on August 12th. 

John, my partner, was still cowering under the sheets when I pulled the drapes open to a beautiful, partly cloudy day.  The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and the bikes were moving.  People dressed in Spandex whizzed by our window like ants moving to a new picnic location.  But it wasn’t sunny and perfect inside my head, because today’s performance would set the tone for the rest of the week and determine whether or not I had the legs to make it the entire way.  I threw on some pants and a cap and headed downstairs.  We had plenty of time to eat breakfast, do a final bike check, get dressed, and finally, somehow get all of my important belongings into the provided duffel bag.  It was really a struggle to get all of my bike equipment, clothing, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, food, and many other accessories in the mediumly-large (smallishly-huge?) bag.  But after some grunting and groaning, I did it.  It really felt like I should get a T-shirt and certificate for doing this dismantling and repacking for seven straight days.  The time that morning seemed to go by in slow motion, but before you knew it there wasn’t much time left before the start of the race.  I still needed to get my bike box into one truck and my bloated equipment bag into another.  Bikers were already anxiously lining up at the starting line, some looking prepared, others looking like opossums getting ready to cross an eight lane highway during rush hour.  I was most likely the latter, but I wanted to portray a look of confidence, especially in front of my partner. 

The goods news was that the first day was supposed to be the easiest.  The bad news was that every day after this would get progressively more difficult.  According to the route map, these were the day 1 statistics:  total uphill, 1139 meters (3736 feet) and the total distance was 33 km (20 mi.).  Sounds easy, huh?  Come on, you know better than that!

We got our equipment into the proper trucks and ran back upstairs to gather the last of our things.  Looking around for any last forgotten tidbits, I realized that I really didn’t want to leave the security of my hotel room, but a guy on a loud speaker was yelling something about safety and bears and the route, so I figured it was time to go.  I put on my best “let’s go gettum” look and we took our place amoungst the 700 other riders.  It was impressive to see so many bike helmets lined up perfectly.  We met up with some other friends from the Bay Area that were riding and chatted while a helicopter flew overhead and the large crowd around us began to buzz.  The anticipation was as thick as pea soup as people jumped up and down, looked at their bikes one last time, and talked nervously about the coming doom.  Suddenly the music turned to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” and the announcer began the countdown.  I reminded John that I wouldn’t think any less of him if he wanted to back out now.  No luck.  Bang!  The bikers began to surge ahead at the starting gun and we were off.  We were to make a loop around the entire resort, almost like a premature victory lap, and then head up the mountainside, out of sight.  Friends and family lined the streets and cheered wildly.  It was really an exciting time, with cameras and videos watching us as we cruised down the hill and back up again. 

 

We made the final turn and looked up the hill.  I was already breathing hard; a combination of excitement and trying to keep up with the crowd of riders.  After two years of preparation, here we were at last…

The beginning of the route was as advertised.  Fire roads and double track led us up the hill in a long strung out line of shiny helmets and dripping foreheads.  I was already regretting having an extra layer on and had to pull off to the side to lighten the clothing load.  People kept pushing pedals uphill and several already looked like they were going to die and we could still see the resort.  Dust began to shroud several of the climbers that were already very far ahead.  I got on my bike and just kept moving forward.  This would be my motto all week:  Just keep turning the pedals.  John’s motto was probably:  Keep turning the pedals until I have to wait for Michael. 

After about four miles of roads, there were two motor bikes directing people onto a single track ahead and bikers were waiting on the side, presumably for their weaker partners.  John and I headed down the hill and were promptly stopped by a long line of people off of their bikes walking slowly.  It was a beautiful valley filled with towering trees, lush vegetation, and meandering creeks.  We will now call it the gates of hell.  For the next hour or more, we would follow people up the very steep mountain, one behind the other dragging our bikes behind us.  Like pulling a dead camel up a sand dune, we would slip and slide on the dirt, steadying ourselves and trying to find a rock or root to use as a stair step, all the while tugging on 30 pounds of steel and rubber.  We would hike in biking shoes almost the entire 3000 feet and never once get on our bikes.  I had to pull off to the side of the trail several times and catch my breath.  So much for bike training, I should have been hike training!  There was no end in sight, but looking behind me was impressive.  A long line of bikers hiking up a canyon with soaring mountains framing the picture.  I could just sit there forever and marvel at the sight… and I tried, but John kept moving and I needed to stay with him.  One foot in front of the other and don’t look up.  One foot in front of the other and don’t look up.  Oh God, why me?  One foot in front of the other and don’t look up.  While contemplating my sanity, I passed several riders lounging on the side of the hill, taking in the scenery and also some energy bars.  After a good hour plus, the grade finally started to level off and I could see people standing at the top of the pass.  Needless to say, it was a welcome sight as blisters were starting to form on the bottoms of my feet.  The view was breathtaking (literally), and we were at the top of Taynton pass. 

 

I gathered myself and hopped on my bike as we started down the backside of the mountain downhill all the way to the finish line.  The trail was singletrack, meaning that the bikes had to be in a single file line because there wasn’t any room on the trail.  It was very loose by the time we got there and some were walking their bikes, which made passing kind of tricky.  One side of the trail fell off into oblivion, and the only thing that would save you were some bushes perched on the edge.  It was unnerving, but also really gorgeous up there.  I kept my bike facing down the trail, attempting to keep up with John, who is a little better at technical riding than me, when suddenly there were two tree saplings on both sides of the trail.  Like guards letting only the brave through, I attempted to thread the needle, when…over the handle bars I went.  Both sides of my handlebars caught the trees and with a loud and dusty thud I was on my back looking up at the puffy clouds.  The first crash of the week was under my belt.  We were a total of nearly 10 miles from the start and I had already crashed.  Given the total length of the race, that means that I could expect to crash a total of 36 times?  Woo freakin’ hoo.  I knocked off the dirt and pulled my bike out of the safety net of bushes.  John waited and asked if I was ok, and then we kept going.  I was a little more concerned about the road ahead, given that I had just tripped myself on the two smallest trees in the area.  The trail then got nasty.   The route map reads like this: “Technical downhill section, of singletrack switchbacks (approx. 36!!)  DO NOT take short cuts as they are not cleared, stay on main trail.”  We pressed on and hit the first switchback which was very tight.  Wheels scraping, brakes squealing, and hands tightening, we turned into the turn and made it.  Only 35 more.  By about the fifth switchback, my hands were getting numb from gripping the handle bars so tightly and I was losing feeling in my fingers which were controlling the brakes.  Each new switchback revealed new carnage.  Bikers crashed on the side, either going too fast on not controlling their bikes and as the turns got more severe I would unclip out of my pedals and drag a foot, trying to make sure not to fall again.  The trail was becoming worse as riders in front of us rutted up the course and broke up the ground in each turn.  Also the further along we went, the hotter our brakes became and the less stopping power we had.  Consequently, I would have to brake earlier for each turn, which would cause my brakes to get even hotter.  I came around one turn to see a only a riders foot peeking up the trail and a bike somewhere down the hill.   An aerial view would probably look something like a Benny Hill clip.  I can hear the music in my head as riders get on their bikes go to the next switchback and crash, go to the next switchback and crash, repeating the scene for 36 times. 

For all of the drama, John and I made it to the bottom unscathed where we were met by friendly faces and a rest stop.  The rest stops would all look similar; a table with bananas, oranges, watermelon, energy bars, maybe some sweets and lots of water and energy drink.  We quickly ate and got back on our bikes (this is a race after all) and headed towards the finish line which was about 8 miles away. 

 

 Double track along power lines turned into single track that was absolutely amazing!  We were treated to beautiful views of a river gorge that winded through the countryside, with a turquoise river that almost glowed. 

 

Being careful not to fall into the gorge, we eventually came out of the forested area into a small community.  Passing through some streets and following the signs we came to a clearing that was the football field of the local school.  The entire center of the field was perfectly lined with tents and there was a bustling area of riders all moving in different directions.  We made our way around the track and finished:  4:35:14.  We finished Day 1!  There was a sense of relief knowing that I had made it, but there was also a sense of dread knowing that my legs were really tired and this only day one of one of the easiest days of the week. 

Now if you think that you can relax, you have a rude awakening.  Here’s what you need to do before you even think about resting:

#1)  Rehydrate and eat something immediately.  2)  Find your tent out of 200 different tents.  3)  Find your bag out of 400 different bags, all of which look exactly alike since they were provided to us.  4)  Clean your bike and prepare it for the next day.  (Clean off dirt, clean the drivetrain, make repairs, make adjustments)  5)  Try to find the coldest water source available to soak your legs in.  A river or a pond will do, and helps keep the swelling down in your muscles.  6)  Clean yourself in the “shower truck” which was a mobile big rig that had about 10 small shower stalls.  A very long line awaited all of the men, while the women’s side was very civilized and never a line.  Imagine bathroom lines at a ball game, but the roles being reversed.  7) Brush teeth and add deodorant.  Necessary for the close quarters and long lines everywhere.  8)  Go back to said tent and get all of the things out of the duffel that you need for the morning, clothes, food, equipment.  9)  Once again, try to fill duffel as best as you can.  Run out of energy and leave it for the morning.  10)  Go eat dinner.  11)  Go to the awards ceremony following dinner.  I was always too tired and only went one night.  12)  Go back to tent and collapse.  Oh wait, don’t forget to try and find water to fill your bottles with for the next day.  This process would be repeated over and over again, but I did get into a routine by the end of it all. 

Dinner on this night would be prepared at a convention hall down the hill from tent city.  We would have to wait in line to get on the bus to go to town to wait in line to get into the building to wait in line to get into line to try and get some food.  Tonight’s food would have a very repetitive theme to it, but no one initially cared as long as you could get enough of it.  I took two plates of food back to my ‘table lair’ and put my arms around the rice and meat concoction.  Some wilted greens tried to escape but were quickly scooped up with my spork.  When people got close I would look up and snarl and they would move away from me looking for easier prey at the long dinner lines.  Then I would get back to shoving food into my mouth at an alarming rate.  I was very hungry and thirsty and tired and just wanted to crawl into my sleeping bag and pass out.  After eating enough calories to carry my torso out of the convention hall, we waited in line to get on the bus and headed back up the hill.  We got into our tent and….zzzzzz.

Pre-Race (3rd in series)

I woke up two days before the race to an ominous sky and thunder.  The weather forecast had predicted rain for that day, but the extended forecast looked good.  I kept the T.V. in my room on the Weather Channel, although up there they call it the Weather Network.  Initially it was hard to figure out what they were talking about since everything was in Celcius and kilometers/hour, but after a while you get a mental conversion.  Nothing too outrageous in terms of temperature or storms was predicted for the entire next week.  The hottest day was supposed to be on Wednesday, the 4th day of the race, and it was only supposed to reach about 80 degrees Farenheit.  There were horror stories about years past when temperatures would hover close to triple digits and you would hear about check stations running out of water.  Luckily none of this would come to pass. 

I was in Panorama Mountain Resort for the next two days.  There was a ski lift right outside my patio door that was moonlighting as a lift for downhill mountain bikers in the summer.  The large mountain to my right suggested that this was a great place to come and carve some turns in the powder come January, and the crowds here are nothing compared to the chaos that surrounds Lake Tahoe for the winter months.  Everyone was laid back, but there was a nervous anticipation in the air.  Or perhaps it was just me. 

My partner would not arrive until late at night so I had the whole day to check out the resort and get in a very light ride.  The night before, I met four guys on the bus that were from San Francisco.  They were very nice and invited me on a training ride with them in the morning.  I waited for their call as I put my bike together out the travel box.  There wasn’t too much to do, but I certainly wanted to make sure that the bike was in working order; remember that was one of the requirements.  I met them downstairs and we started off downhill towards the main road.  Looking around the resort, it’s hard to imagine a more beautiful place to begin this epic race.  It seemed as though the mountains were giving our little area a bear hug, huge mountains jutting into the air and surrounding us with a warm embrace and more trees than you could ever count in a lifetime.  A river roared at the base of the hill and kept cutting through the mountains as far as you could see.  We head to the right, (I had no mental compass whatsoever) and immediately encounter one very large moose just on the shoulder of the road, munching on some grass.   He (she?) was not really caring about anyone or anything.  One of the guys hopped off of his bike to take pictures of the giant.  I thought to myself that this was just par for the course.   Why take pictures now, you’ll practically be riding over them on the way to the finish line?  I pictured moose walking down the main street in Fernie, like <i>Northern Exposure</i>.  What I didn’t know is that I would never see another moose the entire trip!  

The next day was the last day before the beginning of the race.  My partner arrived the night before and slowly began putting his bike together.  He is a bike mechanic, so he’s a little more thorough than I am.  We also went on another very easy ride to stretch the legs.  

 Later in the evening we had our pre-race festivities that were to include a presentation on what to expect during our time in the wilds of Canada and a buffet dinner.  The presentation started with someone explaining about how the race started five years ago and how incredible the race was and blah, blah, blah.  Then the guy who actually put the daily routes together came to the stage.  He laid out the terrain and the specifics of what we were going to encounter going into Day 1 of the race.  Pretty exciting and scary stuff.  Remember those beautiful mountains giving us a bear hug?  Well apparently their embrace is a little overwhelming, since there is no easy way to get out of the resort.  They tried going up the downhill course, but all of the riders passed out.  Not a good way to start the race.  Then the second option, which was agreed upon, was a two mile “hike-a-bike section” up the face of one of the mountains.  According to our announcer this would be a 20-30 minute hike.  As we would learn in the next 7 days, he was a lying jerk.  No, he was a really nice guy, but a liar all the same.  We absorbed the bad news, got in line for the buffet and ate like kings, carbing up for the next day’s start. 

My nerves were starting to get the best of me.  I was excited to get this thing over with, but the idea of the pain I would endure over the next week was enough to make me want to choke on my pasta.  Tomorrow would come too soon and not soon enough. 

(By the way, if you would like, there is the opportunity for a RSS feed.  Simply copy and paste the URL into your feed and get instant updates on this blog.  That way you don’t have to constantly check back.  Thanks for reading!)

2007 Mt. Diablo Challenge

I just completed the Mt. Diablo Challenge and it marks the end of my 2007 season.  That’s right.  I’m throwing in the towel.  I yelling “uncle.”  I am waving the white flag.  But what a season it has been!!  Unfortunately, I’ve just recently found the beauty of blogging so I didn’t get a chance to chronicle all of my events, but let me tell you there were many.

 I did the Mt. Diablo Challenge last year on my mountain bike and it didn’t go so well.  First of all, I was definitely in the minority standing on the starting line with big knobby tires on my bike and baggy shorts.  Everyone else was on their skinny tired road bikes and spandex shorts (for better or worse).  As you may have read in my first TR post, knobby tires are not the most efficient form of locomotion.  In addition, last year my bike chain exploded within the first mile of the race, causing me about 15 minutes of time.  And finally, I was not very strong.

 So this year, after showing the Canadian Rockies who their daddy was, I decided to attempt the coveted “under an hour” mark.  You get a T-shirt that tells everyone how studly you are, you get runway models under each arm and a brand new Mercedes.  I made up the last two, but you get the picture.  The course is 10.8 miles, with 3250 feet in elevation gain, starting with some pot-marked asphalt and ending with smooth but no so flat blacktop. 

 I did the race with my best friend, Matt, and his brother.  His brother lives close to Mt. Diablo and rides the mountain on a regular basis, but Matt has only done the route once before, only a couple of weeks prior.  Matt is now a 13-year heart and lung transplant recipient.  He isn’t 13 years old, he’s 32, but has been through a lot in his lifetime and has been working overtime to get strong and try some races.  This would be his biggest test yet. 

When we arrived in the morning it was a very chilly.  Where did autumn come from all of the sudden?  My temperature gauge said that it was 42 degrees when we started toward the start line.  My fingers were freezing and so were my legs, but I warmed up quickly.  We parked about 3 miles from the start so that we could warm up and I decided that I would do two laps, since it takes me a long time to warm up now.  While heading towards the registration we were met by a fire truck and an ambulance on the side of the road.  As we passed we saw them attending to a rider that had somehow used the road as a cheese grater on his face.  It was a flat road and we hadn’t even started yet! 

 By the time we reached the registration and I got my ankle bracelet (no it’s not for house-arrest, it keeps your time), there was not much time to get back to the truck and back to the starting line.   Yet silly me…I left my bib # in the truck thinking there would be plenty of time.  I hustled back to the truck and looked at the clock.  I needed to hurry.  I rode back quickly noticing there weren’t any other riders to be found.  Everyone else was at the starting line.  When I finally got there Matt told me that the race started.  “Did my wave go already?” I asked.  He didn’t know.  I moved along the side of the starting pack asking what wave they were in.  (They let the racers go in waves, so at to not cause bottlenecks or slow down the faster riders.)  My wave just left.  I hopped on my bike and pedaled quickly, my heart rate was already elevated and my legs were burning.  Needless to say, not the ideal way to start a race.  Very reminiscent of my race in Downieville, when I got to the starting line and realized that I had forgot to replace my rear tire skewer, meaning that on my first bump my rear tire would have flown off.  Anyway, I started my race and quickly passed the slower riders, while trying to find some sort of pace to keep myself on the hour mark.  It didn’t last long.  By mile 6 up the hill, my legs were screaming.  By mile 8, they were filing eviction notices.  The views were beautiful but my legs were throwing a temper tantrum and wanted nothing to do with it.  Meanwhile, my pulmunary system kept asking, “Are we there yet?  Are we there yet?”

The road gets progressively steeper towards the top of the mountain, and then pitches up at about a 25-30% grade for the last 200 yards.  We pass ranger stations and park benches along the way and there are friendly volunteers that cheer you up and hand out water.  What great folks…until I passed an elderly gentleman who said eagerly, “Almost there, only 2 or 3 more miles!”  I said to myself, “What the %$#@!  Make up your mind, is it 2 or 3 miles?”  At this point I was not in the mood for indecision. 

The final stretch of road started to sound like a porn video, people panting and shaking on their leather seats, trying to coax the last bit of energy from their legs.  I was not any better off, and my pace was nowhere near what I needed it to be.  Then, there it was.  The final push straight up.  This part of the route is like pouring salt on an open wound, but there are people already at the top cheering for you to finish.  I looked up the hill, got my energy back, my determination took over, I was unstoppable!  I got out of my seat to sprint up the hill, then, uh oh, cramps!  Both of my quads locked up and wouldn’t let go.  So here I was, I could see the top of the damned hill and my legs were saying “not today buddy.”  Every pedal up the hill was torture, but I focused on the top and suddenly I was there.  I can only imagine what my picture looked like coming across the finish line.  I must have looked like I was storming the beaches of Normandy, disoriented and scared.  I quickly hopped off of my bike got some water, started stretching and eventually the knots went away.  The weather at the top was beautiful, especially compared to last year; which featured clouds and mist.  You could make out the faint outline of the Sierras and some snow capped peaks. 

 I finally caught up to Matt’s brother and we went to look at our times and get our free smoothie.  Matt would be a while longer.  Everyone was huddled around the print outs desperate to see their times and there I was:  1:13:56.  No partying gifts, no ladies, no Benz.  Oh well.  I did catch a free water bottle, with a coupon for a free oil change and lube.  Oh, sweet victory!  Meanwhile, we waited for more flying water bottles and maybe a free map.  OOOH!  Finally we decided to go watch for Matt since he should be getting close and help cheer him up the ‘hill of death.’  When suddenly, someone was calling my name.  It was Matt, he had already made it to the top!  When we got to him it was very emotional and inspiring.  Matt is an incredible person.  He smashed his anticipated time of 2 hours with a 1:52. 

Overall, what a beautiful day to mark the end of my season.  I didn’t break the hour mark, but I was able to be there for Matt and see yet another incredible accomplishment from him. 

Here is another inspirational moment.  I get chills every time I watch it.

Pre-Race (2nd in series)

The 2007 Transrockies was unique in that it was the first year when they did the course in reverse.  In years past, they started in Fernie, British Columbia and ended usually in the Panorama Mountain Resort, British Columbia.  Starting in Panorama was unique because it required a 5 hour bus ride from the airport.   I started early in the morning on Thursday, August 9th, three days prior to the race.  I chose to leave three days early so that I could get acclimated to the elevation and also get a bearing on my surroundings.  As we dropped into Calgary Airport I was surprised by how flat it was, and suddenly I had a great feeling that maybe this won’t be so bad after all.  I mentioned this to the guy sitting next to me and he assured me that in fact there are very large mountains to the west.  Calgary lies to the east of the mountain range so it is similar to Kansas or the high plains of Wyoming.  All there was for miles were long rolling hills of green grass with hay rolled up like Hostess Ding Dong’s .   As I rode in the luxury tour bus towards our destination, I was treated to a very lengthy conversation going on behind me about all of the horrors we were to endure.  Apparently they had both done the race in previous years.  Luckily, Erica made a compilation of songs on her I-Pod so I sat back and turned up the tunes.  As the miles and songs went by the sky turned black with the pending sunset.  Suddenly there were large dark figures jutting up from the ground and it appeared as though there were clouds getting closer to us and stretching all the way to the horizon.  As they got closer, I realized that they weren’t clouds at all.  They were mountains.  They rose from the ground and burst into the sky like decayed teeth in some crazy, old man’s mouth.  I had never seen mountains that were so vain.  Standing tall and sticking their chests out they were indeed impressive and they were just the guards to the gate as our bus strained up the progressively steeper hills.  We proceeded towards Banff and picked up some people at a fancy hotel in the center of town.  It reminded me a lot like Jackson Hole, Wyoming in that it was clearly a cowboy town with some local money.  The main street through town was being torn up by diggers as some sort of facelift to the already increasing lease values.  Ralph Lauren had to pardon their dust.  It really was a nice looking town and Erica, Nathan, and I would experience it later in our trip.  The bus continued on and didn’t stop for what seemed like forever.  I didn’t arrive in my hotel room until 1:30 in the morning.  It had been a very long day.

 

TransRockies 2007

My trip to the TransRockies Race began a little over two years ago while I was reading an article in the National Geographic Discoverer magazine about how ultra-long endurance races were becoming extremely popular. They enabled riders to return to the roots of mountain biking: exploration and the thrill of the unknown. The first race was organized back in the mid-90’s down in Costa Rica with a group of riders who, in a tribute to the 16th century Spanish Conquistadors, retraced their steps from the Pacific Ocean to the Caribbean in three days. After they started the ‘La Ruta de Los Conquistadores’, a new trend in racing was born. Other races made their debuts, starting with the TransAlps in Europe, Cape Epic in South Africa and the TransRockies in British Columbia. Since the printing of the article, I have learned of two more races that have been added: the ‘TransPortugal’ and the ‘TransHimalaya.’ Both sound very enticing, if not life threatening, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. So I remember closing the magazine and promptly telling Erica about the article and how I was going to accomplish the ‘Grand Slam’ of endurance biking, which at the time was completing all four international races. She gave me a quizzical look and said “great”, but she probably wasn’t really paying attention. Yet something struck a cord in me and I had my mind set on accomplishing this one solid goal in my lifetime. Something to be proud of and something that no one could ever take away from me. I always gravitated towards exploration and the thrill of the unknown, sometimes missing my exit on the freeway, just to see another way home (Erica would say that I wasn’t paying attention). Endurance racing would be the ultimate ticket out of the doldrums of mediocrity and into the record books of local fame and legend. Ok, maybe not, but at least I could say to Nathan that his old man once rode his mountain bike all over the world…in short spurts.

I was out of shape and not a very strong rider. The local hills were Mt. Everest and the air was so thin in the Bay Area that I would gasp for air on the slightest incline. I knew that I would never be good enough to make the attempt in 2006 (even though it was a year away at the time), so I set my sights on a 2007 race hoping to have a fighting chance of getting into shape and at least dragging my mangled body across the finish line. I looked over the now infamous list of torture races and decided that the TransRockies may work out since it wasn’t consistently sold out in the first five minutes and Erica wouldn’t have to pay as much in shipping and handling charges for getting my remains back to the states. August 2007 would be the moment of truth.

As far as mountain biking is concerned, there are a lot of elements to it that are different from road riding or a leisurely stroll on a bicycle built for two. First you have a mountain… with dirt. Lots of dirt and all members pertaining to the dirt family. And rocks. Sometimes big rocks, sometimes small rocks. You also have roots, cliffs, rivers, trees, small and large fauna, hairpin switchbacks, other fallen riders, and large logging trucks on roads that were only meant for large logging trucks and nothing else. Needless to say, mountain biking has its own set of hazards that aren’t seen on a typical tricycle ride through central park. Additionally, you have a pair of knobby tires that, although give you good traction, tend to complain about continually going around and around and would rather stop altogether, almost like an old mule. Therefore, in my experience, every 1 mile of dirt riding equals about 2 miles of smooth pavement riding. And this is probably conservative. So taking these elements into consideration, we would be riding 350 dirt miles or 700 you-can’t-find-in-the-Bay-Area smooth asphalt miles. Or in astrological terms, one very long fall from the moon. In addition to these ‘dirt’ miles, were the mountains. I came to find out that there were indeed very large hills in the British Columbia Rocky Mountain Range, and we would be introduced to approximately 40,000 feet of her backside. I grew worried.

Now you are probably thinking the same thing that I was at the time. “Why had I repaid for that damn magazine subscription?” Or, “Why would someone pay thousands of hard-earned dollars to subject themselves to this type of torture?” It would be much easier to stay home and listen to President Bush try to public speak. But determination got the better of me and I figured that I needed to begin exercising and training so that I could begin the arduous process of talking myself out of this.

According to the race rules of the TR, you must have a partner to lug around due to the ruggedness of the route and unpredictability of the furry locals. You must have a bike in working order (duh?), clothing (except for one mile to be described later), bear whistles, bear bell, bear spray, helmet, and plastic baggies. Apparently you were supposed to put the bear in the plastic baggies after you whistle, bell and spray him to death. I certainly hoped someone would explain the logistics of that one to me. Later I would learn that this isn’t the true mandatory list anyhow. The ‘true’ mandatory list, as described by seasoned veterans, is approximately 8 pages long and does include many more baggies (must be for larger bears), the entire men’s section of REI, 12 different pairs of gloves, many socks, shorts, jerseys, food, and butt lube among many, many others. Since this was a high elevation climate, we could either have 100-degree days or snow. So pack the golashes and the flip flops, arm warmers and suntan lotion, ski jacket and the g-string and try to fit it all in a 16”x16” x36” duffel bag along with your sleeping bag and mattress. I had a lot of work to do in the next two years…

For the next year I began learning a lot about nutrition, biking, training, mechanics, and motivation (not necessarily in that order). I read many books of the various subjects and began competing in races to get the feel of what it was like. I started with a sprint triathalon, then some bike races, some century rides, and then some longer mountain bike races. I dropped some pounds after coming back from the deep fried south in Louisiana and began getting used to the miles I was putting on my legs. I started going from dead last place with the 12 year olds kicking my butt, to actually getting into the less than pathetic 50% percentile in some of my categories. The creme de menthe came this summer when I got my first top-10 finish. However the closer I got to the start of the race, the more nervous I became about actually being able to finish. I had worked so hard for so long, sometimes getting up at 5:30am to log 80 miles, I had a feeling that I could at least try to finish or maybe get choppered across the finish line, but these were some of the best riders in the world competing for the honors. Had I made a mistake? Was I really mentally and physically prepared? Do they allow refunds? Only time would tell, but I was strong in my resolve, as Bush would say.

I also had a partner. His name was John and he was a bike mechanic at the local bike shop that I frequented. I found him after putting the challenge out to some of the other riders in the shop and he responded with enthusiasm. He had already been to the summit of Mt. Everest, done the “Death Ride” in Tahoe, and had a body fat percentage of negative 5%. I told him immediately that he was stronger than I was, and would probably need to give the Medivac my home address, but he was still excited to participate. I was excited to have him as a partner and him being a bike mechanic was an added bonus. We trained extensively together, getting up early in the morning to do our regular 50 mile loop and get back in time for him to get to work. One week we put over 200 miles on our bike. I was really proud of myself until I realized that it was only about half of what I would be doing in the Rockies in the same week’s time. John and I worked well together and I was becoming strong enough of a rider to keep the pace or even lead at certain times. We did many miles together and the race was approaching fast. I was getting nervous, but also a little more confident about my abilities. Miles began to pass like minutes and soon we would find ourselves far from where we started. Century rides were becoming commonplace as training rides and our collective strength was shining through. So far so good.

Something fun until my next post!! I’m never, ever gonna quit!!