Love,

Fatty

If all of us actually pay up, that’s $1500 I’ll be donating to Camp Kesem. And since the company I work for does matching on donations, that will turn into $3000 for Camp Kesem. And that makes me super happy.

It’s not too late to sign up. Lose some weight, do some good!

Hey, Happy New Year to you. I hope your January is off to a splendid start.

As for me, well, I’ve kinda been taking it easy on the whole “diet” thing. By which I mean I’ve gotten about as fat as I’ve been in a decade. Maybe more. Specifically, a week or so ago I weighed myself and was horrified to discover I weighed 180 pounds. My reaction was to begin dieting immediately, by which I mean that I have eaten continuously, bringing myself into a perpetual food-induced stupor.

It’s time to turn this ship around.

If you’ve kinda let yourself go they way I’ve let myself go…well, maybe we can help each other get back on track with a little coopetition. Which is to say, if you’ve got at least 15 pounds you’d like to get rid of before summer and you think a friendly competition might help you do it, I think I’ve got just the thing.

Why I’m Doing This and Why You Might Want To, Too

I know I need to lose some weight. I also know a few other things about myself. I’m a competitive soul; I love to win. I’m also a cooperative soul; I love to help others win. I stay engaged — focused — over the long haul when I have accountability, incentive, a finish line, and the prospect of fun.

I think these traits are pretty common. So I’ve contrived a weight loss challenge that I think will keep me on track, will be fun, has serious accountability, has real incentive for me to not bail, and will do the same for the folks who join me.

Here’s How It Works

I’ve done a number of weight loss challenges before. The ones that have worked (for me and others) have had some common elements. They’re easy to understand. They have a carrot and stick. They require frequent accountability. And they do something positive, beyond the competition itself.

So here’s the basic notion of Fatty’s 2019 Weight Loss Challenge: between now and April 20, 2019, you vow to lose at least 15 pounds (if you have less than that to lose, you should find a different challenge). Every Friday, you log your weight in a spreadsheet every challenge participant can see. And if you don’t, you’re out of the contest. That’s the accountability part.

But there’s money involved — a $150 ante. Part of that will go to Camp Kesem — a charity that’s had life-changing results for my own children. The rest will get divided among those who hit their goal, or at least keep trying.

And of course, there’s a community aspect — I’ve set up a Facebook group for those who enter, where we can celebrate victories, encourage each other when we’re having a tough time, and complain about how hungry we are when we need to complain about how hungry we are.

The Rules

Notice that I don’t have anything here about how to do your diet. That’s up to you.

An Example

As a thought experiment (and to help me make sure I have this thing imagined reasonably correctly), let’s walk through how this might work.

To keep math easy, let’s say 10 people enter. That creates a pool of $1500, of which $500 goes to Camp Kesem. Now the pool is $1000.

Let’s say that of the 10 people, 2 exit the contest — maybe they are embarrassed to post the fact that they are actually gaining weight — for some reason. They forfeit their entry, so the pool remains $1000 for the remaining 8 people to split.

Of the 8 people who faithfully post each week to the end of the contest, let’s say that half hit their goal (mine is 160, a 20-pound loss between now and April 20), and half don’t. The four people who hit their goal split 75% of the pool, meaning $750 gets split among the four people. They each get $187.50 back — a profit of $37.50.

The four people who didn’t hit their goal but kept trying split the remaining 25%, so they each get $62.50. Not as much, but they’re rewarded for trying, and they know that they made a nice donation to Camp Kesem.

Of course, there are some weird possibilities that occur to me:

• What if everyone hits their goal? In that case, 100% of the pool gets divided equally.
• What if only a small number don’t hit their goal? Suppose in the above example only 1 person doesn’t hit their goal while 7 do? The person who doesn’t hit their goal would make more money than those who do hit their goal. Well, I think the odds of that happening are slim, but it’s possible. I guess for myself I’d rather get less money back and hit my weight goal than not hit my goal and get more money.
• What if people are dishonest? Your weigh-ins are honor-based; there’s no way I can stop you from lying from start to finish. That seems like a lot of work, however, to make a very small amount of money.

It’s not perfect, but I’m excited for it. And I hope that there’ll be about 5 – 10 more people who are interested in playing, as well (though honestly I’m OK with just a couple of us doing this).

If you want to play, fill out this form (it’ll take less than 3 minutes to do) and we’ll go from there.

Let’s have a fast and light 2019, OK?

Melisa and Lisa had gone. They were going to be running around Turquoise Reservoir, coming back across the road in eight miles or so.

Which gave me plenty of time, I figured, to go pack up Lisa’s and my stuff at our hotel, check out, and then go get Blake and Jeff. We’d then be able to meet them and cheer them on at several more points on the way to the finish line.

I hustled, picked everyone up, and got to where we expected to see them. And no sooner had we started looking up the trail for them than they came running out:

Melisa was smiling! And moving at the pace — as you can see — of a fast walk! And she was there minutes sooner than we had expected her.

She was 95 miles (my guess) into this race, and moving as fast as she needed to.

Everyone’s spirits soared.

“We’ll see you soon!” we cheered as they crossed the reservoir road and started down the other side.

But by the next time we saw her, things had changed. A lot.

We had to drive a little bit of a circuitous route to get to the dirt road that connected to where we’d see them again,  but I’d stopped worrying.

Then we saw Melisa, and everyone started worrying again.

The happy, still-sort-of-running Melisa was gone, and in her place was the suffering, every-step-is-agony Melisa.

The short-but-steep downhill had been a last straw of sorts for Melisa’s feet.

Still, we walked with the two of them, cheering them on. Staying positive. Being encouraging.

“YOU AREN’T HELPING,” Melisa said. “I can tell that you’re all just walking, so GO.”

Banished, we left Lisa and Melisa to their misery. We’d have to content ourselves with tracking them on Lisa’s phone’s Find-a-Friend.

At the Top of the Boulevard

We drove to the top of the Boulevard — where the dirt meets the road, signaling you’re in the homestretch of the race — and waited. Occasional runners would come by, all of them a mix of pain and elation. Each time one came by, we’d cheer and the course marshal — carrying a bongo drum — would hammer out an awesome beat.

I took turns looking at my watch, looking at Lisa’s dot on Find-a-Friend — willing her to reach the turn that meant they were on the 2-mile-long Boulevard climb — and answering the dozens of texts coming in from family and friends, asking about how Melisa was doing.

From time to time, I’d text Lisa, asking how things were going, and then I’d relay her reply to everyone with me.

This was my first experience being an anxious racer crew, but I’m pretty sure I made up for a lifetime of it in the hour (or two? or ten?) we stood there.

Rejoining

It’s tough to watch a dream fade.

As time went by we went from, “She’ll get it” to “She has a chance” to “Who cares about time? The distance is what matters.”

10:00am — the official finishing time — came and went.

The bongo drum-playing course marshal apologetically said, “I have to go help with course cleanup,” and left.

Lisa’s blue dot was at the bottom of the boulevard; it was difficult to tell whether it had moved in a while.

I was looking at it when Lisa texted me, “We’re going to be a while.”

I texted back, “Is it OK for us to come down and walk up with you?”

She replied, “Melisa says it’s OK.”

We all started walking down, except Jeff, who broke into a run. Which was adorable.

The Walk

We caught up with Melisa and Lisa and began walking with her. 10:00 had come and gone, and 11:00 — the time racers need to hit to get their name on the official finishers’ list — was coming up fast.

Nobody mentioned time.

Sometimes we tried to talk; most of the time we were quiet.

Lisa would ask, every few minutes, if Melisa wanted something to eat, or something to drink. After one of these questions, Melisa said, “YOU’RE NOT DOING A GOOD JOB OF PACING ME. EVERYONE ELSE PACED ME BETTER THAN YOU.” I started laughing, then realized Melisa wasn’t making a joke.

Lisa looked hurt, but could tell it was just pain talking.

Melisa would take a step, plant her poles, then take another step. Baby steps. Not quite one mile per hour.

Roughly one zillion people were texting me, asking what was going on. I did my best to keep up. Later, Melisa would tell me that her main memory of me from the day was that I was just texting all the time.

But I wasn’t just texting. I was also taking pictures.

At which point she tried to do her usual smile-for-the-camera smile. “Cut it out,” I said. “Just ignore the camera.”

And then I got the best, most honest pictures of Melisa you could ever see.

That’s what giving everything you’ve got, and then going way beyond that, actually looks like. It hurts like hell and it’s no fun at all.

And it doesn’t — at least at the moment — feel glorious or brave or extraordinary. The people around you might see it, but you don’t see or feel it yourself.

The Finish Line

Something you probably didn’t notice in those photos is the white truck in the background. That’s the EMT truck. The sweep truck. It stayed a respectful 50 feet behind Melisa for close to three hours while she walked the two miles up the Boulevard. Though it did pull up once when Melisa stumbled. “If she can’t stay upright on her own I need to pull her,” the woman said.

A fair demand.

So Melisa kept walking. Slower, but still going. I looked at my watch and saw it was 12:30. So the awards ceremony was going on. Who cares.

The woman in the truck pulled up and said to Lisa and me — not in earshot of Melisa — “You should know that the timing mat and finish line arch and the bleachers have been taken down. The street’s open. She’s doing this strictly out of her own determination.”

We understood. That had been true for a while.

But Melisa was going slower. She was still moving forward, but so slowly now. You couldn’t walk that slow if you tried. And she still had about 2/3 of a mile to go, even once she reached the pavement.

I couldn’t imagine her walking that much further. I just couldn’t. She was making walking motions, but she wasn’t really moving.

And then a truck pulled up. It was a man from Life Time.

He walked up to Melisa and said, “Everyone knows this race is more than 100 miles. You’ve gone 100 miles, and this is your finish line. You’ve finished this race.”

And he gave her a bouquet of flowers, and a finisher’s medal. And a hug.

The Leadville 100 Trail Run results page shows Melisa as making it to the Mayqueen checkpoint, but not the finish line. The 2018 Leadwoman results page doesn’t show her at all.

Which goes to show, results pages don’t know shit.

They did the 50K together, and had an awesome time. Although there was a photobomber who managed to get into the frame of one of the official photos:

Lame.

Anyway, even after doing this incredibly tough run, they were both happy and strong and feeling great.

This post is not about that race. Because what would I even say beyond what I just said?

This post is about another run, one which I also witnessed only as a spectator.

But for this race, wow. I’ve got a story. And some photos.

And I’m pretty sure you’re going to cry at the end of it.

The Setup

Immediately after the 2017 Leadville 100 (like, while we were still in the finish line area), Melisa told us she wanted to race the Leadwoman in 2018. We weren’t really surprised; it had been on The Hammer’s bucket list for a long time, too.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the Leadwoman / Leadman, it’s not a single race. It’s a series of races. You have to complete the Leadville Trail Marathon (in June), the Silver Rush run and/or mountain bike race (July), the Leadville Trail 100 MTB race (2nd Saturday of August), the Leadville 10K (day after the Leadville 100 MTB), and the Leadville Trail 100 run (1 week after the LT100 MTB race).

And through the summer, Melisa had done all of them, right up to the Leadville Trail 100 run. In fact, on the starting line of the Leadville 100 trail run, she was the second-place woman in the series and set up to be the youngest woman to ever complete the Leadwoman.

The Hammer and I came up to Leadville (even though we had just left it a few days earlier) to crew for her and cheer her on.

Melisa had started strong, building up a nice buffer in the first forty miles of the race, going into the Twin Lakes aid station. She was happy and excited for the next twenty miles, which played to her strengths: speed-hiking and climbing.

After she left the aid station, we went back to town, went on a fun mountain bike ride together, got a pizza, and everyone else went back to Twin Lakes while I went back to the hotel room to do some work stuff I was behind on, and to text updates to everyone of Melisa’s progress according to the inReach Mini she was carrying (you could get and send text messages from the aid station, but that was about as connected as the place got).

At first, things seemed fine. I got lots of Powerpointing done and texted occasional updates to Lisa, Blake, and Jeff (Melisa’s boyfriend).

Then it seemed like her dot slowed down. A lot. And it took a long time for her to get to the turnaround timing mat.

I stopped getting any work done and just sat there at the computer, texting Lisa and constantly refreshing the GPS page (not that this did any good, because the tracker sends a ping only once every ten minutes or so).

But Melisa did it. She came back into the Twin Lakes aid station with about 20 minutes to spare before the time cut would sweep her off the course. It had been a harder segment than she’d expected, which seemed natural. This was the first time she’d done more than fifty miles, so how could she have known what to expect?

She took off with her pacer, determined to finish the final forty miles of this race.

The Hammer came back to our hotel and we went to bed, not bothering to set an alarm; we weren’t slated to be on duty again ’til the final five miles of the race, when Lisa would be pacing her.

And that’s where my story begins.

Wake Up

At three in the morning, more or less on the nose, Lisa suddenly woke up, her mommy spidey-sense on full alert. She looked at her phone. Nothing.

One second later, she got a text. She read it and said, “Wake up.”

“I’m already awake,” I said. “What does the text say?”

“It’s from Blake,” Lisa said. “Melisa wants me to crew for her at the last aid station and pace her for the last 13 miles.”

“I wonder what changed,” I said, but didn’t really wonder. Melisa was suffering and wanted her mom. The single most natural thing in the world, really.

The Hammer was up, putting together a camelbak and running clothes.

“I don’t know what to give her at the aid station,” I said. “We weren’t planning on this.” Frankly, I was dismayed at how unprepared I suddenly felt. I’m used to being crewed for, not for doing the crewing. And I don’t know anything about crewing for runners. And we hadn’t been given any instructions on what Melisa wanted or expected from her crew.

So we threw together everything we had with us, foodwise (a fair amount; Lisa had brought along quite a bit of just-in-case gels and chews and drinks and stuff) and headed out to the Mayqueen aid station, 87 miles into the race.

Yellow Pants

You know how there are certain moments in your life that feel like they’re going to stick in your head forever? I had one of those at Mayqueen. We had to park far away from the aid station itself, due to the long line of cars along the road, where other crews had parked their cars. It was 5:30 in the morning and The Hammer and I were worried we weren’t going to get to the aid station before Melisa did. So we ran, each of us carrying one handle of the plastic bin we had thrown together with food and clothes we’d put together for Melisa.

It was very dark. And cold. And foggy. And there was a tense urgency we were both feeling, up against the scrambled-brain background that too little sleep brings.

We got to the aid station at 5:55am. Lisa checked and found Melisa hadn’t come through yet. So that was a good thing.

Except of course it wasn’t. She only had five minutes ’til the cutoff, which meant she was cutting it very close.

No, wait. We’d gotten our numbers wrong. The cutoff time for this aid station was 6:30am. Melisa still had more than half an hour until the cutoff.

We unpacked what we brought close to the tent, figuring Melisa would want to go in and warm up for a minute, then stood waiting, staring up the road, willing Melisa to come running toward us. Unable to know how close she actually was, since the inReach tracker battery had evidently died during the night.

After a few minutes, I couldn’t bear to just stand there anymore. “I’m going to walk up the road a little,” I told Lisa. “That way when Melisa gets close I can flag her down and guide her over to where you are so she won’t have to pick you out of the crowd.”

I walked toward the start of the aid station lane, peering forward, hoping the next person I’d see would be Melisa. Noticing that every single person standing on both sides of the road was also staring toward the intersection in the road, also willing their runner would be next.

I got to the turn, where the course turned left off the road and into the aid station lane. I looked at my watch. 6:15.

For the next little eternity, there would not be a single minute that would go by without me looking down at my watch. To be more accurate, there would not be a half minute that would go by without me looking down.

6:24. There are now markedly fewer people in the aid station lane than when I got here. No longer a crowd. Just worried crews.

6:25. I’m starting to prepare my “87 miles is incredible” speech. It’s a short speech (in fact, that’s the whole speech), because I know I wouldn’t want to hear a long speech if the circumstances were reversed.

6:26. I’m really going to have to give that speech, aren’t I? I don’t want to give that speech. I’m just not going to say anything. She doesn’t need to hear me say anything.

6:27. A woman in yellow rain pants comes up and tells the few of us staring up the road, “I’m going to start walking toward the timing mat. I’m going to walk very slowly, but your racers have to get across the mat before I do to continue racing.

And she starts walking. Very slowly. Backwards. Stopping sometimes for seconds at a time. I can tell that she doesn’t want to get there before anyone.

6:28. I hear them before I see them, but only by a second or two. There’s Melisa and her pacer. Her pacer is yelling encouragement, is being amazing.

And Melisa is sobbing. Crying out loud. Her arms are swinging like she’s running, her legs are moving like she’s walking on glass.

I join them, stealing frequent looks at my watch. “See the woman in yellow pants? She’s the course marshal. you need to get across the timing mat before she does. Then we’ll take care of you and you can finish this race.”

6:29. We’re catching up to the slow-walking woman in yellow pants, but it is going to be close.

Not the End

With fifty feet to go, Melisa passes the woman in yellow pants. I will remember this moment forever. Melisa has no recollection of this instant.

Melisa crosses the timing mat. I am staring at my watch as she does so. It’s 6:31, technically past the time cutoff. But nobody steps over to tell Melisa she’s done, so we busy ourselves in feeding her, warming her, asking her if she wants different shoes, different socks, anything. And it’s not just Lisa and me doing this; a crowd (OK, two more people) of Melisa’s friends and Melisa’s pacer are joining in.

A few minutes later, Lisa and her daughter head out. They have just under 3.5 hours to run just over thirteen miles. Ordinarily, that would be enough time for Melisa to run twice that distance.

But “ordinarily” is far, far behind her.

And that’s where I’ll pick up in the next (and I expect last) installment of this story.

I researched equipment and practiced with it until I was confident in my choices. I did the same with food, getting comfortable with what I’d eat during which parts of the race, and how often.

I planned out every mile; I wrote down and memorized my course of action for every contingency.

I visualized myself crossing the finish line. Oh, more than anything else, I visualized myself crossing that finish line.

And then, about forty miles into this event, I more or less jettisoned all of that nonsense I concocted before the race, because now this race is now.

Oh, I was such a fool up until this race got hard. If only I had been as wise then as I am now — specifically, now that I’m exhausted, trailing my projected split times, cramping, and generally demoralized.

I see everything so much more clearly now.

OK, if I’m going to be completely honest, I actually started having race-moment epiphanies right from the starting line. Sure, I had been told to not go hot off the starting line, but dammit I felt great. “Why shouldn’t I allow the possibility of having an exceptional day to play out?” I asked myself. “Maybe this is the day I completely shatter all expectations. Maybe today is the day I discover that I can fly forever.”

It was also during this race that I discovered that I am stronger than everyone around me, and that if my group is going to have a fast day it’s up to me to set the pace. Which meant pulling for about an hour and a half. These guys were lucky to have me, and it was a disgusting show of poor sportsmanship when they surged ahead and dropped me when I pulled around to let them take over for a bit.

Oh, there’s that stupid “Eat” chime on my GPS I arrogantly set to go off every thirty minutes. That thing is so annoying. I know when I’m hungry and when I’m not, and right now I am not. In fact, the very idea of food is utterly repellent to me right now, and has been for about two hours. My stomach feels terrible and I hate the very idea of GU right now; it completely makes me gag. I don’t know how I managed to choke it down every half hour during long training rides the whole summer.

All of that, though, is just a bunch of little examples. They’re almost beside the point.

The thing I’ve actually truly learned about myself during this race is that racing is not what I love doing. I love endurance riding, not endurance racing. When you’re out riding for hours on end, you’re self-supported, going at your own pace, with people instead of against them, enjoying the beauty of the ride and the perfection of being alone with your bike.

Endurance racing is just a vain mockery of everything that’s pure and perfect about endurance cycling.

And then there’s my crew. My family, my friends. They’ve traveled a great distance and used their precious vacation days to come see me…and I’m hardly even seeing them at all today. I’m into the aid station, grabbing something, barking instructions at these wonderful people like I’m some kind of angry ingrate, and then I leave them.

That’s messed up.

They came to see me, I should be with them.

I don’t know what I’m even doing out here. This isn’t proving anything to anyone, I’m not having fun, it isn’t the kind of riding I love to do, and I’m not with the people I love. I’m ending this race as soon as I get to the next aid station.

I understand everything so much more clearly now.

This is my story about having a basal cell carcinoma removed from just below my right eye a couple weeks ago. I will include pictures, and they will not be pretty, for two reasons:

1. I am not pretty to begin with, so there’s that.
2. I show the open wound and then stitches and my black eye and stuff like that, as if I were an oversharing blogger who reveals waaaay too much about stuff that most people would have the good sense to keep private.

So that you don’t accidentally see something you don’t want to see, I’m going to push all of those images — and even the discussion of this event — down below the pre-scroll part of your browser, using this cleverly written paragraph, and a photograph of a rainbow I took from my backyard a few weeks ago.

Isn’t that nice? That really is nice.

OK, let’s get on with my story.

Cancer-Lite

Technically, basal-cell carcinoma is a kind of skin cancer. In fact, it is the single most common kind of skin cancer. But here’s the thing: I hesitate to even write “I’ve had treatment for cancer,” because the seriousness of what I had and what the treatment was is like a 0.01 on a scale of 0 – 10. As in, not even really approaching the onramp of how serious cancer is.

It’s slow-growing. It’s easy to treat. I’m in no danger at all. So yeah, I wish it didn’t even have the association with cancer, because I’ve had several people give me worried looks or expressions of concern, when in fact really this is, once detected, more or less about as serious as having a mole removed. Or, in my case, what I in fact thought was a slightly weird-looking mole I asked my dermatologist about, and she told me: “No, I’d bet money that’s a basal cell carcinoma,” then she biopsied it, found out she was right, and set me up with an appointment for what is called a “Mohs Surgery.”

Surgery-Lite

Here’s the idea behind a Mohs surgery: cut out what looks like the gross thing growing on someone, then let them sit around with a loose bandage on their face while you get out a microscope or something and see if you’ve got a clean (i.e., no cancer) margin on the gross thing you’ve cut out.

There is a real danger, by the way, that the person you’ve been cutting on will eat all the little complimentary packets of cookies you left in the patient room while you’re looking to see if you’ve got it all.

If, by chance, you haven’t got it all, you cut out some more and check again. But in my case, they got it all on the first pass. Which meant it was time to fix me up.

Head With a Hole

The surgeon could have just stitched up the little pit he had cut out of my face, but that would have left a little crater-scar right below my eye. Which would not have been a huge deal, but this surgeon subscribes to the leave-no-trace ethic, so he got out a marker and showed me his plan: cut at right angles to the pit and then sew it up tight:

(And yes, he let me take a selfie here. I texted it to The Hammer. Her response: “Holy shit!”)

I was thoroughly numbed up for all this, but could still feel the sensation of both the cutting (which felt like how it feels when I cut steak, except on my face) and the stitching (which felt like sewing, but on my face). Weird. I focused on other things, because I didn’t really love the image my brain was serving up to itself.

There was some cauterizing mixed in there, too. The smell was…unpleasant.

Here’s how I looked afterward:

I texted this photo to The Hammer. Her response: “Holy shit!”

Then came the bandaging:

And that, to be honest, just felt ridiculous and excessive.

I’d had plans for the rest of the day (I was going to go to SLC to record a podcast with Alex Grant, but texted him some of the pictures above with the explanation, “Sorry, this turned out to be a little bigger of a thing than I expected.” He understood.)

I drove home and took a nap, then watched daytime television. It was awesome.

Day 2

I had planned to go back to work the following day, but I was simply unwilling to go into the office and show off my bandages, even after I had taken off the ginormously comical top layer:

Oooh. That’s quite a shiner.

I worked from home, feeling fine, but finding excuses to go audio-only on the teleconferences I had. Not that I’m vain or anything; I just wasn’t in the mood to explain or get sympathy for something that was pretty non-sympathy-deserving.

Day 3 and Beyond

On day 3 I was allowed to take a shower, which both I and everyone around me appreciated. I also felt like it was time to cut it out with the bandages already.

So handsome. Oh, and also that’s me in an office environment, in my office clothes. I bet you didn’t even know I have an office environment or clothes, did you?

By day 4, I had no pain at all.

But by day 5, I had a new annoyance: one of the little stitch threads had decided it wanted to stick out in just such a way that it was always in my peripheral vision. I found myself frequently swiveling my head around and down, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that was not quite in view.

And Now

One week after the Mohs procedure, I got my stitches out:

So nice to no longer be chasing that blue thread around.

It was kind of interesting when the surgeon took out the stitches. He said he was super happy with how I’ve healed; that this scar is going to more or less fade away, that I’d hardly even be able to see it. I kind of got the sense that he must normally get a lot of questions about scarring and looks and stuff. Honestly, none of that had occurred to me (see #1 way back at the top of this post).

And in short, I should probably be better about applying sunscreen.

The training, the logistics, the stress, the excitement, and the actual racing are now all behind us…at least for this year.

Now it’s time for some storytelling. Listen to episode 13 of the Leadville 100 Podcast here:

(For those of you who like my cliffhangers, I have good news for you: a VERY long multi-parter about the Breck Epic I intend to write.)

In this episode, I tell Michael Hotten a little bit about my Breck Epic experience (it matters, because it determined what bike I rode in Leadville), as well as give a full-on blow-by-blow of my 21st Leadville 100.

We do away with our normal show structure for this episode — it’s a lot more like one of our bonus episodes, with a couple of friends talking about a race both of us love.

This is the last “regular” show of the season. Hottie and I want to thank our listeners for your kind feedback, and I definitely want to thank the dozens (really!) of you who — before, during, or after the race — mentioned enjoying the show. I’m really proud of what we created, and it’s awesome to have that work acknowledged. We also want to thank Rebecca Rusch and Jonathan Lee for their generosity with their time and insight.

If you have an amazing story that would make a great bonus episode, leave a comment with with the short version of it here.

Finally, a big thank-you to our sponsors, all of which took a big gamble on an experiment, and stuck with us through every episode:

The Feed, which fueled Fatty to and through this race, including getting me through a very tough spot at a critical moment.

Shimano, which gave both Fatty and his wife an utterly flawless, no-maintenance-needed, trouble-free shifting and braking for seven straight days of mountain bike racing. XT Di2 is so good it makes Fatty mist up.

ENVE Composites, for bombproof wheels, bars, and stems. Seven days of mountain bike racing on the M525 for both Fatty and his wife, with not a single pinch flat. Perfect, confident riding for the whole week for both of them.

Banjo Brothers, for sturdy, affordable, great-looking bags that do exactly what they should. Somewhere out there, there’s a rider who DIDN’T have a Banjo Brothers seat bag whose race didn’t end because Fatty does.

Meanwhile, please do listen and subscribe to my podcast. Alongside this blog, it is my proudest cycling content accomplishment (and like this blog, it’s free).

New BONUS episode of the Leadville Podcast out today — a compilation of all of our segments on “The Course,” taking you from when you’re standing in the cold to powering across the finish line.

Of course (ha), twelve segments at around fifteen minutes each means this show clocks in at over three hours. Which means it’s just about right for your flight to Leadville. Or for a few hours of your long drive to Leadville. Or as you’re on your last ride of any significant length before racing in Leadville.

Guess My Time, Win a Prize
Our presenting sponsor for this episode, The Feed, is launching a contest for this episode. Be one of the 5 closest guesses to my finish time this year and win a Leadville Box from The Feed. Listen for details in the show, and go to http://bit.ly/fattyfinish to enter (you’ll be registered for The Feed newsletter, and no charge to enter).

PS: Episode 12 will come out this Monday instead of the regular Tuesday release, to give the many of you traveling this week another thing to listen to.

PPS: Michael Hotten and I are planning to record a post-race episode 13 the evening after the race — it will be a different kind of show than we usually do: just a stream-of-conciousness recounting of how the day went.

PPPS: We are considering doing a show 14 and 15 for this season as well, where we interview other folks to get their amazing race stories. Message either Hottie or me and give us the short version of your story and we’ll be in touch.

Be sure to listen as Rebecca Rusch — The Queen of Pain — talks about the advice she gave my wife a few years ago: just four words that Lisa says changed her from a nine-something racer into a sub-nine racer:

I had lost a tool, searched for a tool, borrowed a tool, found the borrowed tool didn’t have a big enough hex key, and was now evaluating my options, which included:

• Hanging around
• Nothing to do but frown (some kind of lonely clown)
• Contemplating the fact that race days and flat tires always get me down

Once again, I walked up and down the stretch of trail where I must have lost that tool. Once again I did not find it. In my mind’s eye I pictured when The Hammer rode by — days ago, it seemed. I knew for a fact that she had a tool mounted below her bottle cage. If only I would have stopped her, I’d be on my way right now. In fact, it would have been the most natural thing in the world for us to have ridden the rest of the race together — something we had discussed before the race, and which I had rejected. Because — ha! — I wanted the freedom to go as fast as I could when doing this race.

And then a guy on a Specialized Epic stopped, asking if I needed any help.

Instantly, my eye was drawn to the place, right below his bottle cage, where — like The Hammer’s, like (until recently) mine — a multi-tool was mounted.

“Can I borrow your multitool for just a moment?” I asked.

And two minutes later, I was rolling. Axle tightened, drivetrain shifting. Hopeful that my race day troubles were behind me.

They were not behind me. Indeed, they had only just begun.

Which seems like a good place for us to pick up in the next…no, just kidding. I’m not done writing today’s story yet.

Ten Seconds Later

I had been riding for ten seconds — maybe twenty, maybe half a minute, you know how time distorts when you’re racing — when I realized something was wrong.

Namely, that everything seemed super bright. And kind of blurry.

Which made sense, because I was no longer wearing my glasses.

Now, such is my race-induced insanity that I very nearly said, “Screw it,” and kept going. But then I reconsidered. These weren’t just sunglasses. They were very expensive prescription Oakley Flak Jackets. Riding away from them would be very much like riding away from $500. And also I would be having a very soft-focused race, which sounds kind of pleasant except for the way I’d only know how big obstacles were by how much they hurt when I hit them.

So I stopped, turned around, and rode back to where I had set them down to fix my tire — a place where I had now spent enough time that I could actually declare it as my place of legal residence.

You’d think that I’d have trouble riding against race traffic by doing this, and you’d be wrong. Why? because I had now spent so much time on this debacle that I was very nearly at the back of the race. Only occasional riders went by now, giving me curious looks, probably wondering what had happened that I had given up on this thing so early.

I found my glasses, got back on my bike, and resumed the race. Curious how far behind The Hammer I now was.

Unaware that however far behind her I was at that moment, I was about to become much further behind her.

Which seems like a good place…no, I’m kidding again. We’re going to get through this in-progress disaster today.

Let’s Go

The nice thing about having been stopped for twentyish minutes (I’m guessing; it may have been much less time, but it may also have been more — like I said, time really distorts when you’re racing) so early in the race is that when you re-start, you’re among people who are friendly and happy to talk, instead of hell-bent on some arbitrary race objective (i.e., people like me). I got lots of “hellos” and “good jobs” and “have a great race,” wishes. It raised my spirits immeasurably, and I resolved to go hard but also be nice and have fun.

This mood did not last long. Probably about ten minutes (final race time distortion disclaimer here, by now you know not to take my time estimates literally in these stories) later, I felt the same squishy tire sensation that I’d had in the first place.

Let’s Stop Again

Yep, the tire was going flat. The CO2 I had used the first time had leaked out.

Which left me with a conundrum, again.

“The bike just sat there for a long time after the first flat I had,” I thought to myself. “It’s entirely possible that the sealant didn’t plug whereever the hole is (I couldn’t find a hole) because the tire wasn’t rotating, so the centrifugal effect couldn’t get the sealant where it needed to be.”

“Or,” I countered to myself, “maybe I need to put in a tube.”

But here’s the problem. I didn’t have a way to put a tube in. Because of course I didn’t have a tool to take my wheel off my bike.

So my choice was actually to either wait ’til I could flag someone down who would loan me a tool, or to use my second (of three) CO2 cartridges to get myself riding again instantly.

I put some CO2 in, and this time saw where the problem with the rear wheel was: a knob had ripped off the tire and sealant was quickly bubbling through it.

I didn’t even start riding. I knew that tire wouldn’t last long. Instead, I began answering as people rode by asking if I need help, “Yeah I need a hex wrench.”

“What size?”

“A big one.”

Most people would — confounded by the weird combination of specificity and vagueness of my need — shake their heads and continue.

Let’s Go One Last Time

And then a guy — once again on a Specialized with the very conveniently-mounted (unless of course you lose it) tool rode up, and I waved frantically. “Can I have your multi-tool? I need it to get the wheel off my bike so I can change it,” I said.

The man stopped and began to oblige, but I continued, because I had a horrible caveat I needed to share. “The thing is, I need it both to at the beginning and end of the tire change,” I said. “To get the wheel off and then back on the bike. And I don’t want to make you wait or leave you stranded without a tool if you need it.”

“I know who you are, Fatty,” he said. “I’ll leave you this tool, and you need to make a fast change and then ride like hell to catch me and get this tool back to me before this race is over.”

A challenge. I like challenges.

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

And I got to work while this man — the second man to do so in this race — left me with his multi-tool, trusting his luck wouldn’t be as bad on this course as mine had been.

And I’m happy to say that the removal of the wheel, the booting of the tire, the adding and inflation of the tube, and replacement of the wheel all went without incident.

It did, however, mean that I had now burned through all three of my CO2 cartridges in the first eight or so miles of the race. I still had another tube, but no way to inflate it.

Hopefully that wouldn’t be an issue.

I got on my bike and rode with a brand new kind of intensity, because I now had a whole raft of race objectives: catch this man and return his multi-tool. Catch and return my friend Kevin’s multi-tool. And — finally, hopefully — catch The Hammer and ride the rest of the race with her.

And that — for reals this time — is where we’ll pick up in the next installment of this story.