Crew Report for LoToJa 2015, Part 1: Too Close for Comfort

09.14.2015 | 6:30 am

For most of my life, I’ve been acutely aware of a fact you have no doubt also discovered at some point in your life. Specifically, that the universe revolves around me. 

It’s a strange and wonderful thing, really, being the center of the universe — the person who is doing, at any given point in time, the most important thing that any person could be doing. 

I’ve often suspected, though, that the reason whatever I’m doing at the moment is the most interesting and exciting thing happening anywhere is because the things I do are so dynamic and exciting. 

I’m the guy racing. I’m the guy training. I’m the guy winning eating contests.

Which made me think, recently, “Am I the most important person in any given situation and at any given moment because I’m doing something glamorous and exciting, or are events glamourous and exciting because I am doing them?”

It’s an intriguing question. Which goes without saying, really: the fact that I had this question is enough to make it intriguing, right?

In any case, I decided recently that I would conduct an experiment: instead of being the guy who raced in a race (thus turning the race itself into a glorious, eventful event), I would be the guy crewing for a racer. Specifically, I — along with my intrepid sidekick, the IT Guy — would crew for The Hammer and my niece Lindsey as they raced the 2015 Lotoja, a popular 200+ mile road race from Logan, UT, to Jackson, WY (hence the name). 

Would crewing for a race be as exciting as racing it, if I were the crew? Would it be filled with drama, close calls, tears and laughter and a feel-good conclusion?

Like you even need to ask.

The Day Before the Race

As an astute tactician, I planned thoroughly for every possible eventuality in the Lotoja race. By which I mean, I called The IT Guy and said, “Hey, I’m terrible at directions and finding my way around and stuff; why don’t you come help me crew for your mom and help me not get lost?”

The IT Guy replied, “I won’t commit to helping.” 

I said, “So I should get someone else?”

The IT Guy said, “No, I’ll be there for sure. I just won’t commit to it.”

The IT Guy is a truly strange person, but he’s incredibly good at reading maps and understanding verbal directions. So I stopped worrying about whether we’d make it from checkpoint to checkpoint on time. It would not be a problem.

Then I said to The Hammer, “I’ve got tools, tubes, tires and lube all set for you. Do you want me to figure out your food, too?”

“No, I’ve got that covered,” The Hammer said, and handed me a legal pad containing a detailed list of what she would want at each stop, along with the approximate times she would be at each of these stops.

Which meant, essentially, that my whole job was to make sure there was gas in the truck and to show up on race day.

I felt I was up to that challenge.

The Night Before the Race

As an insightful man with a great deal of foresight, I had the wisdom this year to have my niece fall in love with and marry a man whose parents live about one mile from the starting line of the Lotoja race. I further had the idea to ensure that both he and his parents love cycling.

Which meant not only that The Hammer, The IT Guy and I had a free place to stay the night before Lotoja, but we also had access to Lynne (Ben’s mom), who has crewed for multiple racers seven times. Lynne knows all the tricks of where to go, where to park, where to set up, and how to make sure your riders find you. 

I had her give us a mind-dump of all this information. My mind wandered as she told us everything we needed to know, but I did look over to the IT Guy from time to time and ask, “Are you getting all this?” He was.

“So what are you two wearing tomorrow?” Lynne asked. 

“Uhhh,” The IT Guy and I replied. We hadn’t considered the fact that matching outfits would make us stand out to Lindsey an The Hammer.

Luckily, I generally pack about twenty t-shirts whenever I go anywhere. Including, this time, two bright blue t-shirts: a Racer’s Cycle Service shirt, and an XTerra shirt.

And then we bought a big bunch of helium balloons, which we affixed to a six-foot-long PVC pipe. 

Findability: covered.

Here’s the IT Guy in his borrowed shirt. The balloons may look like a festive headdress, but this is merely an illusion.

Now all I needed to do was get Lindsey to give me instructions for what she wanted, crew-wise. She had wisely already put her food in separate bags, and now detailed her needs. They were simple enough, but contained what I considered a distressing amount of pop-tarts and Dr. Pepper. 

I kept my mouth shut, however. This wasn’t the time to start second-guessing her food plan for the race.

OK, I might have said a few things. And also I might have lecutured her a little bit.

OK, I might actually have gone on at some length.

Too Close for Comfort

The Hammer and I went to bed early. I felt a strange unease as I waited to go to sleep. Something was wrong. Something was missing. 

But what was it?

Oh yeah: Nervousness. The next day was a race, and I wasn’t racing. I wasn’t experiencing pre-race anxiety, while The Hammer definitely was. 

It was a little strange, not feeling my usual jumpiness. But also: nice.

I woke up at 5:30, right when the alarm went off. While The Hammer went and got herself ready, I went and double-checked her bike, checking air pressure, lubing the chain, affixing the race number, putting on the Bento Box, snapping the Garmin onto the mount.

The IT Guy slept in. There was nothing for him to do, yet.

With my very few tasks complete, I lounged about, ’til at 6:55 (The Hammer and Lindsey’s start wave was at 7:12), I said, “Hey, shouldn’t we be going?”

This was kind of strange. If I had been racing, there is no way I would not have already have been waiting at the starting line by now.

The Hammer’s bike was already loaded onto the truck’s rack, so I started loading Lindsey’s. At which point I noticed that her wheels seemed…a little squishy.

Both of them.

“I’m going to check your air real quick,” I said.

The rear tire was seventyish PSI. “That’s not good,” I said, and inflated it to 110. 

The rear tire was also seventyish.

“When’s the last time you pumped up these tires?” I asked Lindsey. 

“Last night,” she replied. At which point my Spidey sese went just a little nuts. If both her tires were this low, Either Lindsey had a slow leak or the pump she had been using had a bad gauge. Since both her tires had the same low number, I was inclined to go with the “bad gauge” theory.

Regardless, all we had time for now was to put air in and hope. We were running so late I privately now took it as a fact that Lindsey and The Hammer were going to miss their wave start.

It’s possible, therefore, that as we drove toward the starting line we very nearly approached the speed limit.

Assuming that parking close to the starting line would be nearly impossible and would actually take more time than finding a place to park a couple of blocks away, we in fact did quickly find a place to park my truck, at which point we got The Hammer and Lindsey off. They sprinted the two blocks to the starting line and I looked at the time on my phone.

7:10. It was going to be close, one way or the other.

I ran toward the Starting line. 7:11. I kept running. Now I could see the arch.

7:12. I wondered if Lindsey and The Hammer had made it into the corral. I wondered if the corrals were leaving strictly on time.

And then I saw the women racers — I believe Cat 1, 2, 3, and 4 women racers all left at the same time — come through the arch and make the first left turn.

I stopped running and watched, hoping to see two Team Fatty kits round that corner together. But I didn’t see them.

And then I did.

At the very back of the pack, they rounded the corner. They had made the start.

Later in the day, after the race, I would ask The Hammer how much time they’d had to spare once they got in the corral.

“Exactly no time at all,” she replied. “The instant we rolled in, our wave rolled out. We could not have timed it one second slower.”

Whew.

New Urgency

According to Lynne, I now had an exorbitant amount of time to prepare and get to the first aid station where we’d be meeting The Hammer and Lindsey, 76 miles into the race.

But this starting line close call had served as a wake-up call for me. There was no way I was going to cut things fine like this again. I was not going to be the crew that didn’t show up for his racers.

I filled my truck’s tank, got back to the house, and barged into The IT Guy’s room, where he was fast asleep.

“Get up now,” I bellowed. “We’ve got to get to the Montpelier aid station right away!”

The IT Guy yawned, pulled on a t-shirt, and said, “OK, let’s go.” 

We took off, on a mission to get to the tiny little town of Montpelier as quickly as possible.

Very soon, alas, we would discover the paradox of how trying to get somewhere very quickly can in fact cause severe delays.

Which seems like a good place to pick up in the next installment of my crew report.