Race Report: 2007 Whiskeytown 9 to 5

I tried to prepare for this race as best I could. Friday night I loaded up the truck with my bike and equipment. In the morning I would only have a few things to do before I hit the road. Still, I would have to get up at 3:45 to leave by 4:30. This shouldn't have been much of an issue since I get up that early almost every day. I simply needed to go to bed at a reasonable time and I would be fine.

Unfortunately, I was too amped up to sleep. After tossing and turning for hours, I finally fell asleep around 11:30 p.m. I woke up at 3:00 and couldn't get back to sleep. I would have to do this race on 3.5 hours of sleep.

It was a long drive to Whiskeytown Lake. After nearly 3.5 hours, I pulled in to the campground where Roger flagged me down and told me to park next to him. He and Sean Allen had a pit set up right on the race course, which turned out to be a really sweet spot. I jumped out of the truck to find it cold—really cold. Like 35 degrees cold, and all I brought in the way of warm weather gear were arm and knee warmers. Nice.

I registered, dressed and set up a makeshift pit in the bed of my truck. I spun around for a little bit in an effort to warm up, but in hindsight not really long enough. Roger filled me in on the course: the first climb was very steep, and the first downhill a little sketchy, so take it slow the first lap. Got it.

After the riders meeting, we cruised down the road a little bit where we would eventually line up. After goofing around for a while, Roger and I rolled up to the starting line. People immediately started lining up behind us. I didn't want to be up front, but I figured there would be plenty of time for things to string out before the climbing began.

When we took off, I took a few easy pedal strokes and slipped right onto Roger's wheel. My only thought was not knocking down Roger, who had the ability to win the race. When I looked up, we were sitting one-two heading into the dirt. I eased up on the pedals, because I didn't want to be up there, but nobody would come around.



As the trail tilted up, one single speeder jumped around me to go after Roger. We rounded a corner and were greeted by a wall. I threw it into an easier gear and started grinding away. Roger and the other single speeder had a gap, then it was me and a long line of people right on my ass. With everyone riding on my wheel, I felt pressured to keep the hammer down, even though I was already very uncomfortable with the pace. I figured that the grade couldn't stay this steep for very long, so I kept pounding away in a big gear. We went around another corner, and it was more of the same—steep, rutted, rocky, with exposed roots. I kept going with my heart rate near max. I thought, "What the hell are you doing? It's an EIGHT HOUR race!"

Another single speeder jumped around me and promptly spun his tire, which brought us both to a stop. Thankful for the excuse, I jumped off my bike and started walking while four or five guys rode past. I jumped back on the train and continued climbing, looking back to see nobody else as far as I could see. I was at the tail end of the "fast guys" group, a collection of racers I had no right to be part of. When we finally crested the top I was cursing the promoter. What a tough climb to start off a race with.

The descent was as tricky as advertised, and I was lucky to have advanced knowledge. The singletrack was exposed, rocky, loose and sketchy. The turns often had decreasing radii or off-camber surfaces. I thought of Sean who would be navigating this at night because he was doing the 24-hour race.

After the downhill there was another climb, this time on a fireroad, that immediately put me back into difficulty. It was short, but once again steep. Then another loose, rocky downhill that led to another fireroad climb. This one I could comfortably do in a reasonable gear, allowing me to eat, drink and pop Endurolytes. Most of the course after that was fun singletrack, with some steep grinds here and there, one hike-a-bike, and a screaming fireroad descent back to the finishing road.

When I checked in after the lap, I took a peek at the log sheet. There weren't many people checked in yet, and I was leading my age class. This was really dumb on my part. I went out way too hard on the first lap.

I finished the first 8.5 mile lap feeling a bit negative about the course. It was by far the most demanding of the three endurance courses I had raced on (Cool being the easiest). I hit the climb and immediately went for the granny gear. I was able to go up the climb at almost the same speed, but with a good spin and a WAY lower heart rate. It wasn't too bad the second time around.

The singletrack descent was still sketchy the second time. I just didn't feel comfortable on it. There were way too many corners where mistakes would send you over a cliff. My Waltworks hardtail excels on wide-open, high-speed descents, but I have never felt comfortable on it in technical situations like these.

I backed off the throttle a bit on the second lap and a couple guys passed me. That didn't worry me because I was just there to finish my eight hours. Halfway through the lap was a makeshift rest stop stocked with Hammer Gels, so I grabbed a couple. The flavor was "tropical," and they tasted like crap. I rode on wondering what about this nasty taste was tropical.

The second lap passed without fanfare. My legs felt great after slowing down a bit, and I was confident I could keep up the pace and knock out some laps.


I stopped at the truck, chucked the two empty bottles, and grabbed two new ones from the ice chest. Ten second pit stop.

I hit the climb for the third time and felt OK. I didn't want to kill the promoter anymore, at least not for the moment. About halfway up, when I hit one of the steeper sections, both hamstrings locked up suddenly with powerful cramps. What the hell? Two hours into the race? I had been adhering to my eating and drinking schedule, and I had been taking the Endurolytes. I was shocked and bewildered. I hopped off the bike, popped three Endurolytes, and drank a whole bottle of energy drink. I remounted and gingerly finished the climb. I continued the lap at a reduced pace, and didn't have any more cramps, but I was going pretty slow. People were passing me at regular intervals now. Mentally I was feeling pretty down. At the rest stop I pulled out some more Endurolytes and popped them as an older guy was passing me. He said he too was cramping already and couldn't believe it. I felt a little better knowing I wasn't the only one, but not much.

After the third lap I stopped at the truck to oil my bone-dry chain and get more energy drink since I consumed two bottles during the lap. I drank some water and took more Endurolytes. I hit the climb for the fourth time and immediately cramped. I climbed off the bike, drank more energy drink, stretched and tried again. Cramps. I continued walking up and tried a few more times to ride, but the cramps would not let up. Mentally I was broken. Even though my legs had many more miles left in them if I could just defeat the cramps, my mind had quit. I was done.

I coasted back downhill to the truck and threw the bike in. Sean's wife Mary—who was pitting for Sean and Roger, and is herself an accomplished racer—tried to console me. I changed clothes and stuck around long enough to see Roger and Sean come around a couple times, then made the long drive home. I just wasn't in the mood to be there watching other people make it look so damn easy.

Even though I was in better shape for this race than I was for the Boggs 8-hour, I only made it a little over half the distance.

I learned a few things from the race. For one, you cannot train for mountain bike endurance racing by riding on the road. Regardless of all the hours I put in, they in no way simulated the intensity required for that course.

Doing long rides alone isn't enough. Without some hard interval training, your legs will be shocked when the intensity of racing is encountered. Regardless of your intentions to keep your heart rate down, situations will arise that force you to redline.

You cannot do this kind of racing half-assed. My penchant for being ill-prepared, tired and late-arriving isn't such a hindrance in a short cross-country race. An endurance race is a different story. It was dumb of me to do all the training, spend all the money, waste all the time, and then try to drive down the same day. For another $55 I could have stayed in a Redding motel, picked up my race packet Friday night, and left for the race at 8:00 instead of 4:30.

Do NOT eat Mexican food the night before a race. Jennifer had a bad day at work on Friday, so she wanted to go to her favorite restaurant. I wanted something mellow like pasta, bread and a salad, but I didn't speak up. Normally Mexican food doesn't bother me, but with the nervousness I was experiencing the night before I was a wreck the next morning.

Ride a bike you are comfortable on, not one you have been wrestling with your position on for 18 months.

Chamois butter is a great thing. I slathered my shorts with the stuff and had ZERO issues with discomfort like I did at Boggs.

Later.

Race Report: Boggs II

My first foray into endurance racing earlier today didn't really turn out as well as I would have liked.

I arrived home from work yesterday totally drained. I was the lone representative of my work group, and a number of problems were waiting for me as soon as I walked in the door. It was an extremely stressful and crazy day for a Friday. When the chaos finally subsided, I picked up Spencer from daycare and headed home.

Once at home I changed clothes, grabbed a snack and headed out to the garage. I gave my bike a half-hearted cleaning and tune-up. I went to the grocery store and picked up some supplies. Then I went home and sat in my chair in front of the TV for a while to unwind. I started debating whether I really wanted to race today. I was so damned tired.

During dinner I made the decision to blow off the race. I was just too tired.

As I lie awake in bed, trying to shut down my brain, I started feeling guilty about not racing. I fell asleep still undecided a little after 10:00.

I woke up at 3 a.m. and decided not to go. Then I woke up at 4:00 and decided to go. Since I had not finished with preparations the night before, I ran around the house and simply grabbed anything cycling-related that came into view. My original goal was to be on the road by 4:00, but I left at 4:45. I would have to put the hammer down to make registration.

I drove like an idiot and made it to the registration table at 7:40, 20 minutes before registration closed. After making it through the long line, I then had 30 minutes to get dressed and ready for the 8:30 start.

I decided to go with water bottles and jersey pockets over the Camelbak route. I would probably do that again, even though the course offered few places to drink from a bottle. I liked being able to stop at the truck and trade out bottles and throw a few things in the pockets rather than fumbling with the Camelbak. I also don't like putting energy drink in the Camelbak.

As I was getting ready, there were people warming up 30 minutes before the race. I found this quite odd. I mean, I can understand spinning around a bit, but people were actually climbing a steep hill and hitting it very hard. I heard that most of the course was singletrack, so I expected the first lap to be slow, which would offer plenty of time to get warmed up.

Right before the start of almost every race is the rider meeting where the course and rules are discussed. It's terribly exciting:

Everyone lined up and I was surprised how many people there were. As I looked around, and the vast majority were solo racers (blue numbers) and many of those were on single speeds.

The gun went off (a real gun, a first) and I rolled into my first 8-hour race.

That's me! Second from the left.

The course had elements that reminded me of the Connector Trail, Sly Park and Georgetown, with a pinch of Oregon sprinkled in. The 9.2 mile course went like this: a fireroad climb to start (surprise), singletrack climb then decent, fireroad climb, awesome singletrack descent, tough singletrack climb, rolling singletrack for a while, a fire road climb, and a rolling singletrack downhill to the finish.

The first lap was slow, as expected—a long line of people snaking through winding singletrack. No problems on the first lap other than about 20 of us missing a turn. It only cost us a couple minutes to get turned around.

The riders spread out over the second lap, and I was enjoying the ride. The singletrack sections were really nice. Much of the trail was carpeted in pine needles and was pretty smooth, with rocks here and there and the occasional rock garden. Midway through the lap I had a bee fly into my helmet and sting me. It hurt for an hour or so, but after that I forgot all about it.

After lap two I pitted and swapped out my bottles. I scarfed down some food and drank some Gatorade. I felt slightly full, but that was OK. There was nothing on the course that put you into the red, so little chance of puking. I was back on the course in less than five minutes.

Lap three was uneventful. I rode most of it alone, passing the occasional rider. I was jumping off every lip and water bar I could find, just riding for fun and not really racing.



Towards the end of lap three was the first time I felt a little fatigue, which made sense because I was just approaching my typical mountain bike ride length of around 30 miles.

Lap four was more of the same—just riding and having fun. I started to feel more fatigue in my legs, so I slowed down a little to conserve energy. On the two steep sections of the course, I went down into my small chainring for the first time. Towards the end of the lap, I felt the first twinge of a cramp.

I pitted after lap four, eating more food and swapping out bottles. I lubed my dry chain and downed more water and Gatorade. I was surprised to feel a cramp because I had adhered to my "one bottle per lap" plan and I supplemented it with more fluids at rest and pit stops. After a 10 minute break, I rolled out for lap five.

Early in the lap on a downhill, I started feeling the cramp again. It was in my right calf and into my inner quad. I started downhilling right foot forward, which felt really awkward, but that stopped the cramping for the time being. But on the first steep uphill, both legs cramped up. I hopped off the bike and drank a whole bottle of Endurox while walking up the climb. I hopped back on at the top and continued riding. For the rest of the lap I rode gingerly on the climbs, spinning as much as possible. At the rest stop I was desperate enough to drink two cups of Red Bull (vile stuff) and a cup of water. I felt twinges throughout the lap, but no full-on cramps. An unfortunate situation, because except for the cramps, I had really good legs.

I pitted after lap five and drank even more water, Gatorade and Gu2O. It was only 70 degrees! I couldn't comprehend why I was cramping so badly after only 46 miles. I looked on the floor of the truck and there were SIX empty cycling water bottles, two 12 ounce water bottles and two empty Gatorade bottles. What the hell? It sure seemed like a lot of fluid. I sat in the truck while my legs twitched and spasmed. I really wanted six laps, but it wasn't looking good. Even though I had three hours until the cutoff to complete the lap, I didn't know if time would fix this.

After 30 minutes of resting, my legs actually felt worse. I was bummed out. I figured it's now or never, so I climbed on the bike and set off. As soon as the road pointed up I started feeling the cramps lurking. I turned onto the singletrack where the grade steepened, and both legs quickly cramped. I hopped off and uttered some profanities. I wanted the sixth lap, but I wasn't sure if I could endure an hour or more of the cramping, or whether it was even worth it. I stretched, drank a few gulps of water, and tried it again. No dice. I was done.

I rolled back to the truck going the wrong way on the course. A few people offered encouragement to keep going, but no amount of positive energy could reverse my situation. Back at the truck I sat down and both legs seized up. I had to stand up and walk around for a while. I went to the start-finish tent and took three bottles of water, which I promptly drank.

At that point my mood was pretty dark, so I decided to blow off the awards and raffle and go home. The cramps made changing clothes difficult. Every time I moved either leg powerful cramps struck. It felt like someone jamming an ice pick deep into my muscles.

I left at 3:00. I struggled with cramps every time I needed to shift gears. I was relieved to hit open highway where I didn't have to work the clutch. I arrived home a little before 6:00—a very long day on very little sleep.

Final stats: 5 laps, 47 miles, 5:11 riding time, 12th out of 15 in 40+ Solo.

I have always struggled with cramps, but never like I experienced in this race. If I can figure out the cramp situation, I see little reason why I can't knock out 7 laps next year.

Later.

2000 Sierra Century

My first century is in the books. It actually turned out to be pretty fun, and any apprehension I had was unfounded. I rode really well, and even though I faded a bit at the end, it was still a strong performance.

When I say "first century" I am referring to an organized event. Back in my racing days, we eclipsed 100 miles on many rides and rode up to 150 miles on several occasions. I've even come close to 100 miles a couple times in the last few years.

I arrived in Plymouth early in the morning and checked in. My stomach was a little upset. Looking at a jagged course profile with 8600 feet of climbing will do that to a guy. Here is the route map from last year:

The highlighted route is the metric century that omits the Slug Gulch climb, which is an ascent that strikes fear into many flatlanders.

We rolled out and of course there were a lot of people, but it thinned out quickly as the racer guys separate from the riding guys. I was somewhere in the middle between the dudes with shaved legs and the dudes with beards and rearview mirrors.

The first 20 miles flew by quickly because it was almost all downhill. I rolled into the rest stop in Ione feeling great but I knew it was only fools gold. I topped off my water and grabbed some food because I knew shit was about to get real.

We immediately started the climb up toward Volcano and I settled in for what would be roughly two hours of climbing. I spun a low gear to keep my heart rate down. I knew that the Rams Horn Grade after Volcano is no joke.

A few miles into the climb, a group of about 25 guys came roaring up from behind. I recognized one of them as my old neighbor Renzo, who exclaimed "Dude!" when he saw me. I rode with Renzo quite a bit a few years back when I lived in Sacramento, and I also recognized a few other guys from those rides. "Ride with us, man!"

These guys were all Cat 2 and 3 racers, and given the length and difficulty of this ride, I knew I should probably ride alone. But I am also a little competitive, so I said yes.

The first time I rode with Renzo and his friends they dropped me after only six miles. I improved some over time, but the flat roads we rode around the airport and the Sacramento River made it tough. I am at my best when the roads go up and down.

The pace was high and a little uncomfortable, but not too bad. We clicked off five miles, then 10. I was sitting in about tenth wheel, and I took a peek behind me to see only a couple guys; our pack had been cut in half.

As we approached Volcano I looked forward to taking a break at the rest stop. However, nobody slowed down. It was on. We blew right through the rest stop and hit Rams Horn Grade at full blast. I was sitting on Renzo's wheel when a gap started forming in front of him. I pulled around and said, "Let's go!" He tried to stay with me but couldn't. I closed the gap and grabbed a wheel. I looked back to see Renzo cracking.

We hit a false flat and regrouped a bit. Everyone sat up for a few seconds and took a drink. As racers we recognize these unspoken truces but know they are very temporary. There was one more piece of the steep climb remaining. Eight of us remained from the original group, and there would definitely be a race to the top.

We hit the last stretch, and the tempo was insane. The angel on my shoulder said, "You probably shouldn't be going this fast." The devil inside me yelled, "Kill them all!"

One guy started to pull away and I decided if I don't finish this ride, then I'll just go out fighting. I jumped around a couple guys and went after numero uno. I eventually reeled him in and two guys were able to stay on my wheel. We stayed in this order until we rolled over the top.

As we crested the climb the four of us exchanged high fives. I felt pretty good about making the selection with a group of elite racers. There were over 20 guys behind us who couldn't.

We took it easy on the descent into Fiddletown. We had proven our point and it was time to let the group reassemble. Renzo eventually caught up to me. "You killed it, man!"

I just shrugged my shoulders. "Why are you not racing?" he asked.

"Because sometimes the roads are flat."

We got a good laugh out of that.

As we approached Fiddletown, I told Renzo I was going to take advantage of the rest stop. We said our goodbyes and they rolled on.

I fueled up and quickly got back on the bike before I cooled down. I decided to slow down a bit and focus on the last big climb.

After Fiddletown there was a small climb and some rolling flats as I neared Slug Gulch. The riders had thinned out and for the first time I was completely alone on the road. I may have been better off riding at a higher pace in the pack, but I will never know. Either way, those flat miles took forever.

Slug Gulch is a little over five miles with an average gradient of 6.4%. It was a pretty tough climb. Most of the punishment comes in the first 1.5 miles with grades in the double digits, maxing out at 15 percent. I had never seen cyclists walk up a paved road, but there were many riders pushing their bikes. I have encountered steeper climbs, of course, but never after 80 miles of riding.

I was determined to ride the whole thing, and I did, but I didn't set any speed records. A couple times I had to resort to zig-zagging across the road just to get my heart rate under control.

After I crested the top I thought it would be smooth sailing to the finish, but topo maps can be deceiving. That last 20 miles of "downhill" had lots of little leg-breaking climbs.

Thankfully a guy came by and asked if I wanted to ride with him. We rode the rest of the way together and that helped a lot from a drafting and psychological perspective. It's just easier to suffer with another rider.

We rolled into Plymouth and I was glad to be done. Even for a guy in decent shape, 103 miles is a lot. Right now I can say that I don't have any desire to do this again, but I probably said that the last time I rode 100 miles.

Later.