You know, just for fun?
So I called Travis, the marketing guy for the Tour of Utah (he’s the one who’s helped arrange the bike giveaway contest you should make sure you enter). “Sure, that sounds like fun,” Travis said. “Mind if I email a few other people who might be interested and see if they might want to join you?”
And that’s how, at 6:00am last Saturday, I found myself in a parking lot in Deer Valley with a few friends—Dug, BotchedExperiment, and Rick Sunderlage (not his real name)—and a half dozen other guys, all of us wondering what we were getting ourselves into.
This Isn’t So Hard…Hey, Where’d Everyone Go?
I had only a foggy notion of how the route worked, so was very pleased when Scott, one of the Tour of Utah guys—was there to act as our tour guide.
Scott, I noticed, was riding a brand-new Cervelo Soloist Team. Yup, exactly like the bike we’re giving away. It was the first time I’ve seen that bike up close, and it is beautiful. Whoever wins that is going to be digging it.
Anyway, in keeping with the intention to ride the course just like the pros will be, we did a parade lap around Deer Valley (yes, we really did), and then headed down toward Sundance.
It was all either downhill or flat.
It was easy.
And then everyone ditched me.
While at a quick pee stop, Kenny called, asking when we’d be getting to the base of the Alpine Loop climb; he was planning on joining us. While I talked, everyone else finished their business and left.
By the time I got off the phone, meanwhile, I still had business to take care of. And by the time I finished that, nobody was visible any longer. So I made my own way, following the signs and figuring things out as best as I could.
Eventually, as I came down Heber’s main street, I saw the group, waiting for me at an intersection. The fact that they were facing a different way than I was is a testament to my absolute and complete lack of navigation skills.
You know why race courses are usually marked way more than you need them to be? Because of people like me, that’s why. Sorry.
Wherein I Suffer and Nearly Get Spat Out the Back
As we got closer to the first big climb of the day—the Alpine Loop, which is about eight miles long, with 3000 feet of climbing—some of the fast guys in team kit started upping the pace. I started hurting.
Then a 16-year-old kid put the hammer down and it was all I could do to hang on. And we hadn’t even started climbing.
I knew I was in big trouble.
Somehow, though, I managed to hang on. After the ride, though, I asked Dug: “Can you believe the pace we were riding from Deer Creek to the base of the Alpine Loop climb? I thought I was going to die!”
“I didn’t have a problem with it,” said Dug, nonchalantly.
Wherein I Suffer Some More, But With Better Results
As soon as we turned right, starting the climb to the summit of the Alpine Loop, it became very clear who was doing this ride to prove something, and who was there just to get it done.
A guy in a yellow jersey shot off the front at warp speed, clearly hoping to demoralize us. It worked on me.
Then the guys in team kit and the 16-year-old organized and gave chase. Within moments, I couldn’t see them anymore.
Dug dropped off the back; he just wanted to listen to his Black Eyed Peas (?!) in peace (Dug sometimes forgets he’s 40). So Rick Sunderlage (not his real name) and I rode together, testing each other, trying to see whether the other guy could hang.
We both could hang.
I pushed first, shifting up one gear while holding my cadence. I gapped Rick.
Then Rick attacked, but with much more gusto than I did. He stood up and spun wildly, passing and putting thirty feet between us.
I did not react. I just kept spinning in second gear, even though I really wanted to go granny.
Before long I was back with Rick. I held his wheel for ten seconds, then rode by.
He grabbed my wheel until he was ready for another surge, and then he shot ahead again.
It went on like this for a while.
After the second or third exchange like this, though, I noticed something about Rick’s attacks: he hadn’t learned a simple—but vital—climbing trick: if you’re going to stand up, shift up two gears. Why? You can’t turn as high or smooth a cadence when you’re standing; all you’ve got now is the additional force gravity loans you. So use that force by pushing a bigger gear.
As a result, anytime Rick was ahead of me, I’d just watch for when he stood; I’d automatically close 10-15 feet of gap.
At the last hard climb of the Loop (about 3 miles from the summit), I stood up at a hairpin, upshifted twice, and pedaled by Rick, chanting, “I am Ullrich!” over and over.
“What? You’re all Rick?” he responded, confused.
But I was building too big a gap to explain.
Do Not Wear Yellow
With Rick dispatched, I started looking for another carrot. And there he was: the guy wearing the yellow jersey. Now, here’s a question: why would anyone ever wear a yellow jersey? It makes you a target. Even if you’re just trundling along on a mellow recreational ride, you can bet that anyone who passes you is thinking, “I just passed a guy wearing a yellow jersey.”
Catching the guy in the yellow was not easy. But I did. And as I passed him, I said out loud my chant: “I Am Ullrich!”
“Good to meet you Al,” he said.
Is something wrong with my diction?
Home Sweet Home
The nice thing about being one of the first guys to the top (how do you like the way I worked that in there?) is it gives you plenty of time to eat, refill your bottles and so forth, so that you really are rested by the time the group is back together.
I ate lots of Clif Shot Bloks. They’re like strawberry jam. Yum.
I had figured we were pretty much on our own support-wise, but the Tour of Utah guys proved otherwise. Waiting for us at the top of the Alpine Loop was food, water and Gatorade-a-plenty.
The Tour of Utah guys are cool.
While here, Kenny and Chucky rode up, joining us for the rest of the ride. Oh, good: more people to make me feel slow.
Next up, the descent down the American Fork side of the Alpine Loop, and then the climb up Suncrest.
Descending, I’m afraid, was not fun for me. Ever since that downtube incident, I have been incredibly timid on road descents. So I dropped toward the back of the pack. And then I dropped behind the back of the pack.
Climbing up Suncrest, though, was great: since I do this climb most weekdays as part of my commute to work, I knew exactly where the climbing’s difficult, and where it eases off. Home court advantage, big time. Before too long, Kenny, Scott and I were ahead of the group, riding a good fast cadence.
And I had to wonder: why wasn’t I tired? Why wasn’t I bonking? Is it actually possible I’ve ridden myself into shape?
That would be nice.
Last Big Effort
A quick (or in my case, not very quick) descent down the North side of Suncrest, then a few miles along Wasatch Boulevard brought us to the base of the Snowbird climb, the only one I hadn’t ever done before.
People say that it’s approximately the same length and profile as L’Alpe d’Huez.
I don’t think they say this to be encouraging.
As Scott’s wife handed out fresh water bottles to anyone who wanted one, Rick (not his real name) and Dug caught up, and announced they would not be finishing the ride. They had their reasons, all of which I’m sure sounded very convincing. To themselves.
At this point, I no longer had any idea where BotchedExperiment was.
I started the climb with Kenny and Chucky, but I am just not in their league. They gapped me before long and I rode on my own.
This is when I planned to spend a little time in my own little private hell.
But I didn’t. I felt good. I was bumping up my maximum effort, but I wasn’t redlining, and I wasn’t cracking. I wasn’t passing anybody, but I also wasn’t being passed.
Six miles later, I reached Snowbird.
And that’s when I realized I hadn’t really checked to find out where we were all going to regroup.
Figuring that the Tour of Utah guys were not the type who would let the stage end at the lowest entrance to the resort, I rode past the first entrance. And the second and third. I pulled into the fourth entrance, because if I didn’t do that, I would have been on my way to Alta.
Luckily, Kenny called. He gave me some directions on how to find him.
I rode down and around, trying to find anyone who looked really tired and had a bike.
I called Kenny back, and got some more instructions.
Eventually, I found him and Chucky, sitting on a patio and finishing a meal they had bought. From the looks of them, they had been there for some time.
I got a big Diet Pepsi (Diet Coke is Dug’s hangup; I’m fine with any diet cola at all), and we headed down.
Half a mile down the road, we saw BotchedExperiment, working his way up.
I signaled for him to turn around. He shook his head “no.”
So I turned around and we finished the climb to Snowbird.
BotchedExperiment is Tenacious
It’s his story to tell (and I hope he does), but BotchedExperiment apparently doesn’t have the “give up” gene in him. He had bonked completely and utterly—unable to even turn the cranks—part way up the Snowbird climb. He was sitting in the dirt when the Tour of Utah sag wagon got him some food and water. Before too long, he felt well enough to ride again, and finished what is widely regarded as the toughest sustained climb in the area.
Props to Botched.
I felt better than I had any right to feel for the entirety of the ride. I had one of those rare, perfect days where you have more strength and stamina than you really believe possible. That said, I was still completely cooked by the time I got to the top of Snowbird, even though I had taken several breaks.
I have no idea how pros do the whole thing under race conditions, and frankly don’t want to find out.