05.5.2014 | 10:56 am
A Note from Fatty: This is part 6 in my 6 Hours in Frog Hollow race report. If you somehow wound up here before reading the first five parts, you might want to read them first: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.
“One last lap.” I said it out loud, again, to myself. “One last lap.” And then I asked myself the rhetorical question that I have asked myself dozens — maybe hundreds — of times during dozens of races when I felt like I was out of gas:
“Can’t you be strong for just one more hour?”
Maybe I could. I was sure trying to be.
Where is Mike?
For the entire race, Mike from Boise and I had been racing in a familiar pattern — I would catch and pass him in the five mile climb, then he would catch and pass me during the eight mile descent, then I would catch him in the home stretch and we would finish the lap more or less together.
But in the fourth lap — the penultimate lap — he had broken that pattern by getting far enough ahead of me that I didn’t know where he was. Didn’t know how far ahead of me he was, or how I’d manage to find a way to finish ahead of him.
Because I definitely wanted to finish ahead of him.
And so I rode my brains out during the climb. In spite of being tired, in spite of not having any idea how I would manage to keep him from passing me and leaving me in the dust during the downhill.
“I’ll work out a strategy for keeping him behind me once I’ve actually got him behind me,” I thought.
And I stepped it up again. I had to catch him. Had to.
Fading
But I couldn’t catch him. Couldn’t even see him. Whenever I was in a stretch where I could see a few turns ahead, I’d strain my eyes, looking for his now-familiar Spot.
He wasn’t there. He had — somehow — gotten so far ahead of me that I just couldn’t catch him. Couldn’t even find him.
And the doubts crept in. “Maybe I’m not going fast at all. Maybe I’m so cooked that what feels like a big effort is hardly moving.”
I kept going, but as I got to the top of the climb, the urgency dropped out of my racing. If I hadn’t caught him by the top, I wasn’t going to catch Mike in the downhill.
And so I eased up. Not really on purpose, but once the motivation is gone…it’s gone.
I wasn’t going to catch Mike, and — as far as I knew, nobody was going to catch me — so I just coasted. Sure, I pedaled when I had to, but I took it easy. Hey, why not?
Surprise 1
I got through the first part of the downhill, just rolling along, avoiding bumps — my wrists were hurting.
I rolled through the first section of soft, dusty singletrack, leading up to the short uphill section on dirt road — the place where, on two other laps, Mike had caught and passed me. I wondered where he was now. Maybe already finished?
I took a moment to feel sorry for myself. I had tried so hard. But I just hadn’t done it.
“Well, I’m glad this race is about over,” said a voice from behind me.
It was Mike.
“WWHHHHUHH?” I said, very intelligently. Then I followed up with, “I was sure you were in front of me this whole lap!”
But he hadn’t been. He had been behind me; I just hadn’t seen him taking a break or using the bathroom or whatever at the beginning of this lap.
But through the clever technique of giving up and slowing to a crawl on the descent, I had made it possible for Mike to catch me in the same place he had several times before.
“I’m going to beat myself up for months,” I thought to myself. And, aloud, I said, “Nice work catching me; you’d better go on ahead. You’re much better on the descents.”
As he pulled onto the singletrack and pulled away, I said, “Hey, it’s been really great racing with you.”
Because it had been. Mike from Boise had been the perfect motivation for me to really push myself during this race.
Surprise 2
Somehow, knowing that I had let an opportunity to beat Mike go by — if only I hadn’t taken it easy on the downhill! — completely deflated me. The competition between Mike and me was over, and I had let it go by giving up well before I needed to.
So I moped along, riding in what felt like slow motion.
I was whipped. Physically and mentally. And then, from behind me, I heard it:
“WOOOOHOOOOO!”
The Hammer. Flying. Downhilling through the dusty course like I had never seen her ride before. Like a pro.
“Move over, Mister Nelson!” she called. “I am racing!”
Obediently, meekly, I yielded.
“Are you OK?” she called as she went by.
“I’m fine,” I said, wondering if she’d realize that “fine” was code for “miserable and self-pitying.”
“I’ve got to go, there’s another racer hot on my tail!” she called.
“OK,” I said.
And just like that, the moment I have been wondering about for the past couple months — the moment when my wife becomes faster than me — had come to pass.
She pulled away, disappearing from view.
“Well, I can try to keep up,” I thought, and started giving chase…and managed to keep up. Barely.
We crossed the line together. The Hammer triumphant, me…not so much.
But I had learned an invaluable lesson, the hard way. I will never again give up before a race is over. Because you never know what’s going to happen, and what opportunities will arise. But if you’re not trying your hardest, you won’t be in any position to take advantage when those opportunities do present themselves.
Awards
We packed up and headed over to the city park for the awards ceremony. While we waited for it to begin (it’s a cardinal rule of racing that no awards ceremony can ever start on time), we took some photos of how dirty we were.
And that’s pretty dirty.
The Hammer’s division went first, and she took…second!
The only woman who beat her in the Women’s Solo category, in fact, was Joey Lithgoe, a pro (Joey hadn’t gotten to the awards ceremony yet).
The Hammer’s prize? a nice tanktoppish jersey:
Then it was my turn:
Mike from Boise had taken third, I had taken fourth. And I just had to get a picture of me with the guy who had pushed me so hard.
It was a great moment: a couple of racers, having given their all, now getting a photo together.
And then Cimarron Chacon, the owner/promoter of Gro-Promotions, which puts on this race yelled, “Hey old guys! Go get your prizes and get out of the way!”
Which, when you think about it, sorta puts the whole thing into perspective.
Comments (20)
05.1.2014 | 10:43 am
A Note from The Hammer About the WBR Gooseberry Yurt Fundraiser: A huge thanks to everyone who donated to WBR as part of The Hammer’s Weekend at the Gooseberry Yurt fundraiser. It raised more than $14,000! We’re now trying to figure out how to download all the donation info, after which we’ll choose and contact the winner. Stay tuned, and (if you donated) watch your email account!
A Note from Fatty About Today’s Post: This is part 5 of my 6 Hours in Frog Hollow writeup. If you haven’t read the earlier parts, you probably should. You know, for context or in case there’s a quiz at the end or something. Here are links: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.
I had been out on the course for two laps, and I had two questions, which I consider a very strange coincidence. My questions were as follows:
- Since I was starting lap 3 ahead (only by a couple of seconds, but I am happy to take whatever I can get) of Mike from Boise, would I be able to put enough time into him during the climb to stay ahead of him during the descent?
- Was I going to be able to stay under the magical one-hour / lap average necessary for me to do a sixth lap?
My answer to the first question was, “I’m sure going to try.” My answer to the second question was, “It doesn’t look good.” You see, I had finished the first lap in just under 59 minutes; I had finished the second lap in a few seconds less than an hour. It seemed unlikely that I would be able to hold my pace for another three laps.
So now I was looking at — probably — having only three more laps to stay ahead of Mike.
Was that a good thing? I suspected not. As an endurance guy with strength in climbing and weakness in descending, I figured I’d put more and more time into Mike with each climb, until — hopefully — my lead would be too great for him to catch me on the descent.
Shortest Lap Recap Ever
Because some of you are my age and therefore have short-term memory issues, let me remind you what happened in my second lap of this race:
- I did the climb faster than Mike, finishing well ahead of him.
- I did 3/4 of the descent with Mike nowhere in sight.
- Mike caught and passed me just before the final section of singletrack.
- I caught up to Mike at the climb to the timing tent at the end of the lap and we went through together.
I remind you of this, because the exact same thing happened in the third lap. Right down to Mike giving me a pleasant greeting as he passed me (“I love this course!” or “That was a fun lap!”) and us finishing the lap together.
Though — in the interest of full disclosure — the official timing for the race shows Mike as having done the third lap one second faster than I did.
But I think you get the point: Mike and I were about as close to perfect foils for each other as there could possibly be.
It made, frankly, for about the most awesome race experience I’ve ever had.
Lap 4: The One That Matters
At the start of every lap, I convince myself that it’s the most important lap of the race. For the fourth lap, I thought, “This is my big chance to finish ahead of Mike. If I can do that — so he doesn’t see me at all during this lap — I’ll have a psychological advantage over him on the fifth lap; he won’t know where I am and I’ll stop being such an obvious carrot to him.”
It did not quite work out that way.
Well, actually it did work out that way, but kind of in reverse.
To wit, Mike caught me sooner in the descent than he had in the previous three laps, giving him enough time to fully and thoroughly drop me during the rest of the descent.
And in short, by the time I finished the fourth lap, I had no idea how long ago Mike had passed through the timing tent. Two minutes ago? Three? Five? I just didn’t know.
Which meant that, unfortunately (for me, not Mike), I was going to have to go absolutely, positively all out to catch Mike on the climb, then hope I could hold on to him during the descent and — maybe — beat him in an uphill sprint to the finish line.
So when I passed our crew tent and Melisa asked me what I wanted, I just grabbed a piece of sandwich, one last bottle of Carborocket, and a Coke to go.
I had a racer to catch, in this fifth lap. The lap that would — for really and for truly — matter.
Which is where we’ll pick up in the next (and, I swear, final) installment of this race writeup.
PS: This final installment will come out this Monday (not tomorrow or during the weekend). Also, it’s pretty freaking dramatic.
Comments (17)
04.30.2014 | 6:16 am
A Note from Fatty: Today is the last day you can donate to win the dream Gooseberry Yurt weekend vacation. Read here for details, and click here to donate.
And thank you to the many of you who have been so generous with your donations. It’s been a real pleasure to watch Friends of Fatty support The Hammer on this big endeavor, and a lot of fun to watch The Hammer be so excited about how incredibly awesome everyone’s been with their donations.
More often than not, I really enjoy being right practically all of the time. For example, it’s super useful for calling heads or tails on coin tosses (I can choose correctly with near-guaranteed certainty within two (or sometimes fewer!) guesses). It’s also awesome in arguments, in which I am always right. And there are other practical applications, too, such as in always knowing the correct lottery numbers (I just am not interested in winning).
But, occasionally, always being right is a burden. A tragic, heartbreaking burden.
Lap 2, Part 2: My Domain
In the last installment of this story, I introduced myself to Mike from Boise, a singlespeeder on a nice, fully rigid Spot bike, and told him we were likely to see each other a lot that day (this is the part where always being correct is occasionally heartbreaking).
And then I attacked him.
Was it a nice move? Not exactly. Was it a mean move? No, of course not. We were racing.
So what kind of move was it? Well, I’d call it a defensive move. Pre-emptively defensive to be sure, but pre-emptive nonetheless. Because I had spoken the truth to Mike, with no strategic subtlety whatsoever: I had to put enough time on him in the climbs that he could not make that time up on the descent.
And so I went hard, looking back every time there was a bend in the road, checking to see if Mike was visible behind me. At first he was, and then — after a mile or so of climbing — he wasn’t.
I kept the pressure on. I knew it would be close.
And as I pushed myself, I thought about the glorious nature of competition and what it can make us do. Here I was, going harder and faster and more intensely than I had any intention of going before this race began.
It wasn’t because I wanted a spot at the podium; I had no idea where Mike and I were in relation to other single speeders.
It wasn’t even because I wanted to beat Mike. Sure, I wanted to beat him; that’s the nature of racing. But there were lots of other guys out there who I was ahead of, lots of guys out there I was behind. And I didn’t care about them at all.
I was suddenly deeply in love with this race, on this day, because I had chanced upon a guy who had an interesting combination of strengths and weaknesses that overlapped with mine in such a way that we were essentially perfect competitors for each other.
Mike was going to make me push myself to be a faster descender, and I’ll wager that I pushed him to the limit of his climbing abilities.
Lap 2, Part 3: My Domain No More
By the time I got to the top of the five-mile climb, I could no longer see Mike. Maybe, I thought, I’ve done it. And I hit the downhill hard. Going a little faster than I usually would. Being a little more aggressive on the drops. Rolling over stuff I might usually go around. Using a little less brake on the corners.
It was a little bit terrifying, but seemed to be working. Whenever I hit a part of the trail that lent itself to looking back, I couldn’t see Mike.
I was holding him off.
I was holding him off!
I got a surge of adrenaline, mentally picturing my ever-so-slight lead growing into a slight-but-still-safe lead as we racked up lap after lap.
And then, as I exited the first new section of soft singletrack and rode my way up toward the next section—the section that would empty out into the straightaway leading to the timing tent and the beginning of the third lap, I heard a voice from right behind me.
“You’re not an easy guy to catch.”
Mike. Of course. Where had he come from? (That question is rhetorical.)
“You go on ahead,” I said as we approached the turn onto the next section of singletrack. “You’re clearly faster on the descents, and I don’t want to hold you back.”
He went, and I got to watch him build a second’s lead, which he built into a two-second lead…and then a three…and then a four….
Meanwhile, I did everything I could to keep him in sight. To at least not let him get away from me entirely.
And I did it.
I kept Mike’s lead slim enough that during the last short climb to the timing tent I was able to struggle up to his back wheel, hold it for a few seconds while I caught my breath, and then pull up beside him.
We finished the second lap exactly together.
Yeah, we were kind of closely matched.
But the race was still young, and there were a lot of miles for us to battle through.
And unlike the first two laps, I’d be starting the five-mile climb on the third lap right beside him — instead of with a deficit.
I stopped at our tent, grabbed a new bottle of Carborocket 333 and a quick sandwich to go (the first mile of the climb is gentle, a good place to fuel up), and went out fast.
I looked over to my left. There was Mike at his tent, putting a few strokes of air into his tire.
This, I thought, is my big chance. If I’m going to beat Mike, I’ve got to do it now.
Which is where we’ll pick up tomorrow.
PS: I’d like to point out that even as I make poor Mike the unwitting villain in my story, he’s donated enough to buy a bike in The Hammer’s WBR fundraiser. Which sort of undercuts my whole effort to paint him as the bad guy. (Thanks tons, Mike!)
Comments (16)
04.28.2014 | 10:59 am
A Note from Fatty: My 6 Hours in Frog Hollow race report is taking a break for a couple days because we’re down to the last couple days of The Hammer’s Gooseberry Yurt WBR fundraiser, and she has a more important story to tell. (And if you’re ready to donate, by the way, click here.)
When I’m not riding my bike, running or making dinner for my very large family, I spend about 24 hours a week at work. My official work–or job–is an RN.
I work in the acute pain service at two very large, busy hospitals in my area.
I think I have the greatest job in the world. I work with a great group of doctors, nurses and patients. I work directly with anesthesia. We perform regional blocks and epidurals for surgical patients. We also visit with these patients and adjust pain meds as needed.
On a typical work day, I hop in my car and drive either six miles or twenty miles–depending on which hospital I’m working at for the day.
I then care for approximately 20 patients during the course of my day. Once at work, the amount of walking I do is minimal. I usually take the elevator up…and the stairs down (yes, I am quite lazy). It’s safe to say that I don’t have to work very hard to access the 20 patients in my care.
I have friends that have chosen to take their nursing careers into the home health setting. An RN in the home health setting might see 1-5 patients per day, seeing each patient a couple of times a week. These nurses may travel 2-30 miles between patients. They provide basic nursing care: wound care, vital sign checks, etc. They get paid for gas and an hourly wage. They probably spend less time walking than I do.
Meet Theresa
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, there are people like Theresa.
She is a “caregiver” in a village in Zambia. She lives in a village that covers many square miles. She has no formal education. She has no car. But she does have a kind, giving heart.
She cares deeply about the people in her village. She sacrifices time away from her family and home chores to visit with people in need in her village. She provides the whole range of nursing care from wound care and bathing, to delivery of babies and assessing villagers who are sick and afflicted with a variety of diseases — like sickle cell anemia and AIDS, just to name a couple that I saw firsthand.
She provides counseling and a listening ear to people who are sad and struggling. She does chores around her patients huts-collecting water from the well, cleaning etc. The title Caregiver sums Theresa up beautifully. She cares, and she gives care.
And without help, people like her spend a lot of her time walking.
Theresa’s patients live many miles apart. The nearest clinic may be several miles away. She may see only a few patients a day, because the majority of Theresa’s day is spent en route: Walking miles, most likely on an empty stomach. She doesn’t have the luxury of opening a Honey Stinger Waffle or a GU to help her energy level as she walks.
We Can Help
By helping World Bicycle Relief provide caregivers like Theresa with bikes, they can double — if not triple — the amount of patients they can see in a day. They can then spend more time with their patients…as well as with their own families.
Since getting a WBR Buffalo Bike, Theresa’s productivity has increased exponentially. When Fatty and I were in Zambia, Theresa shared a story with us about how she was able to put a laboring lady on the back of her bike and get her to the clinic in time to deliever a healthy baby. Theresa then rode back out to the village to care for a sick patient with AIDS who ended up needing medication. Theresa was able to hop back on her bike and return to the clinic to pick up needed medicine. If not for the bike, she wouldn’t have been able to perform any of these activities.
Meet Lackson
Meet Lackson.
Lackson in his home kitchen
Lackson is a newlywed and a caregiver. He took us to see one of his patients and his family. The patient has sickle cell anemia: a very painful condition that goes through periods of remission and exacerbations.
This young boy — Louis, on the left in the above photo — can become critically ill quickly and may require hospitalization for multiple blood transfusions and pain meds. His family consists of his mom and brother. There is no father in the home. A lot of adult males in Zambia have passed away from HIV leaving their families destitute. Lackson has become this surrogate father for Louis.
Many patients that the caregivers will see have been affected by HIV in one way or another. The AIDS crisis has had a devastating effect on the people of Zambia. More than 16% of adult Zambians live with disease. More than 800,000 Zambian children are orphaned because of the disease. Antiviral medication is becoming more readily available, which can prolong the life expectancy of these people. The caregivers provide the mechanism for many of these people to receive their medications.
Last week we took our family to Village Inn — a pancake house. We easily spent more than $134 there. Next time, I’m going to propose we skip the restaurant, make our own pancakes at home — and send the money to help WBR and the wonderful caregivers in Zambia.
Your Chance to Help…And (Maybe) to Win
So far, my Weekend at Gooseberry fundraiser for WBR has earned enough to buy 64 bikes. That is awesome.
But you know what? I’d love to raise enough for 100 bikes.
And now we’re down to the last few days of April, after which I draw a winner. So if you haven’t made a donation (or if you have made a donation but have the money to make another), now’s the time. You can find the details for this contest by clicking here, but the short version is this: For every $5 you donate, you’ll get a chance at winning an incredible weekend at the Gooseberry Yurt. We’ll fly you out there, then either hike, ride, or just hang out and read. It’ll be incredible, relaxing, and incredibly relaxing.
But even if you don’t win, you’re going to help a caregiver — or a student — in Zambia do more good and travel farther than they otherwise ever could. And that’s an amazing thing to be able to say.
So thanks for your donation!
Comments (18)
04.24.2014 | 9:40 pm
A Note from Fatty: Before reading this installment of this story, you should probably read Part 1 and Part 2.
Things had changed. For one thing — as I mentioned at the end of my last post — my position in the race had changed. By one. For the worse.
But that’s not what I’m talking about. What had really changed was the Frog Hollow course. Specifically, the most difficult section of the course — a rocky, blocky technical trail segment full of short steep climbs, quick descents and sharp turns — had been replaced by a slightly longer, much less technical section of singletrack that had lots of hairpin turns and right-angle turns and swoopy turns.
And by the time I got there, it was already pretty chewed up from people braking hard into the corners, and then stomping hard as they came out of the corners.
Powdery, loose desert dirt everywhere, the consistency somewhere between talcum powder, sand, and chocolate milk mix.
I hated it. Right from the start. “They took out the most interesting part of the loop and replaced it with this?” I thought.”
Maybe if I were better at racing that kind of trail, I wouldn’t be so down on it.
Ya think?
End of the First Lap, Start of the Second
The end of the Frog Hollow loop is a short gravel road, climbing up to the timing tent. I rode as fast and hard as I could, straining to look through the dust to where — hopefully — a guy on a Spot singlespeed would be just ahead of me.
I didn’t see him.
I came through the tent, realizing that if I hadn’t caught him yet, maybe I wouldn’t catch him at all.
But, I told myself, I am a better climber…and the next five miles is all about climbing.
And — good news — I had finished the first lap in under an hour, even including the run to my bike, which probably cost two minutes. I was on track to a six-lap race.
As solo racers, The Hammer and I had a crew spot set up right on the course, so we could grab stuff and go without having to divert off the course.
The Swimmer was the lucky winner of the “Who’s going to crew for Fatty and The Hammer” sweepstakes; here she and The Hammer are, posing under our pop-up tent after the race:
The Swimmer was ready for me — all set to hand me whatever I wanted. Which, in this case, was a rice cake, a full bottle of Carborocket 333 (Grape flavor: best energy drink I have ever used) and a small bottle of Coke to slug down.
In less than a minute, I was off again, wondering both how far ahead of me the guy on the Spot singlespeed was, and how far behind me The Hammer was.
A Pattern Emerges
I started the five mile climb again, going as hard as I could, knowing that if I were going to move ahead during this race, it would not be during the descent.
And about three miles into that five-mile climb, I saw him: the guy on the Spot. My chosen adversary.
Suddenly, I had wings. I bridged ’til I was right behind him, getting ready for the attack-pass.
But then I did something else, instead.
“Hey there,” I said, riding up beside him, then holding out a hand to shake his. “I get the feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other today. My name’s Elden. What’s yours?”
“I’m Mike.” Mike had a friendly voice.
“Where you from, Mike?”
“Boise.”
“I’m from Alpine, it’s about 40 minutes south of Salt Lake City. What’s your gearing?”
“32 by 18. Yours?”
“34 x 19.”
That got a groan from him.
“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you on the descent in a few minutes,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said.
“I do,” I said. “If I’m going to beat you, I’ve got to do it in the climbs.”
And figuring that was as good a place to end our introductions as any, I stood and attacked.
Which is where we’ll pick up next week, in the next installment of this story.
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