Waking up in the
cabin, the not quite right curtains played both curse and blessing. Not
keeping the beams of the three quarters full moon at bay as you roll away yearning
for another 30 winks, while at the same time allowing a glimpse of the
South Dakota night sky. Unencumbered by the lights of the city nor the heavy
humidity of home, the stars, all one million, four hundred ninety six thousand,
three hundred and eighteen of them are on full display.
Prone to
procrastination, it is easy to leave the bike or hockey sized duffel bag full
of post race clothing and calories in the cabin the night before a race. Sleep
had been less productive than hoped. A small window air conditioner, typically
unnecessary during the cool summer evenings in this part of South Dakota, had
either frozen up or had a screw come loose. I’d chosen an irritating clangity
clang, clickity clack, letting her run through the night over a sweaty stick to
the sleeping bag night in the small wooden cabin.
Gear for the race was
well organized and lay neatly in the empty bottom bunk next to me. All
else, bag, bike and cooler were all ready to go ... in the truck. Clicking on
my headlamp, preferable to the slap in the senses fluorescent light allowed for
a much more Jack Johnson “Wake Up Slow” start to the morning. Before putting on
race bibs, long sleeve white shirt that would serve as protector from the sun,
socks, shoes or even brushing of the teeth I took a moment to simply sit still,
feet resting comfortably on the floor as I sat up in bed, to be grateful.
I have a theory and a
practice of making sure each and every day I “win” the first five minutes. It’s
during this time that I give thanks for as many things as possible. “I’m
alive!” That’s a great start and one that someday will not be the case. Being
aware of our mortality reminds us to live each day to the fullest. “I get to go
ride my bike today!” How many people are not able to do so? Much later in the
day this thought would buoy me when the bad people (the negative voices in my
head) paid a visit. Giving my phone a quick glance, there were no text messages
of friends or family that were in any trouble or suddenly ill. This, also, will
not always be the case. Continuing down the gratitude checklist, making sure to
smile throughout the exercise, the last item ... “Sure am happy I packed all
the rest of my shit for once the night before” ... was checked.
The first 5 minutes of
the day had been won. Mind right, spirit right, body right. From this stable base, no matter the
challenges faced, perspective was mine. “I’m happy and healthy, my friends and
family are all healthy, and I get to go ride my bike.” Whatever life threw at
me the rest of the day, it really didn’t much matter. Or as my friend, mentor and
retired Navy Seal Brad Nagel would say much more succinctly, “If it can’t kill
me, my family or my friends, it ain’t a problem.”
Comfortable. Too
comfortable for 4 am. Temperatures were in the upper sixties, maybe even 70.
Great for the short term. I dispose being even the least bit chilly. I knew
what it meant long term though.
Cris’ Campground, a
favorite of us Iowans who travel to Spearfish to race our bikes sits high above
the city and the 3-4 miles down highway into town to the city park, where we’d
start and finish the race, allowed for a nice quiet drive.
Proper planning allowed
for two very important final details to be tended to. Ice and poop. One
a luxury, the other, any racer will tell you an absolute pre race
necessity. Unrushed ... even better.
At 4:13 in the
morning, walking into the 24 hour convenience store, there was no line for
either. Headlamps and taillights. Both were required. Clear skies and a
sun, seemingly in a hurry not to miss the race start hurriedly made its way
towards the horizon. A soft welcoming glow, neither headlight nor tail light
actually necessary, had fallen onto the valley.
Perry Jewitt, Race
Director, dropped some final nuggets of wisdom and enthusiasm on us before
leading us out on a 5 mile “no racing” roll out through the city streets. Well
wishes, high fives and hugs were shared between racers. A mutual respect lives
in the endurance community. Fast or slow, those are words with much more
meaning outside these groups. Inside, it is recognized that the real battle,
the real test is in the journey, the mental hurdles all will have to clear,
that no one is immune to, regardless of mph. I LOVE that.
Not far ahead, as the
asphalt gave way to the gravel, Perry, our two wheeled, human powered pace car
pulled off track right and enthusiastically cut his racers loose, hooting and
hollering at us all, wishing us well and hoping to welcome all back safely 202
miles later.
The cool canyon walls
rising high above on both sides and imposing forest covered hillsides rising
even higher in the distance hid a foreboding truth. Higher than average temps
and headwinds would suck dry the life of some who enthusiastically rolled away
from Perry, his positive sentiments drifting imperceptibility away as we rolled
into the South Dakota country side. Not all would see the finish line later
that day, evening or into the early morning hours of the next.
“The person who eats
first and drinks first wins.” It is a mantra I remind myself every race. Each
sip, each calorie, early on is a deposit in the bank. Invest often and wisely
and hopefully you’ll avoid any overdrafts or worse, physical or mental
bankruptcy...better known as a DNF.
The first section was
50 plus miles, all up, to the first checkpoint, a convenience store where each
racer signs in, refuels and makes for the next check some 60 miles away that
would not enjoy the sheltering walls of the canyon nor the sun shielding canopy
of the forest. Section two is where the Mother of Nature lay in wait. Those who
had not fueled wisely through the 4-6 hours of climbing in the comforts of the
low country would be found making withdrawals much too early in section two.
Like dealing with a loan shark, catching up on “payments” at this stage is near
impossible.
Far from the front,
but happily on my fat bike, not too terribly far, I was pleased with my pace
into the first checkpoint and even more pleased that my first order of business
entering the store was to the bathroom to pee...a very good sign. Doing my best
to leave the checkpoint as close to the same shape as I’d started the race, I
made sure to drink more than it felt like I needed and eat as much as I felt I
could keep down. All this was done with one eye on the clock because not only
was I going to battle Mother Nature on this day, but Father Time also lurked.
21 hours, or 10 miles an hour was the time needed to make an “official” finish.
The Garmin, upon my leaving let me know I was at 9.8. Section one seemed from
the course profile to be the most challenging and the final 36 miles were
nearly all downhill. There was not much fat on the bone but if I was able to
maintain the current effort, I’d get home.
The course profile
however, had not shared that the decrease in climbing would be met with an
increase in exposure. Heat and headwinds became a constant companion for most
of the next 120 miles.
It was becoming
evident, some 30 miles into section two that the heat and headwinds would
indeed be a factor...and the altitude, the race would remain between 6 and 7000
feet now until the final 36 mile downhill rush back to the Spearfish City park
from where we had departed. Higher altitude also meant the need for more
fluids...on top of the more fluids the heat would necessitate.
The initial climbing
of section one claimed at least one competitor, who, already behind the eight
ball realized heading back out into 60 plus more miles before the next respite
was not in the cards.
Some 40 miles into the
second section, early signs of a mental revolt were showing themselves for me
as well. (See part one of this blog). Hills that were supposed to (at least in
my mind) relent were not and downhills (at least in my mind that were to be
here any moment) were all too short in both their distance and frequency.
All of this a result of a body being taxed, unable to keep pace with an
insatiable hydration need which in turn makes calories tougher to ingest which
then puts the brain on notice to “stop this madness before someone gets hurt.”
And that’s when the bad people come.
20 miles remained to
the next check point. Water and mental reserves both were nearing the red.
Neither would last 2 more hours. Each little turn off passed, I have a
good luck down the lane. An abandoned cabin, a primitive campground, anything
that might offer a source of water, my radar was up. Could I make it two more
hours? Good chance, yeah. But at what price? Mentally, I’d begun to suffer.
Over the last twenty miles I’d passed a few others showing signs of where I was
headed soon...the stress of the day’s conditions evident in both their cadence
and demeanor.
The cue sheets
signaled a left turn, the Garmin confirmed. A large sign just before the left,
right side of the road, indicated a lodge as well. “What?!?” Like a sled dog,
instantly alive at the prospect of the upcoming feeding, I was at the alert.
Not a vehicle of any kind, not so much as an ATV or any other sign of activity
made no difference. I didn’t need humans, I needed water. Anything available to
all racers is fair game on course. No way was I passing this place by without a
thorough once or twice over to find a spicket.
It wasn’t easy to
find. In fact an initial lap around the place offered no sign of relief.
No matter. Sometimes ya gotta dig a bit for the treasure. Getting off the bike,
tying off my horse at the entrance, I walked onto the abandoned porch. Why it
was not in operation seemed odd, based on season and it’s well kept condition
seemed odd but not worthy of any real thought. I was of single mind and purpose
at that moment. Water.
And then, behind the
grill that sat about three quarters down the long narrow porch I saw it.
Hastily rolling it out of the way a quick “lefty loosey” and as if it hadn’t
missed a day of operation, cool, clear water flowed freely into my waiting,
cupped hands, immediately thrown into and over the top of my no longer
overheated noggin.
Water bottles be
damned, at least for now, like an old ranch hand that might have long ago and
still based on the cattle whe ranged free here, call this place home I guzzled,
spicket to hands until I risked it all coming right back up and out of
me.
Perhaps 120 miles
still lay in front of me but there on the steps of that for who knows why,
closed lodge, sun held at bay by the roof overhead, I’d just finished the race.
The bad people were
vanquished back to whence they had come. Their departure as quick as their
arrival. My core temperature dropped, my appetite rose.
Figuratively in trons
my trusty steed from the outside of the saloon I signaled in a couple other
cowpokes too long on the trail. The relief on their faces, once told of the
liquid gold found here was evident.
Time stops for no man
and at just over 10mph for my moving average there was no time for small talk.
Wishing them well, I threw a leg over the old girl and off towards the sunset
we rode.
In the distance I
could hear Perry calling. Just barely, but I could hear it. As the day gave way
to evening and evening gave way to morning his voice and word of encouragement
grew ever stronger, eventually echoing crystal clear off the walls of Spearfish
Canyon. The Stars morning prior now audience to a return rather than a morning
depart from a cabin, destination both unknown and unsure. Long ago the
traffic of this beautifully downhill, effortlessly now pedaled highway gone, I
was Roger Miller’s “King of the Road.”
Fully present, aware
of all things, seen and unseen around me, I was reminded again of the “Why.”
That to live, we have
to be willing to die just a little bit. That to taste victory we have to court
failure and that there are valuable lessons to learn in both.
1:33 in the morning.
20 Hours. 33 minutes.
