08.27.2012 | 1:15 pm
A Note from Fatty: For those of you who were expecting me to start my Breck Epic race report today, well, that will start really soon now. But not today. Because I choose to be mercurial, that’s why.
Another Note from Fatty: For those of you who were expecting me to talk about Lance’s decision not to not contest the USADA allegations against him, I’ve pretty much already said what I have to say. The only thing that is different now is that Lance isn’t going to spend a ton of time or money fighting this fight. That’s a personal decision and honestly I don’t have a dog in that fight. I will reiterate a few things, though, for the folks who might be wondering:
- I will continue to support and raise money for LiveStrong.
- I will continue to capitalize “LiveStrong” the way I do, because all-caps words draw an unfair amount of attention to themselves, making other words in the sentence feel resentful.
- I am not going to let my comments section become a debate podium or shouting match over Armstrong.
And now, on to today’s story.
(Less Than) One Month To Go
On September 22, The Hammer, The Swimmer, and I will be participating as a relay team in a very different, very interesting, and very hard triathlon: The Leadman Tri, in Bend, Oregon. I’ve talked about this race before, where I’ve described what makes it unusual: instead of going the usual “Iron” distances of a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, and 26.2-mile run, the Leadman Tri does things a little bit different:
- 5K swim (that’s about 3 miles)
- 223K Bike (that’s about 140 miles)
- 16.5K run (that’s about 13.6 miles)
If biking is your main thing, you can see the appeal: this is a serious endurance race with monster swim and bike distances . . . but with a much less brutal run.
I like it. I want to do it. And I think I can do pretty well at it. As long as I don’t have to do the actual swimming and running parts.
So I’ve talked with Life Time Fitness — the people putting on the Leadman Tri — and they’re putting on a contest, which they’re calling the “Faster than Fatty” challenge. It’s pretty easy to explain:
If you do the 250-mile version of the Leadman Tri — whether the whole thing or as part of a relay team, like I am — and your bike split is faster than mine, you get this otherwise unobtainable t-shirt:
Want to try? The details for how are here, but it’s pretty easy: you’ve just got to sign up for the race, and then register for the challenge.
And then, of course, you’ve got to actually be faster than I am in this race on September 22, less than a month from now.
And hey, even if you don’t beat me (and believe me, I do not intend to make it easy for you to beat me), we can still hang out. It’ll be awesome.
Team Fatty Gets Prepared
The Hammer, The Swimmer, and I don’t want to show up unprepared at the Leadman Tri — we want to have our transitions down cold. We want to to be fast. We want to be competitive.
We want, above all else, to not embarrass ourselves horribly and make Life Time Fitness wish they had never invited us to come play at their race.
And so — without looking at our calendar and noticing it would be exactly one week after we had been racing for seven straight days in Leadville and Breckenridge — we signed up as a Relay Team for the Utah Half, a half-iron distance triathlon in Provo, Utah (about 15 miles from where we live).
This would be a good chance for The Swimmer to get some experience swimming in open water. In fact, it would be her first open water swim, ever.
It would also be a good chance for me to try out my new Specialized Shiv Expert, which I recently described and which is pictured here again, for memory-jogging purposes:
My leg of the race — 56.6 miles — would be my first race on this bike, as well as the third time I had ever been on it.
So, two days before the race, I went to Bountiful Bicycle and had Taylor — master Body Geometry fitter and extremely good guy in general — fit the bike for me.
The guy was thorough; the fitting took around four hours. (I’ll post a video of it soon.) By the time he was finished, the Shiv felt like it was mine, and I was both excited and scared to see how I’d do TT’ing for just over a half-century.
The Swim
Saturday morning, 5:45 am. We showed up at the dock of Utah Lake. As I am before any race, I am not just nervous. I am keyed up. I am bouncing off the walls. Or I would be bouncing off the walls if we weren’t outdoors and there were walls to bounce off of.
I suggest we take a group self-portrait:
We are a very happy team.
Then the race director gives the most hilarious pre-race pep-talk ever (note: intentionally hilarious), where he said this race would come to be a defining moment for us and may well be regarded as the “meridian of our lives.” He ended by screaming at the top of his lungs and dashing his clipboard to the ground, smashing it to bits.
I like this guy.
The Swimmer then went and — for the first time ever — squirmed into her wetsuit:
It is not easy getting into those things. Believe me. Here I am, helping her get one of the arms to fit right:
I thought I was going to have to bring out the Jaws of Life.
Eventually, The Swimmer got so she felt reasonably OK in the suit, and even agreed to strike a heroic pose:
Really, how could we not win?
Since we were racing as a relay team, we were several waves back: all the elite racers and male age groupers went, then us (and Clydesdale and Athena racers), then us. Then the women age groupers.
That was fine by me. Hey, I didn’t have a strategy; I just wanted to see how we’d do.
The Swimmer got into the starting line for her wave and The Hammer and I could tell right away that she was good and confident: she had gone right to the front:
Trust me, she’s in there.
As soon as The Swimmer’s wave took off, I took off for the restroom, to use the bathroom (once again), as well as to get suited up. and ready to go for my wave. After all, I’d be riding in just half an hour or so.
And then, I stood in the transition area, waiting, while The Hammer stood on the dock, watching her little girl kick serious butt in the water.
Then, 37 minutes into the race, The Swimmer came out of the water, nearly impossible to see as she was surrounded by clydesdales:
She ran into the transition area, where I was waving my arms at her, so I’d be easy to see.
I needn’t have worried, really. The TT2 helmet I was wearing made me hard to miss.
The Swimmer stopped right in front of me, just as planned. I knelt down, removed the ankle bracelet containing the timing chip from her, and wrapped it on me:
Later, The Swimmer would have time to consider why she had ratcheted her goggles on so tight:
But now was not that time.
I got up, rolled the Shiv out of the transition area — so focused on the race now that I didn’t even spend a nanosecond considering the fact that somehow I had arrived at a place in my life where I was wearing a pointy helmet in absolute earnestness.
The Swimmer had put us in a podium position, and now It was my turn to race.
The Race of Truth
I want to be clear about this: I had no plan for how hard I should go out, how I should mete out my effort, how I should finish. I had never raced a road bike for 56 miles before, and certainly never TT’d that distance. Or any other distance, for that matter.
So I just started out with a Honey Stinger Organic Energy Gel under each leg gripper, and two more in jersey pockets, along with the half-liter of water the Shiv’s “Fuelsalage” onboard bladder holds. I figured that would be enough for at least most of the race, and I could always get more at the aid stations along the route.
I rode out of the parking lot, got past the first quick turn or two, and into the first reasonably long straight. With a deep breath, I leaned forward, grabbed the aero bars, spun my legs up to a good cadence, and then shifted up two gears.
“Check me out,” I said to myself. “I’m time trialing.”
And right away, I started passing people. That wasn’t too big of a surprise, because I wasn’t just starting in the relay, Clydesdale, and Athena wave. I was starting behind all the men age group waves.
That’s when it occurred to me: thanks to where we got started, I had a never-ending supply of carrots to chase.
I got as low as I could and went as hard as I could. I looked at my computer: 28mph.
What?
Yes, 28mph. I was riding my bike — probably with a mild tailwind, but still — at twenty eight miles per hour. And I felt no need to slow down.
I passed more people, often fast enough that they must have wondered what was going on. I passed groups of people. I got so my favorite thing to do was yell “on your left!” to people who were currently passing other people.
I didn’t slow and talk to anyone. I was breathing fast and hard, and had no interest in words. I would nod slightly each time as I went by a person, because I didn’t want to be rude, but that was all.
Once I passed a person, I never considered them again. They just ceased to exist. Nobody — literally nobody re-passed (or, for that matter, passed the first time) me.
I was racing. Maybe more than ever before in my life, I was racing.
I turned, now facing into a headwind. I experimented with my head position and my back position. I could tell I had so much to learn to really cheat the wind, but at the same time, I could tell that when I got my head just right, the headwind felt weaker. The guy from Specialized who got me this helmet said that it’s the single most cost-effective way to improve your aero profile. Now, riding into a headwind and still blasting along at 23mph, I believed it.
I got to the first aid station. I didn’t need anything. I had plenty of gels, and had only barely touched my water.
“I love racing,” I thought to myself. I love seeing how fast I can make myself go. I love the empty mind it forces, the complete concentration that drives every single other thought out.
I neared the turnaround point of the out-and-back course, 28 miles into the race. I have seen remarkably few people on their return trip. I am still catching people; I feel incredible.
I hit the 25 mile mark in almost exactly one hour. It occurs to me: this is the fastest I have ever ridden a bike. 25mph, on average, for an hour.
And it occurs to me: I love this Specialized Shiv, and I love time trialing. I want more.
I turn around and start back. I am no longer passing people as often. I picture the race and the starting waves in my head and I can see why. The fastest people started 15 minutes before I did and are faster than I am anyway; I would never see them. The quite-fast people who started several minutes ahead of me were out of reach, too.
By now, I thought, I’ve caught and passed most of the people I would catch and pass.
And it was true. I rode the second half of the race mostly alone.
But I was still racing. Head low, body low. Trying to feel aero. Trying to keep my speed at or above 25mph.
But there are some problems with this.
The big one is corners; I’ve got to slow down for those, then ramp the speed back up after. I’m trying to get a sense for which corners I can stay in the aero bars for, and which I have to get in the brakes for. I err on the side of caution. This bike handles well — much better than I expected, having listened to Paul Sherwen talk for years about how awful TT bikes handle — but I am not willing to risk it.
The bigger problem is that I bungled three intersections. I’d see someone standing in the intersection holding an arm straight out — pointing left or right — and I’d see that as a sign that I should go in that direction.
In reality, though, the person in the intersection was stopping traffic by holding out an arm, so I could go straight through.
I screwed this up three times in one race. Realizing my mistake as the person in the intersection yelled at me that I was going the wrong way.
Two out of the three times, I brought another rider with me into the wrong turn.
So embarrassing.
I get back on the correct road, stand up to get back to speed, and I’m back in the aero bars. Flying again.
Over and over, I have to remind myself: “This isn’t real, you know. You need to remember that all these people you are passing and feeling so smug about have just finished a mile-point-something-long swim, while you haven’t. And more importantly, after they finish this bike ride they’re going to all go run half a marathon, while you change clothes and drink a Coke.”
And whenever I reminded myself of that, I’d take a moment to be impressed. I love bikes, not running or swimming. I don’t think I’ll ever make triathlon my thing. But I have to say, I admire the people who can — and want to — do all three sports in a race.
That said, this race was amazingly satisfying to me. I got to go as hard as I could, without any drafting or help from other racers. And I could tell, from the way I could no longer see anyone ahead of me for hundreds of yards, that I was not doing half-bad.
Then, maybe two miles from the finish, one person does re-pass me. “Good ride,” he says as he goes by.
And he was right.
I roll easy into the staging area, dismount, and run into the transition area, looking for The Hammer. The near-total lack of bikes on the racks tells me that I have ridden a good race:
I stand still while The Hammer moves the ankle bracelet with the timing chip to her own ankle. While she does this, I say something about having given it my all.
I have, too.
By my computer, I’ve done this 56.6 miles in around 2:19. I am absolutely certain that we are currently in the lead for the Relay division.
The Hammer takes off; it’s her turn now.
How does she always look so happy when she’s running?
I take a few minutes, just standing there, resting.
The first time I try to walk, unaided, I almost fall over.
My respect for those who do a half-Ironman by themselves goes up a couple notches.
The Run
The Hammer hasn’t been running a lot this summer. We’ve both been all about the bike. But she’s managed to squeeze in a run, from time to time. Not often, and not far, but she’s got in the occasional run.
And so I expect that it will not surprise you that she knocked out a 1:49 half-marathon. Except it wasn’t really a half marathon. The course was a little long. So The Hammer ran 13.6 miles in 1:49.
And I swear, she smiled the whole time. Mile 0:
Mile 6:
Mile 9:
Meanwhile, I am sitting on an ice chest, drinking my second Coke and third bottle of water, cheering her on. She’s the first woman on the course, and she’s keeping it that way.
After seeing The Hammer go by at the 9-mile mark, The Swimmer and I make our way to the finish line, so we can cross as a team with The Hammer.
Which we do, in full awesomeness:
And then a quick group shot right after:
How We Did
So, we had done it: finished our first triathlon relay. But how had we done?
Well, as it turns out, we had done pretty darn well. Namely, we won the relay division:
In fact, we had won the relay division with almost exactly a half hour to spare.
Even more in fact, we would have placed tenth in the overall individual competition (by the way, the bike times highlighted in yellow in the above graphic are the four people in the entire race who turned in a faster time on the bike than I did.):
Now, the big difference is that places 1 – 9 are all real individual people who were faster than the three of us each just doing a single event.
But we choose to still be pretty proud of how we did. And unlike at Leadville, we stuck around to climb on the podium:
So. That’s our first race as the Team Fatty Family Tri Relay team.
And I’ve gotta say: I’m pretty psyched for the next one.
Comments (61)
08.24.2012 | 6:00 am
Some are born for greatness
To strike a heroic pose
And hold bouquets of roses
While being crowned with glory
And being draped with medals
And looking all important and stuff
I am not one of those people
Nor, with all due respect
Is The Hammer
Whatever we’ve got
In speed, in endurance
We’ve paid for
Fair and square
Perhaps that is why
We are both
Only rare visitors
To the podium
And certainly never
No, not ever!
The ones who would stand atop
The Podium in a large race
Except this once!
Except this once!
Except this once!
When, at the Leadville 100
In the year
Two thousand and twelve
I was the fastest singlespeeder
And she was the third fastest woman
Between the ages of forty
And forty-nine.
And this is where the irony becomes rich
So thick indeed that it is hard to swallow
For this one time
Probably the only time
Where we would both be on the podium
At a race we faithfully attend
Each and every year
We would not be at the ceremony
Alas!
Alack!
For at the selfsame moment the awards
would be awarded
The Hammer and I
Would be racing-in-irony-quotes
In the first stage
Of the Breck Epic
Too tired to push it
And, in my case
So sore in one leg
t’was a major effort to pedal at all
So we would not see our finishers’ sweatshirts
Nor our belt buckles
Nor our trophies
Which look suspiciously like pie pans
Not for weeks
Or at least a week and a half
And we would not stand in front of the crowd
Smiling
Taking in the deserved adulation
But still
Driving to Breckenridge
Tired, so tired
And mayhaps a bit nauseous
We could not stop laughing
And sharing
And telling
And recounting
And whatnot
We had done it
Somehow, not so much training
As just riding a lot
Together
We had done it
We were the fast guys
And it occurs to me that
It doesn’t matter
Whether you actually stand
On the podium
So much as that
You earned the right to.
Thank you.
Comments (33)
08.23.2012 | 6:00 am
A Note from Fatty: Click here for Part 1 of this story, click here for Part 2, and click here for part 3.
I have a confession. I’m as surprised as you are that I’ve written so much about this particular edition of the Leadville 100. At least until I started writing it, in my mind there wasn’t all that much noteworthy about the race until I got to the part I’m about to describe:
The part where I shatter into ten thousand tiny shards.
It started off well enough. I waved pleasantly to all the people passing me on the flat road section that leads to the Powerline climb. (Hey, I knew it would be like this, no point in acting like it wouldn’t.)
As one guy went by, he said, “So are you the first or the second singlespeeder?”
“I doubt I’m either,” I replied.
Then, maybe half a mile before we hit the dirt, Strava won my heart forever. They had a booth on the side of the road where they were handing out little cans of Coke. I grabbed one and glugged it down, knowing that the sugar and caffeine would come in very handy shortly.
Yes, Strava won my heart forever by giving me a little can of Coke. Which just goes to show that it’s not the cost of the present, it’s the timing and the subjective value. Or something like that.
(Note: As an aside, Strava had a Leadville 100 Columbine Mine Climbing Challenge, where the three fastest non-pro men and non-pro women up the lower part of the Columbine Mine climb would get prizes. And guess who won second in the Women’s division? I don’t want to give anything away, but don’t be too surprised when you see photos of The Hammer wearing a Strava jersey in the near future.)
I passed by the gate that I use to signal the beginning of the Powerline climb, then added 3.3 miles to the number I saw on my GPS, arriving at 80.7. That was the number I needed to keep in mind. The number that would mean I had summited the hardest climb of the day.
“Eighty point seven. Eighty point seven,” I said to myself, over and over, making it my mantra as I pushed my bike up the incredibly steep, unrideable (except for a very select few) section of the Powerline climb:
image courtesy of Zazoosh
I love this photo, partly because I seem to have managed to suck my stomach in as it was taken. Even more than that, however, is how perfectly the way I feel is captured. My mouth is wide open; I’m gasping for air. My feet are planted between each step. And my head has been bowed forward so long that my glasses have slipped to the tip of my nose.
You wouldn’t think it from the photo, but that’s the best I was going to feel for the rest of the race.
Serious Pain.
The hike-a-bike section of the Powerline doesn’t last that long, in terms of distance. The toll you pay is mostly in mental strength. It looks so daunting. So long. So freaking endless.
“I wish I had another Coke right now,” I thought to myself.
A guy called me out by name. “Fatty! Want a Coke?”
“Yes,” I replied, in spite of the fact that I had just had one fifteen minutes before. “Yes I do.”
Which just goes to prove: The Secret works.
At the end of the hike-a-bike section (meaning, “the place where I thought I at least had a prayer of turning the cranks over more than twice if I got back on”), I started pedaling.
And that’s when the cramps started.
First, my calves seized up. That hurt enough to make me to cry for my mom, but not enough to get me off my bike. You can ride with your calves cramped — just stretch them out at the bottom of each stroke.
Besides, having your calves cramp up has the silver lining of looking really interesting: you get to look down and see the whimsical shapes your calves are capable of twisting themselves into.
“If I could do this on demand, I could join the circus,” I said to myself. Just kidding, I totally made that up right now.
What I didn’t make up was what happened next: my quads started cramping. Both at the same time.
I stood up on the pedals, hoping the change would stop the cramps.
It didn’t.
Instead, my hamstrings seized. All major muscle groups, both legs. All cramped.
I stopped and got off my bike. I tried walking. I couldn’t. Hurt too much.
So I stood there for a minute, panicked and in pain, watching other racers and — much more importantly — time go by.
I had an idea: crouch.
Using the bike to help with my balance, I squatted down, and the cramps everywhere eased off. I was OK again.
I got back on my bike and started pedaling.
Then, within half a minute, I was off the bike again and back in my crouching position.
So I stood up and pushed the bike. It was all I was good for. Once I found a place that looked easy to pedal, I got back on, and — again — pedaled until my legs forced me back off the bike.
Soon, I had my new routine:
- Pedal until I can’t
- Get off the bike
- Crouch for five seconds
- March the bike for a minute
- Go back to step 1
As I rotated through this Circle of Agony, rider after rider passed me, and I was acutely aware that my sub-nine-hour finish was slipping through my fingers. Like sand through the hourglass, so was the ride of my Leadville.
It was that painfully poetic. It really was. Honest.
Bad Math
How much longer would this horrible, brutally painful climb last? I didn’t know in terms of time, but at least I knew the distance, thanks to the calculation I had done at the bottom of Powerline: eighty point seven miles.
I looked down at my bike computer. 80.9.
Wait, what?
I was already past 80.7? I knew from experience that I was nowhere near the summit of the Powerline climb.
It dawned on me: I had done the addition wrong. And I couldn’t remember what the number was that I had incorrectly added 3.3 to.
So in addition (Ha! Get it?) to being on a never-ending merry-go-round of agony, I also had no idea when this hellish carousel was going to slow down and stop.
Well, that’s just super.
I struggled on. Ride. Stop. Crouch. Walk. Ride, stop, crouch, walk. Ride stop crouch walk. Ridestopcrouchwalk.
Forever.
I’m still doing it now, probably.
Time Is Running Out
As I marched, from time to time people would remark that it was awesome I was racing a singlespeed.
“Doesn’t matter what kind of bike you have if you’re just walking it,” I answered.
Then, finally — no, really, I really really mean f-i-n-a-l-l-y here — I got to the top of the Powerline climb. I looked down at my bike computer: 82.7. Which means that, at some point, I had added 79.4 and 3.3 and had gotten 80.7 instead of 82.7.
Which means you probably shouldn’t hire me to do your taxes.
I rode down the Sugarloaf descent to the pavement, doing more math. I knew that once I got to the mini-aid station at the top of the St. Kevins road climb, it takes about an hour to get to the finish line, and a singlespeed wouldn’t be a lot — if any — slower than a geared bike on that part of the race.
I knew I had been in a pretty safe place, timewise, when I went through the Pipeline aid station. But I also knew I had given up lots (and lots and lots) of time on Powerline.
I needed to get up to that 90-mile mini-aid station fast. And I had no idea whether my legs would work on a climb at all.
Only one way to find out, though.
I stood up and pedaled, giving it everything I had. Not worrying about the likelihood that I would cramp up. Not worrying about whether I would have anything in the tank once I got to this 90 mile mark — I could recover on the downhill before the final climb to the finish line, I reasoned.
I began passing people.
And — amazingly — my legs didn’t cramp up.
My nose was running, mixing with the sweat dripping off my head, creating a snotulum that swung side to side off the tip of my nose.
I didn’t wipe it off. I didn’t have time to. I needed to be fast.
I passed more people.
I was close. So close. So close. I could feel it. But I didn’t dare look at my computer, because I feared what it would tell me.
Risky Behavior
I turned off the pavement onto the dirt and finally dared to look at my computer.
I had an hour and three minutes to get to the finish line if I wanted to finish under nine hours. Last year, according to my recollection, it had taken me an hour and eight minutes.
Five minutes too slow. I was close, but not close enough.
“But,” I thought, “What if I make it so I am close enough? What if, instead of being a slow and cautious descender, I were a fast descender?”
What if, just this once, I was the guy who passed people on the downhill, instead of being the guy getting passed?
What if, just on this one section, I were five minutes faster this year than i was last year?
So I went hard. All out. Really and truly all out. Before, I had thought I was going all out, but this time I was further out.
And in short, I was going all-out. Am I making myself understood here?
I had a couple miles of climbing left to do before the St. Kevins descent began, and I just gave it everything I could. For the one section I knew would be steep enough that I might cramp or at least struggle up to the stop, I didn’t even try to ride it; I just rolled to the base, dismounted and ran up it.
Or at least, I intended to run up it. In reality, I probably ran three steps, and then walked the rest. But I was thinking fast thoughts while I marched.
And then, when the St. Kevins descent began, I flew down. Usually, I get passed left and right here. On this day, nobody passed me. OK, maybe one or two. But nowhere near as many passed me as usual.
I wanted sub-nine. I wanted it bad. So bad.
I made it to the bottom of St. Kevins. Much faster than usual. How much time did I have? I didn’t know, and didn’t want to look. Knowing the numbers could only hurt me right now.
As I spun along the flat section after descending St. Kevins — going as fast as I could, but spun out — riders began passing me. For the first time in this race, I was frustrated by my singlespeed. I needed to go faster! Faster! Why couldn’t I spin my legs faster?
As I rode along the railroad tracks just before the last left turn and the climb up onto the Boulevard, I wished for a bigger gear. This time, The Secret was no help.
Fickle Secret.
Was I going to make it? I didn’t know. I was beginning to think it was possible. Not probable, but possible. If I gave the Boulevard everything I had and didn’t cramp, it was possible.
I stood and attacked. Not a person, mind you; I didn’t care at all about the people around me. I was attacking time.
My calves cramped again, but I didn’t care. I know how to ride with cramped calves. My quads and hamstrings didn’t cramp; that was all that mattered.
I got to the point where I figured I had one mile to go. I chanced a look at my computer. 8:45 had gone by. I had fifteen minutes to do the next mile.
One mile, fifteen minutes? That’s four miles per hour. That’s fast walking pace. That’s easy. I’ve got it.
I said it out loud: “I’m going to finish in under nine hours on a singlespeed.”
The guy riding alongside me asked, “We’ve been riding for 103 miles. Shouldn’t this race be over by now?”
“Less than a mile,” I said. “To the top of this hill, then a quick left and a quick right, a short hill, and then you can see the finish line. We’re almost there. We’re going to finish under nine hours.”
Being able to say that out loud, confidently, and knowing it was true, was wonderful.
I made those turns, crested the hill that reveals the finish line, and sat up, waving to the audience, asking for applause.
More. More. I felt like I had earned the applause. They had no idea how, over the past 25 miles or so, how much I had earned it.
Then I crossed. Eight hours and fifty minutes. Or, if you go by chip time — which we absolutely should — eight hours and forty-nine minutes. (And forty-eight seconds, but let’s just round that down, OK?)
Photo courtesy of Zazoosh
I had done it. Sub-nine, on a singlespeed. Me. At Leadville. on a singlespeed. In fewer than nine hours.
And somehow, I had done it with ten minutes to spare. Not a lot to spare, but considering the terror I had ridden in for the past hour or so, it was plenty.
Afterward
Nobody greeted me at the finish line, so I stumbled around on my own ’til I found a place to rest my bike, and then got a couple bottles of water (and, yes, another Coke). I felt OK. Not great, but at least the cramps weren’t hitting me.
Did I have enough time to go to my hotel and shower? No. Kenny couldn’t be far behind me, and then The Hammer would be coming in soon after him.
I found a place where I could lean against something, and I watched the finish line.
Kenny came across in about 9:13. “I just wasn’t having a good day,” he said of what — up until last year — was the same time as my fastest Leadville ever.
Then The Hammer came across in 9:28, crushing her previous best time by eleven minutes, and putting her in third place on the Women 40 – 49 podium.
That woman just keeps getting stronger and faster every year.
I figured we had some time ’til The IT Guy and Heather finished, so we went and showered, changed, and packed.
Yep, we were still completely blown from the race, but we got all our stuff packed and loaded into the truck. We had to get out of town and on to the next race — The Breck Epic — as soon as we had seen our friends and family cross the line.
I . . . Won?
Once we finished, we went back to the finish line. While we waited for The IT Guy to finish I went and checked the results so far, to see what my actual finishing time was.
I looked and saw that, out of the 34 singlespeeders, I had placed . . . first.
I checked again. Yes, it certainly looked like I had just won the singlespeed division at the Leadville 100.
Chris of Performance Bike ran into me as I stepped away from the finishers’ postings and asked me how I had done in the race.
“I think I just won the singlespeed division,” I said. “But I don’t think that can be right.”
Chris’s wife caught the exchange:
Believing that I must have somehow misread the listings, I tweeted (in the photo above, you can see I’ve got my phone out and am actually composing the tweet below):
Several people replied. It wasn’t a mistake. I had done it.
I ran to find The Hammer to tell her the surprising truth. I had won something. Of the 34 singlespeeders who had raced Leadville this year, I was the fastest.
And then, as I found her — but before I could tell her the news — The IT Guy crossed the finish line 11:15 into the race, faster than either The Hammer or I had dared hope for. She ran to congratulate her son.
I swear, any time I have ever won anything, The IT Guy manages to upstage me.
Fifteen minutes later, Heather crossed the finish line, her 11:30 time being almost exactly the same as the last time she raced the Leadville 100, and once again getting her on the Women’s singlespeed podium.
We had all done it. Not a single DNF from my group of friends and family. “Awesome” didn’t even begin to cover it.
Next Up
We all went to get something to eat and share stories about how the day had gone. But as we talked, something kept bothering me. “I should be really happy,” I thought. “I just hit my goal of finishing under nine hours on a singlespeed. It’s what I came here to do.”
But I wasn’t as relaxed and relieved as I usually am after a race. Strange. What was the problem?
And then I’d remember, again, and my stomach would flop: In just under twelve hours, The Hammer and I would be racing again. As a Coed Duo team in the Breck Epic.
I stood up and said to the group, “Sorry, we can’t talk anymore,” I said.
“We’ve got to get driving.”
Comments (35)
08.22.2012 | 5:59 am
A Note from Fatty: Click here for Part 1 of this story, and click here for Part 2.
It’s entirely possible I am mentally impaired. I don’t feel mentally impaired, but I learn so slowly and poorly that mental impairment is the Occam’s Razor explanation.
I offer, by way of example, three things I — on my fifteenth racing of mile 60 – 75 of the Leadville 100 (because, remember, I didn’t make it this far once, so I don’t get to say “sixteenth” on this part of the course) — finally learned:
- If you stop for a while during a race, it hurts to get re-started.
- If you stop and eat for a while during a race, it hurts even more to get re-started.
- If you stop for a while and eat during a race, and the re-start is uphill, it hurts even more than that.
Which is to say, instead of having a sandwich and catching my breath and gathering my strength and hardening my resolve for the next section of the race, I switched bottles, got a Honey Stinger Organic Energy Gel and packet of Honey Stinger Organic Energy Chews (I’m so glad they’re not inorganic, because that would make them very difficult to eat), and I left.
(Note: I apologize for that last sentence being such a mess. I’d edit it, but I have a strict policy in my blog that requires me to be very lazy about what I publish.)
Having taken advantage of the excellent services of Zac and Erin, I started up the steep-but-short climb that leads to the rolling fifteen mile section before the real test of the Leadville 100 — the Powerline climb — begins.
And to my delight, it wasn’t that bad. So add that to the list of important lessons learned, all you aspiring Leadville 100 do-ers: don’t take a long break at the Twin Lakes aid station, or the little climb right after it will feel much worse than it actually is.
I am so wise.
Headwind
For so long, mile 60 – 75 in the Leadville 100 has been my undoing. That’s where people start passing me. That’s where I lose time. That’s where I usually discover — or convince myself — that, once again, I’m going to be slower than I had hoped I’d be.
But a couple of things have changed.
First, there’s the whole “don’t take too long of a break or eat too much” thing I just spent way too long explaining. Second, instead of there being two hike-a-bike sections where you’ve got to put your head down and struggle uphill, there’s just one of those sections now.
The other one has been circumvented with a really nice, easy section of singletrack. And even though that increased the Leadville 100 from 103.5 miles to 103.9 miles, it’s a welcome change. Riding is always better than pushing.
And it makes for a really good photo opp:
photo courtesy of Zazoosh
And hey, while I’m showing off photos here, I’d like to note a few things. First, yes, I can see that my paunch is pretty obvious. Thanks. Second, this photo shows off something I wanted to note about the weather this year: it was perfect. Warm enough that I didn’t need arm warmers after about 9:30am, but cool enough that I left my jersey zipped up the whole day without ever even thinking about it.
And third, I wanted to point out that Zazoosh does an awesome job with event photography. I’m always happy when I find that they’re doing a race, because they bring enough photographers to canvas the course, find the best spots to get great shots, get those photos up online pronto, and have fantastic photos of every single racer, to boot. Event photography is a demanding biz, and Zazoosh kicks butt at it. Kudos to them.
OK, now back to the story. What was the section heading for this part? Headwind? Oh yeah. Headwind.
Mile 60 – 75 from Twin Lakes Dam to Pipeline can be your best friend — a place to recover, get your legs back, and get ready for the big Powerline climb — or your worst enemy.
It all depends on which way the wind blows.
Last year, there was either no wind or a tailwind (like most riders, I can’t tell the difference between no wind and a tailwind).
This year, there was a headwind. A nasty headwind. And that headwind can add minutes to your time while simultaneously leaving you cracked (or outright broken) for the Powerline climb.
So what can you do? Find a group and work with them. Unless you’re on a singlespeed, in which case you won’t be able to hang with a group.
In which case, you — or in this case, I — just pedal along, as best you can.
I intentionally didn’t look at my computer; I didn’t want to know what was happening to my time. I just pedaled along, reminding myself constantly that I was still racing, not just “surviving.” That any suffering I was doing was in service to my objective. That everyone else out on the course was putting up with the exact same thing I was putting up with.
That the sun was out and looked like it was going to stay out — no freezing downpour today. That the race was supposed to be challenging. That, more than anything else, I didn’t have anything to complain about.
I kept going. Hard, even though I was pushing against the wind. Sometimes passing people, sometimes getting passed, but still treating this like a race.
I pulled into the Pipeline aid station — mile 75 — 6:03 into the race. Which is pretty much the target time for anyone who wants to squeak by into the sub-nine finish.
Scott waved me down, loaded me up with two fresh bottles and four more gels — I was way past the point where I could chew actual food. “Give me a swig of Coke,” I said.
“Why would you want a coat?” Scott asked, but obediently rummaging through my contingency bag for a jacket.
“No, Coke! COKE!” I yelled.
“Ah,” he said, understanding. He, handed me a bottle, I took a few swallows, and I was off again.
Now all I had to do was climb a couple of mountain passes in the final 29 miles of the race, and I was home free.
What I didn’t realize was that I’d shortly be visiting the eighth, ninth, and eleventh circles of hell.
Which is what I’ll talk about when I continue (and conclude, I promise!) in the final installment of this race report (click here to read it).
Comments (27)
08.21.2012 | 6:26 am
Note from Fatty: Part 1 of this Race Report is here.
I’ll let you in on a little secret right now. One of the most important reasons I rode a singlespeed at the Leadville 100 race this year is because I really saw no way I was going to match up to the time I posted last year. Hey, I’m a little pudgier than I was, and when you’re doing a climby race at altitude a little pudge counts for a lot.
And so I had made a beautiful plan: I would ride a singlespeed, and then I wouldn’t have to compare my now-self against my year-ago-self.
Brilliant!
And so far it was working; I had made it to the Twin Lakes aid station in 2:50 or so — maybe fifteen minutes off my time from the previous year, when I had gears (and — ahem — when I was lighter, but you see how easy it would be for me to not mention that part, and act as if the distinction was about nothing but gearing?).
But now I was at the centerpiece of the race: The Columbine Mine Climb. A two mile roll up to the base of a mountain road, which then climbs about 3600 feet in the next eight miles.
As I went through the official Twin Lakes aid station (I always set up my crew about a quarter-mile before the official aid station, so my results are a little slow), a few people shouted, “Fatty!”
A few more shouted, “Singlespeeder!”
A rider looked over at me and asked, “Are you the lead singlespeeder?”
“No, I’m sure I’m not,” I replied, knowing for certain about the guy who had passed me on the pavement just before the Pipeline aid station, but also assuming several other singlespeeders were ahead of me too. “I have no idea where I stand vis-a-vis other SS racers. I’m just working on a sub-nine finish.”
I’m just kidding about saying “vis-a-vis,” by the way. I don’t even know what that means.
And then I started wondering about how I was constantly wondering about my time and splits, and the fact that it didn’t really matter how much information I had on-hand for this race. I was doing what I could do, at the speed I could do it. Knowing that I was a little slower than last year, but still well in the hunt for my sub-nine target finish didn’t make me go any faster or slower. It just made me more anxious. It was a Kenny had taught me (and which I still haven’t learned as well as I should).
Speaking of Kenny, how come he hadn’t caught me yet?
Climbing Columbine
One advantage of having done this race several times is that I now understand the tricks its most famous section — the Columbine Mine Climb — tries to play on you.
For those of you who are going to do this race someday, listen up. I’ve got some actual useful advice, learned the hard way over more than a decade, to share. If you pay attention, it can and will actually help as you do this part of the race.
- Once you make the left turn onto the actual Columbine Mine climb, the road is brutally steep, but for only about a half mile or so. Then it evens off. Don’t blow yourself up during this section, and don’t let it get in your head. It’s not all like this.
- Once you are at 11,500 feet or so (varies by person), the altitude becomes a bigger problem than before. You’ll likely feel weaker, more tired, maybe even whipped. You might feel like giving up. When this happens, remember: this is not you. This is the air. Keep going.
- When you’re at this altitude, eating sucks so bad. Your stomach rebels. You’re breathing so fast you can’t close your mouth for long. And you’re not thinking straight. Eat 100 calories every half hour anyway. Set your bike computer to chime every half hour and make it an absolute: No matter how unappetizing it sounds, whenever the chime goes off, you’re going to suck down a gel, and wash it down with water.
- Go read number 3 above again. It’s more important and useful than you gave it credit for.
- When you can ride, do. But don’t go into your red zone to stay on your bike. It’s not worth it here.
I’m pleased to say that, after figuring out these rules last year, I adhered to them this year.
I’m also pleased to say that since my bike weighed four pounds less than last year, it made up some of the difference in how much more I weighed this year.
I’m also still even more pleased to say that at least until the final three miles, the Columbine Mine climb favors singlespeeders over geared bikes. At least I think they do, and here’s my foolproof reasoning, which takes the form of a thought experiment.
Suppose you were riding a bike, when the path turned uphill. Thanks to gravity, turning the cranks over becomes much more difficult. However, thanks to a magical device very close at hand, you can suddenly make it considerably easier to pedal! The only trade-off is that you will go a little slower.
What do you do?
Now, consider the same situation, but you no longer have the magical device that makes it easier to pedal. Instead, you simply have the knowledge that if you want to remain upright, you’re going to have to stand up and mash on those pedals. Which, incidentally, makes you go faster.
What do you do?
I am such an awesome philosopher / teller of truth.
So, taking advantage of all these facts and thought experiments and stuff, I stood up on my bike and rowed. And I passed a lot of people.
And as far as I know, during this section of the ride, not a single person passed me. I don’t know why that’s important to me, but it is.
But then I got to the hard part. Where the air gets thin and the road gets steep and loose. And I ignored rule number 5. I kept pedaling.
And my legs cramped up. Just like they had when I was riding The Rockwell Relay, but worse. Much much worse.
When I could ride, my calves would seize, followed by a near-seize of my quads or hamstrings. I’d veer all over the place, moaning out loud, and wishing I could find someone I could beg to make this pain stop.
But since I couldn’t find the person with the “Make Fatty’s Cramps Magically End” switch, I settled for getting off my bike and pushing, which was something I was going to have to do anyway for big chunks of this section of the race.
The “Nobody to blame but yourself” voice came on, saying, “Well, you wanted a story. Here’s your story. You’re cramping on the Columbine Mine climb.”
I smiled. Yeah, it was true. Like everyone else here, I had come to this race looking for pain, and had been given just what I asked for. I had nothing to complain about.
Mr. Cheerful Meets Mr. Grumpy
Sometimes on bike and sometimes on foot, I made it to the top of the Columbine Mine climb. 4:23 had elapsed. I had actually reduced my deficit to my previous year’s time. As long as the time-honored truth of the turnaround point being a good indicator of your finish time (just multiply it by two), I was looking good for my sub-nine finish.
I pulled up to the aid station and saw Doug and his son Noah. I had told Doug the night before that when he saw me, I’d be incoherent — it’s just how I am when I’m racing (and possibly at other times as well). Noah brought me three orange wedges — just the right number — which I slurped on and then headed back up the short steep pitch that precedes the eight miles of descending.
At which point I began to keep a promise I had made. I yelled and hollered encouragement to all the people who were riding and marching their bikes up toward the turnaround point.
“Good job! Keep it up! Riding strong! Almost there!” I shouted, along with anything else that came to mind as I descended.
I yelled myself hoarse and had the most fun I’d had that day. Racers love — need — encouragement, and I was having a great time being the one giving it.
Of course, I yelled extra-loud for the people I know. First, Kenny. Then — surprisingly close to Kenny — The Hammer. A little further down the line but still riding strong, Jilene, then Bry. Then The IT Guy, and close behind him, Heather.
And then, a voice, yelling at me. From behind me. “You’re too f—ing slow!” he shouted.
I moved over a little to give him the good line, and he shot by, looking angry. It was a strange moment, and ordinarily it would have made me feel bad. But — maybe because I was enjoying the shouting and encouraging and riding, this guy just made me laugh. I continued on down the mountain, still yelling encouragement to the riders who were working their way up the mountain.
The Columbine Mine road bottomed out, I cruised on to the Twin Lakes aid station, and got everything I needed from them again: one bottle (because I was going to be going only 15 miles ’til the next aid station), one packet of Honey Stinger Energy Chews, and and one gel.
Zac and Erin handed everything to me in no time flat (Scott was already on his way to the Pipeline aid station so he would get there before I did) and I was on my way again, on this fifteen-mile, rolling section of road that shouldn’t really take very long to do.
I had been out 4:59, so I was still on track. I now had four hours to go the remaining forty miles, which sounds totally do-able.
Unless, of course, there’s a nasty headwind.
Click here for the next installment of this story.
Comments (22)
« Previous Page — « Previous Entries Next Entries » — Next Page »
