Vacuosity

Back in the saddle

I have been remiss in my responsibility to this weblog, and to you readers, of whom there are precious few. So much has happened in the past two weeks, and I have captured none of it.

Let's start where we left off. Our hero was poised for disaster as he prepared himself for 24 hours of mayhem, asking himself all the while what would possess a person to ride almost 75 K in one day, a good portion of it in dead dark, and all of it over rocky, gnarly-rooted dirt track? Especially when there are perfectly good paved and lighted roads, like, everywhere.

Strangely enough, there was little opportunity to ponder that question once the 24-hour began. Like last year, I naively believed that a good portion of the time could be devoted to such relaxing pursuits as reading, lounging, swilling beer, and reminiscing with Adam (Some time ago I told him that I want to write a memoir of sorts, to capture the early years while I still have a vague recollection. Our years together would comprise a major portion of that work. When the time comes, I will need to rely heavily on Adam's more accurate memory.) Once again, the entire time was taken up either riding, or preparing to ride. There are tires to check, brakes to fiddle with, derailleurs to tune, lights to mount, and food to eat at just the right time. It needs to be digested but not forgotten.

On my first loop, I got the chance to feel out my new fanatik. I was tremendously happy with the bike, and while I had hoped to get used to it prior to the race, I was still pretty thrilled to finally try it. I have to admit, that bike saved me a good deal of pain over the course of the race; more than once it helped turn almost definite spills into close calls. My rear end thanked it profusely, after all, they had quite a long time to become acquainted.

The first lap went not too badly, all things considered. I was dying, of course, and couldn't bear to even think of the two laps to come. Once again our five-man team had become a four-man, which meant that there was no hope of escaping that third loop. There was a crazy hill, which hadn't been on the course last year, called Switch-back Climb, as in "Switch back to your Granny gear, Poncho, because this is the end of that leisurely Sunday afternoon downhill you've been enjoying" Climb. It was pretty brutal; I managed two in the series of three climbs, but lost heart and dismounted for the last one. My chagrin was buffered only by the wheezing trail of walkers behind me.

I was relieved to pass our campsite, which was supposed to mark the halfway point, but as I re-entered the bush, and rode for what had to be another K or two, I was told, upon passing a checkpoint that I had only 14 more K to go. My keen mathematical mind went to work and unabashedly reported that 14 K was not less than half of 24 K. In fact, it was significantly more, which I astutely observed, meant that I had a lot farther to go than I had just ridden. Truth be told, it was sheer disbelief that got me through the next 7K.

The second half seemed to just go on and on. The trail faked us out just a bit near the end. The last 3 or 4 K came close to the finish line, close enough to hear the music and the commotion for just long enough for you to believe that you were almost done, before it pulled you away into the woods again. There were a few hills at the end that were just nasty enough, too, for you to start wondering about the sadistic ass that mapped the course to begin with. If he never rode it, he deserves to be shot. It was hot, and I had run out of water.

I finally crossed the finish line after 2 and a quarter hours. I promptly returned to my tent to lie down, waiting for the queasiness to subside.

In an hour or so I was feeling much better, like the prospect of completing another loop was within the realm of possibility. I sat, rested, laid, ate, and prepared myself. I took my bike to the shop provided by the good folks at Sporting Life. Brad had told me that the cables would likely stretch a bit after the first ride, and the gears might be a bit slippy. As a preventative measure, I had the derailleurs tuned. The shop tent had a good pricing system. There were only two service types: minor ($5) and major ($20). I paid my five dollars and rode happily away.

My next ride was at night. The night rides are fun as long as you are properly geared. The right light makes all the difference. This second loop for me was pretty uneventful, with the exception of a small stair I didn't notice (hence neglected to counter-balance for), which caused me to flip over the handlebars when the front end dipped. I had been making good time. I was targeting a two hour finish until somewhere around the 7 K (left) checkpoint my light, that I had borrowed from Brad as a cost-saving measure, dropped into power-save mode, since the battery was running low. This meant that my light, which had been cranking out fifteen bright Watts, was now giving only a measly 5 W. Just before the 4 K point, it died entirely.

Now a word about darkness. Here in the city, it is difficult to experience true darkness. Some lights are always on. Even when the blinds are closed and the curtains drawn, little fragments of broken light sneak around and under. In the country, when you witness the full night sky, it's always impressive just how bright it really is. The moon glows, and the stars are brilliant. But remove these heavenly luminaries by means of heavy cloud cover, and darkness takes on new meaning. Block out any other ambient light with a dense forest and you will understand the silent blackness that engulfed me when my light powered off; complete, utter nothingness. I could not see the path at my feet, or my hand at arm's length.

People would come along the trail behind me, their bright and still functioning lights warning of their approach so that they seemed like some intergalactic alien vehicle arriving to take over the world, beginning with the good folks on mountain bikes. I would try to ride their battery-powered coattails but to no avail. Not being able to see as well as they with only their light leftovers, I couldn't keep pace. The more ground I lost, the harder it was to see, till eventually I would have to stop. I gave up and resigned myself to running behind people as they passed, doing my best to memorize the next couple hundred feet of trail in their wake. I could have gone back to the checkpoint, and radioed in to cancel my lap and send out another guy, but with only 4 K to go, I couldn't bear to. I thought "I'll walk in if I have to, but I'm not cancelling."

From that last checkpoint to the finish, it took just over 80 minutes. I finished the lap with an astounding time of three hours and twenty minutes.

Our other teammates, Steve, an early twenties Prima Donna of sorts, and Mike, a hearty, newly-returned-to-smoking character, were both paramedics, along with Adam. They suited our team pretty well, with each one's relaxed approach to the ride. Nobody wanted to turn this into serious competition. I was a little put out, though, with Steve's declaration, upon his return from his second ride, that he was "done" and that he would not be going out again, depsite the fact that the schedule declared otherwise. Mike wouldn't have to ride again since he had gone last and there wasn't time to work through the order another full turn. That left Adam and me. Figures.

I admit, I had a period where my steadfast determination to fulfill my commitment to the ride waffled somewhat. I thought, "If that's their attitude, if they don't care about what happens, then why should I?" If I didn't ride, we wouldn't have a proper finish and our team would be disqualified. Not that it mattered, we were ranked about 44th out of 50 teams, but if we were DQ'd we weren't even part of the official record. That couldn't be. Plus, I couldn't let myself just give up; I had to ride.

It was an easy one, comparatively. I kew the trail well by that point, and was prepared for it. My glutes complained for the first ten minutes, outraged to find themselves returned to the seat, but they soon aquiesced and quieted down. Throughtout the ride I remembered how Adam decribed the feeling of passing each milestone, and how he knew it it be the last time. "Goodbye to you log, you won't trouble me again. So long hill, I'm done with you." I was spurred on by the small measure of joy that each of these farewells gave, and finished the first half fairly quickly. To have an official finish, I had to cross the line between 11:00 and 1:00, so I had time to kill. I rested for a few minutes by the campsite before tackling the back half.

I felt surprisingly good, good enough to expend what energy I had left on climbs that I had walked previously. I really enjoyed that half, knowing that I could take all the time I wanted, but wanting to push myself too. I finished with about 20 minutes to spare, so returned to the campsite to dismantle the tent and help pack up. Just after 11, I crossed the finish line. The race was over.

The race was tough for me, there's no question. But the funny part is that it's not the trials that you remember but the successes. And while during the race I had thought to myself that I would never again commit to such a thing, less than a week later, I found myself remembering it fondly and contemplating next year. Go ahead, say it... sucker for punishment, I know.

Once again, my thanks to Adam for arranging it. I know I would never have made it there without his organizing influence.

Tune in tommorow for the story of how I bought a house.

posted by David @ 9:55 p.m.