- 39 Miles
- 6200' of elevation gain
- 3:21:14 to the finish
- 3rd-Place Singlespeed
Holy moly. Qué estupido. What the hell?
Ouch.
This year's Marathon National Championships was an eye-opener for me--I wasn't really expecting such a slap in the face, but it became apparent shortly after the start that choosing to race 3 out of the last 4 weekends had been an error in judgment, and that the Tatanka 100 took way more out of me that I had thought.
 |
| Photo: Erica Linnell |
The gun fired precisely at 8am and we were off, once again a small handful of singlespeeders spinning frantically down the bike path in whatever gear we had privately chosen for the day's course, finally turning up Cold Springs where the race really started.
The Cold Springs climb begins with a dirt road stretch that peters down to a ski area cat-track with a couple of brief, really steep climbs, and then turns into gorgeous, flowing singletrack for the majority of the ascent. When we started up the dirt road Cary and Tom carried what I thought was a pretty stiff pace for that time in the morning, and I felt awful. There was no spring in my step, no fire in my shorts; my legs felt like they were filled with sand and my torso begged for relief.
And then the grade of the climb kicked up to really steep and Cary and Tom maintained their pace and I came to the realization that I should not be racing. It's not that my body hurt, just that I couldn't go any harder. I was slow and heavy, and I didn't like it one bit.
I've had friends describe the experience as, "That's when I started going backwards." I understand the sentiment, and in that moment I really understood it, but that isn't precisely how I would describe it. I mean, I was going forwards. We were all going forwards. It's just that Cary and Tom were going forwards faster.
It was like my worst CrossFit nightmare. (I'm presuming here, having never actually done a CrossFit workout.) Like trying to race my bike uphill while dragging my fatigue behind me like a truck tire in the dirt. Or one of those Chariot Stroller things filled with squalling triplets. The rabbits were there, right in front of me, and I knew I was supposed to give chase, I wanted to give chase, but the tire was dragging and those triplets were shrieking and my legs were filled with sand and my arms and shoulders and back were so damn tired and it just wasn't happening.
That's when I gave myself a good talking-to. "Listen pal, it's time for you to Harden The Fuck Up and get your head together. You're having a rough morning? Boo-freaking-hoo. It's your own crappy decision-making that landed you here, and you're damn well not going to bail. In fact, you're going to give this race the best you have to give on this day. If those guys are holding too fast a pace, then find your own damn pace and see if you can suck it up enough to not totally suck it up."
So I backed off the pace and settled into something more manageable, keeping Cary and Tom in sight but not pushing. And then 20 minutes later the triplets went silent and the tire disappeared. Once I focused my energy on riding my own race, pushing the pace that felt right to me, everything got better. I still didn't have much fire in my shorts, but I felt smoother and as long as I stayed seated and spun along I was actually able to ride faster. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
I was 40 minutes into a 3+-hour race and glad to be spinning along, ticking off the distance and digging the flow of the forested singletrack. I finally felt like racing, and so I revved it up. Slowly, slowly I closed the gap to Tom and passed him about a mile before the top of the climb. Then slowly, slowly was closing the gap to Cary and got to within 100 yards of him and was starting to feel confident, when the climb ended and he was gone.
Now, I'm well aware that downhilling is not my strength. I've gotten better, but there's no doubt that I'm better on the up. But Cary just disappeared! Initially there was some dust in the air to suggest that he had been there, but it wasn't long before even that trace was gone. Damn, that guy is fast on the down.
 |
| Dropping through the rock garden with Tom hot on my heels. (Hidden behind the tree.) Photo: Erica Linnell |
Towards the bottom of the descent (it's long--we're talking 35+ minutes of downhill) I started to hear Tom's freewheel buzzing away a switchback above, which meant that Tom was also descending faster than I was. We finished out the lap together and then rolled back onto the asphalt for one more wild session of spinning back to the bottom of Cold Springs.
It was clear that either one of those guys would be able to beat me on the downhill, so I knew that I had to make time on the climb if I wanted to compete. So once I got through the steep little bastard climbs early-on, my focus shifted to spinning smoothly, but putting everything I had into propelling myself forward. If there was ever a time to start burning matches this was it, and the more I burned the less I would have to carry uphill, right?
I had gotten out of the base area ahead of Tom, but that skinny little bearded guy stayed latched-on, hanging 20 seconds, 30 seconds back every time I turned a switchback. Eventually Cary came into view up the trail, and I slowly started reeling him in, making up a little time on every turn until he was about a quarter-mile up when he rolled over the top and was gone.
Glancing back when I crested the top I couldn't see Tom any more, so I had a bit of confidence dropping into the final big descent. If I could really pin it on the down I might be able to hold 2nd-place through the finish. Things were rolling along nicely and I thought I was cooking downhill pretty good, pumping the rolls and rallying the corners when I hammered through a particularly rocky section and
Pfft! (Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!)
Flat tire. It's enough to make you cry.
I rolled downhill a bit, slowly, vainly searching for a patch of flattish ground where I could pull off the trail to perform the repair, but on this endless sidehill there was no emergency lane in sight so eventually I just stepped into the bushes on the downhill side and set to work.
Find the hole, spin it to the bottom so that the sealant pools and hopefully plugs the hole, hit the tire with CO2, and get back in the groove. At least that's the theory.
The sealant did its job and my tire stopped hemorrhaging air and I busted out a CO2 cartridge and started airing it back up when Tom went ripping past, yelled something sympathetic, and was gone. So much second-place. I topped off the tire, got my crap back together, and rallied off down the trail after him and was having a ball on the rollers when
Pfft! (Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!)
C'mon! I think I might have said a bad word at this point.
I had blown out the plug of sealant, which I had heard about before but never experienced. Thankfully Dave Byers had turned me onto this cool little tool that saved me from having to take the time to install a tube.
This was the first time I've had to use it--totally worth carrying. Exponentially faster than installing a tube, with none of the mess.
And I was off again, a bit more tentative at first to see if the plug would hold, and then opening it up for the final trip down the forested switchbacks to the bottom. Having not heard any signs of 4th-place sneaking up behind me, I did some mental calculus and decided that while I had nothing to gain from riding the bizarre man-made rock garden into the finish zone I had quite a lot to lose if I blew the line and broke my body or my bike 2 weeks before High Cascades, so I took the "B-line" around which is really more fun anyway even if it does take 30 seconds longer.
And then, thankfully, it was over. 3rd-place singlespeed, slower than last year, but the course is so great and with Nationals only a few hours away from home how could I say no? Racing this weekend was undoubtedly the wrong decision in the bigger picture, but you know what they say: judgment is the product of reflecting on experience, and experience is the product of bad judgment.
That race was an experience.
It was clear that either one of those guys would be able to beat me on the downhill, so I knew that I had to make time on the climb if I wanted to compete. So once I got through the steep little bastard climbs early-on, my focus shifted to spinning smoothly, but putting everything I had into propelling myself forward. If there was ever a time to start burning matches this was it, and the more I burned the less I would have to carry uphill, right?
I had gotten out of the base area ahead of Tom, but that skinny little bearded guy stayed latched-on, hanging 20 seconds, 30 seconds back every time I turned a switchback. Eventually Cary came into view up the trail, and I slowly started reeling him in, making up a little time on every turn until he was about a quarter-mile up when he rolled over the top and was gone.
Glancing back when I crested the top I couldn't see Tom any more, so I had a bit of confidence dropping into the final big descent. If I could really pin it on the down I might be able to hold 2nd-place through the finish. Things were rolling along nicely and I thought I was cooking downhill pretty good, pumping the rolls and rallying the corners when I hammered through a particularly rocky section and
Pfft! (Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!)
Flat tire. It's enough to make you cry.
I rolled downhill a bit, slowly, vainly searching for a patch of flattish ground where I could pull off the trail to perform the repair, but on this endless sidehill there was no emergency lane in sight so eventually I just stepped into the bushes on the downhill side and set to work.
Find the hole, spin it to the bottom so that the sealant pools and hopefully plugs the hole, hit the tire with CO2, and get back in the groove. At least that's the theory.
The sealant did its job and my tire stopped hemorrhaging air and I busted out a CO2 cartridge and started airing it back up when Tom went ripping past, yelled something sympathetic, and was gone. So much second-place. I topped off the tire, got my crap back together, and rallied off down the trail after him and was having a ball on the rollers when
Pfft! (Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!)
C'mon! I think I might have said a bad word at this point.
I had blown out the plug of sealant, which I had heard about before but never experienced. Thankfully Dave Byers had turned me onto this cool little tool that saved me from having to take the time to install a tube.
 |
| Use the forked needle to push one of the bacon strings into the hole, and then pull the fork back out. The sealant does the rest and voilá! No more hole. |
This was the first time I've had to use it--totally worth carrying. Exponentially faster than installing a tube, with none of the mess.
And I was off again, a bit more tentative at first to see if the plug would hold, and then opening it up for the final trip down the forested switchbacks to the bottom. Having not heard any signs of 4th-place sneaking up behind me, I did some mental calculus and decided that while I had nothing to gain from riding the bizarre man-made rock garden into the finish zone I had quite a lot to lose if I blew the line and broke my body or my bike 2 weeks before High Cascades, so I took the "B-line" around which is really more fun anyway even if it does take 30 seconds longer.
 |
| Not this time. Photo: Erica Linnell |
 |
| Done. And DONE. Photo: Erica Linnell |
And then, thankfully, it was over. 3rd-place singlespeed, slower than last year, but the course is so great and with Nationals only a few hours away from home how could I say no? Racing this weekend was undoubtedly the wrong decision in the bigger picture, but you know what they say: judgment is the product of reflecting on experience, and experience is the product of bad judgment.
 |
| Photo: Erica Linnell |
That race was an experience.
No comments:
Post a Comment