Smoke 'n' Fire 400, Day 4

The older I get, the better I was

Time has a way of distorting memories in ways that must be a part of our evolutionary history; there is no other explanation for why a woman who has gone through the trauma of childbirth one time would seek to do it again, and in some cases, again and again. Yep, evolution has turned us all into self-deceptive fools who believe, like Uncle Rico, that if the coach just would have put us in the game in the 4th quarter we would have won that coveted state championship--no doubt.

I would a taken state....

In my case, the more I tell the story of the waning hours of Day 3, the more the decision was simply one of being out of provisions, completely independent of any fatigue or exhaustion--'If only I would have had a burrito and a chocolate milk, I would have finished the race before daybreak Saturday--no doubt. For want of a burrito and some milk, an entire kingdom was lost. What a shame.

The truth is, of course, at the same time both simpler and more complicated, as I would find out the next morning, but as I lay under the falling stars on a still, late-summer Garden Valley evening, my world was a peaceful place. It is strange how after an exhaustive effort when our bodies should be screaming for rest and relief from the relentless physical demands, what sabotages that restorative rest is our brain--it simply won't shut off. In the award-winning documentary, Ride the Divide, race leader Matthew Lee tells the audience that, "There is no insomnia on the Divide," but rather, at the end of a long day in the saddle, it is common to fall asleep while eating, or some other such activities. On the third night of SnF, this was not my experience.

Bambi Comes Callin'

I was deeply engaged in a process of breathing exercises that I had been told were sure-fire pathway to sleeping Nirvana, when I noticed that I appeared to be exhaling with some vigor--more than I actually felt, anyway. There it is again, an increasingly hostile and irritated-sounding exhalation--am I growing impatient and angry rather than, relaxed and somnolent? It sounded so, but then the ground shook--a couple of times, and it was clear what was taking place: apparently, my bivy spot was encroaching on a mule deer's chosen route for the evening and at the horrific stench of whatever it was that was lying in his or her path, the reaction went from mystified to curious, to irritated to just downright mad. The stomping on the ground was either an attempt to frighten me away, or it is the mule deer equivalent of, Dude, take a shower. At any rate, nearly being innocently trampled, or as it escalated, intentionally put out of my misery by a deer, does nothing to hasten a visit from Mr. Sandman, whoever that is.

As my now perfectly alert mind re-engaged with my environment, I heard a sound that I was surprised to have not heard earlier in the race as this, after all, is September in Idaho's mountains: the bugle of a bull elk. If you have never heard the, Hey ladies, come and get it, call of a male elk in the rut, you have missed out on a truly awesome experience. The sound is so perfectly tuned to play in its surroundings, it is almost like hearing the un-amplified voice of a singer in a theatre like Carnegie Hall: there is a dense and symbiotic relationship between the sound and the environment--one honed over millennia--that is like nothing else. 

Nature 2, sleep 0.

Nature was winning the battle, hands-down, but still decided to save the best for last. About 10 minutes after the bugling had ceased, the coyotes kicked in. It is nearly impossible to ever know exactly how many coyotes you are hearing at any given time, because they seem to have the ability to not only throw their voice, but also multiply it somehow into a cacophonous mess that defies distinction. Whether it was one, two or 50 of the silly beasts, they seemed to be having quite a bit of fun, apparently telling each other jokes that only another coyote would find funny, but at least they were keeping to themselves down-river from my location.

M*A*S*H 4077

The incessant white-noise of the coyote Tupperware party was having a sedating effect on me and I found myself drifting into that elusive zone of something resembling sleep--that is, until the helicopter flew over the ridge from Boise at 02:47 in the morning. Quite naturally, I figured that given its bearing, it had been dispatched to rescue one of my fellow racers who had foolishly attempted to descend Scott Mountain Road in the dark, but had careened off the road and into the blackened abyss, only just barely able to activate the S.O.S. button on their SPOT device as they lay bleeding from multiple severed appendages. Seriously, this is where your mind goes at 02:47; and you thought it just went to the store to pick up a few essentials. 

Leaving what I was sure to be a dying rider on the flanks of Scott Mountain, the helicopter landed, inexplicably, in Garden Valley, after circling over the neighboring community of Crouch. Ok, so some passerby was able to drive the racer to Garden Valley, where they summoned Life Flight from Boise. The problem with this theory is that what goes down, must come up and sooner rather than later, the helicopter would take to the sky to fly directly over me again, this time likely a bit lower and louder, probably with the poor rider's bike dangling precariously from one of the skids, hanging on long enough to separate from the aircraft right over my location, killing me instantly, but not before the mule deer gave one final snort as I closed my eyes for the last time--just to be mean. Then he'd probably go and tell whole story to the coyotes who, of course, would think it was quite funny.

So you can see why I was now wide-awake again, right? I mean why go to sleep now, if it just means that I am going to be rotor-bladed awake and then dispatched by a falling bicycle. You understand my anxiety about the situation, don't you? You now can understand why in five hours I only got two hours of sleep, right? Me neither.

I had decided that my best bet was to secure provisions before leaving Garden Valley, rather than counting on Donna's Place in Placerville to be open at such an early hour, so off to the Chevron mini-mart I rode. As I was securing the last bit of gear on my bike before leaving, I noted a light moving down highway 21 towards the dirt road along which I had spent the night. Please tell me this is Greg. Please let it be Greg and not the 3rd or 4th rider to pass me before I could get going.

As I rode up to the Chevron, it was readily obvious that the proprietor was still going through her opening routine of making coffee, turning on lights and chatting up a local who for some unknown reason had nowhere better to be at 6 AM on a Saturday morning. The other unknown in this equation was how this young lady could be so chipper at such an early hour--clearly neither the deer, the elk, the coyotes nor the helicopter had kept her awake. She managed to, at the same time, make coffee, make her much-older companion feel listened to and ask me about how my race was going. Just to pour salt in my wounds she said that she had had racers come in, "all day on Friday--some of 'em really early." That's terrific. Thanks.

Nothing like I remembered it

When I rode from Garden Valley to Boise on a training ride about a month before SnF, I had been pleasantly surprised at how moderate the grade had been. About 4 miles from the highway I had passed a couple of cycle-tourists who were loaded down to what appeared to be maximal capacity. At the time I didn't equate their pace with that which I myself would one day be demonstrating; I thought they were likely not very strong riders and were suffering in proportion to their poor preparation for their journey. 

Boy was I wrong.

The climb to Placerville seems rather placid on a lightweight mountain bike with no gear; but riding the same bike with a full bikepacking kit feels like riding into a headwind in the middle of Kansas with both the front and rear brakes on. For me, the struggle was massive, partly because of my cavalier attitude from my significant misjudgment of the grade and length of the climb. Suffice to say, it was quite the wake-up call as the sun slowly emerged over the eastern ridge line.  I was in turn elated, then frozen as I pointed my wheels downhill for the first time in 70 hard minutes of riding. The cold night air that had settled into the Placerville basin did not wish to be taken lightly and it slapped me in the face and the fingers repeatedly. Only the staccato warmth of the rising sun filtered through the lodgepole forest next to the road provided any comfort against the biting atmosphere.

Upon arriving in Placerville, I realized that my intuition regarding the priority Donna gave to opening her store on a Saturday was indeed correct. While the town was being painted with the stunning yellows and oranges of the morning sun, the interior of Donna's establishment was an inky dark.

Donna's gettin' place, Placerville, Idaho

Standing in the sun's early rays, I made my daily call to MTBcast. In Ride the Divide, one of the racers, Adrien Stingaciu ("Super Vegan"), asked if anyone else had, "seen the Yeti last night ?" As an homage that influential movie and as a shout out to Joe Polk of MTBcast, who would no doubt recognize the reference, I included that question in my daily report; in the end, I was unsure as to whether anyone besides Joe was even listening to these call-ins, but if they were, we might as well have some fun with it.

Maybe I was just seein' things, but it really freaked me out

I ate my breakfast sitting on the edge of the public park that marks the center of Placerville's commerce district, basking in the increasing heat of the sun. It was glorious; glorious enough to shed my gloves, my wind jacket, my shoe covers and my leg warmers. Just as I was performing the bikepacking version of a strip-tease, an early model Subaru wagon came barreling into town and swung a sharp right and screeched to a halt on the north side of Donna's Place. With a hearty wave and a quick bark of, Good morning!, Donna darted in the front door and without further ceremony, Placerville again officially became a re-supply location on the SnF race route. It was Ok, I wouldn't have made it without the fruit pie, coffee, orange juice and chocolate milk I devoured at the Chevron in Garden Valley.

The climb out of Placerville to Alder Creek summit and the junction with Bogus Ridge Road, while likely gaining as much elevation in the same number of miles as the climb to Placerville, feels more tolerable and even enjoyable. Maybe it was the food finally doing its thing; maybe it was the warmth of the sun on my left side, but the climbing seemed to get easier as the road continued up and up. Without warning I noticed that the big wooden sign that marks the junction with the Ridge road was looming above me. I rose out of the saddle and pedaled like I was vying for a stage win in the Tour de France. I swung left onto the flat patch of dirt that lies between Alder Creek road and the entrance to Bogus Ridge road, and continued out of the saddle until I was fully onto the road that would take me to Bogus Basin Ski Resort from where I would wind my way back into Boise.

On my scouting ride of the ridge road, I had noted two sections where walking was preferable to riding, One was short, about 50 feet and the other was much longer, about 100 meters. As I traversed the undulating surface I came to what I thought was the first of these sections and dutifully dismounted, quickly covering the too-steep-to-ride section and remounting my bike. About 10 minutes later, I came to what I now clearly remembered to be first walking section. Oh well. I dismounted, walked the 50 or so feet, and again commenced pedaling noting rather quickly that I had twice been wrong and the first walking section was actually staring me in the face. No worries. I, once more, began to walk, pushing my bike up the steep grade. 

Looking back towards Placerville, I felt a slight sense of elation over what I had already accomplished that morning.

 Placerville from Bogus Ridge Road

That small open area in the above photo represents half of the climbing I had already done that day, as Garden Valley was yet the same elevation drop from Placerville. It is amazing what such realizations can do for your spirit and for your legs.

What isn't good for your spirit is to look ahead on the road and see, what for all the world looks like the first 50-foot section of the road where you had decided that you would be better walking, instead of riding--a discovery you were now making for the fourth time. At that point, I could do nothing but laugh and realize that there was a reason that the SPOTs of the 3rd, 4th and 5th place riders at last year's SnF were moving at a painfully slow 1-2 MPH at times on this road. I soon discovered that 1-2 miles and hour on a SPOT says that the racer is walking; 3-4 MPH indicates that they are riding, but just barely.

The Canadian returns, eh?

I was moving a slow, but steady, just barely, when I noticed something familiar on the road: Greg Johnson's fat tire tracks! And they were fresh! That was just the lift I needed to boost my speed to a respectable 6-7 miles an hour--I was in pursuit. 

Within no more than 5 minutes, as I was preparing to walk what had to be the actual first 50 foot walking section, I saw him. Greg was standing by his bike about halfway up the un-ridable 50 foot section--now the fifth one for you keeping track at home. He looked completely battered. The thought occurred to me that he likely would have said the same about me. We greeted each other and rode together as we slowly ground our way up the back side of Bogus ridge. It was hot, it was dusty and it was tough, but we could smell the barn, so to speak. 

We could also smell something less inspiring: cigarette smoke. At the start of the climb away from Alder Creek summit an older Toyota 4-wheel drive pickup had slowly passed me, giving me plenty of space, which was no easy task; this same truck was now parked up ahead of us with the driver leaning against the bed of his truck with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a pair of binoculars held to his eyes, likely glassing for elk. His proximity to our pathway meant that we would have to penetrate his smoky haze as we rode by him--not a pleasant prospect. Just as I came within speaking distance, prepared to give him a piece of my mind about his generosity in sharing his cancer-laden exhaust with us, he lowered the binoculars, turned towards me and said, "Man, you are kickin' ASS!", simultaneously taking the wind out of my sails because I couldn't give him the tongue-lashing I desperately wanted to, and making me feel like world-class athlete--sort of. I was so conflicted. I smiled and, taking a deep breath, said, "Thanks, man." 

Shortly after this encounter, I glanced to my left and noticed something beautiful: three simple numbers on a post at the side of the road--198. 

Trail 198: the single-track route from which after much twisting, turning, climbing, crawling and crying, one eventually reaches the Boise Ridge road, gateway to the Hard Guy trail, and Boise's doorstep. It sounds so easy, but this section of the SnF route is tricky; a tad too tricky, if you ask me, but my brain was functioning in a low-oxygen environment at this point, so don't take my word for it.

Just to give you an idea of either how challenging the Bogus Basin section of the SnF route is, or to demonstrate the feebleness of mind I was existing with, at the top of an insanely steep and dusty set of switchback turns I stood and contemplated my next move for about 3 minutes. As I looked straight ahead there were the requisite number of tire tracks indicating I would indeed be on the route going that way; however, to my right, the same number of tracks were presented. In the end, I realized that the tracks to the right were actually left by racers who had taken the wrong turn, but realized it after about 30 feet or so and turned around. Don't ask me how I know that....

At one point, my headlight's mounting bracket was slowly rotating on my bars with the light drooping severely towards my front pack. I stopped to tighten the bolt, but must have been a bit over-zealous, because the entire mount broke off in my hand. At this point, this was more of a hassle than a problem, so I stuffed the whole mess in my gas tank pack on my top tube, zipped it tight and started up the trail again.

The second of two road crossings marks the entry onto the Boise Ridge road, the first real glimpse of the Treasure Valley, as well as a return to possible encounters with motorized vehicles. This possibility had caused me some anxiety in the weeks prior to the race when I pre-rode this section; on this day, however, I would have taken them all on: motorcycles, ATVs, Jeeps, you name it. Nothing was going to get between me and that finish line in Hyde Park.

The first view of Boise and somewhere down there, the finish line

At the first road crossing, I came upon a day rider casually exploring the Bogus Basin trail system. I didn't want to appear rude, but neither did I want to get caught up behind a slower rider on what is the very definition of single track. As I approached him, he was fiddling with his chain, but seeing me, he immediately hopped on his bike and coasted down the trail. You had better keep movin', Bud, because I am in no mood to go on a sight-seeing venture with you. I was carefully devising plans to get around him, up to and including dinging the bell on my bars--you know, in a friendly, Get off the trail, RIGHT NOW, kinda way. All my plans were for naught, however, as once he rounded the first corner, he was gone from my life forever--thankfully. He may not have been the tourist that I surmised he was. It couldn't have been that I was, at this point, slower than molasses flowing uphill in January...in Wisconsin. Naw.

No matter the evidence, once on the Boise Ridge road, I felt like Superman--if Superman rode a mountain bike. I bombed the downhills and attacked the uphills (of which there were many) out of the saddle and hammering as hard as I could. In no time, I came to the Hard Guy trailhead--just in time to see two riders casually step over the barrier that one must cross to access the actual trail. Oh, great. Now I have to follow these two slowpokes the entire way into town. Again, what appeared to be a crisis, was actually merely hubris, as by the time I approached the trailhead, the two would be-impediments to my progress disappeared, never to be seen again, and I had a clear trail ahead of me all the way into Boise.

There is nothing quite like speeding down a washboard-laden single track on a fully loaded mountain bike, even a completely rigid one with no suspension. There is a balancing, or stabilizing effect from the extra weight that seems to smooth out even the worst of rough surfaces. It truly felt like I was floating down the trail, with a singular focus that was nearly trance-like. Everything was easy and enjoyable, even the gates and few short climbs prior to the Corrals trail seemed like I was assisted by a motor, or at least a stiff tailwind.

Blending onto the wide-open surface of the Corrals trail, impossibly, felt even more rapturous. As I careened down the road, my mind flashed back to the dozens and dozens of times I had run or ridden that trail over the past 20 years. With a clarity that I cannot explain, my mind was able to anticipate every bump, every turn, every sandy corner well before I encountered them. It was amazing, as if time was frozen and I was time traveling through a landscape held in place, or suspended out of time.

Hitting the pavement of Bogus Basin road knowing that I had exited the dirt for good, I was, once again, out of the saddle and pedaling as if there was prime money on the line. As I approached the 3-way stop at the bottom of Bogus Basin road, a flagger had 6 cars backed up behind his all-powerful STOP sign. No! Not now, I want to make it in before 2 o'clock!, my inner dialogue shouted. I gambled and rode up the right shoulder to the over-grown school crossing guard and asked if I could please proceed without waiting. He didn't even allow me to finish before waving me through--apparently, he had seen the other racers who had finished Saturday morning and was feeling charitable. Whatever the reason, I thanked him heartily as I rose out of the saddle and sprinted through the intersection and up the slight rise just below Simplot Hill. I looked down at my computer and it read 30.2 miles an hour--uphill! My unrelenting drive to the finish finally had to succumb to reality and the conventions of traffic laws as I hit the light red at the intersection with Hill Rd.

On the way down Hard Guy, it had occurred to me that it was possible that no one would be at Hyde Park to greet my arrival. After all, my wife, Angie and the kids were supposed to be at a church softball game/picnic, and my coworkers are notorious for their action packed weekends. What if everyone I know is too busy right now to be here? Do I call Angie and tell her I made it and then just sit and wait 'til she arrives, or do I just ride home? I had put these thoughts out of my mind, but as I sat waiting for a green left-hand turn signal, they once again entered my consciousness. 

Realizing that there was little to be gained by worrying about it now, I pulled away from the light, my thoughts returning to getting to Hyde Park before 2 PM. I made the gentle right-hand turn onto 13th street and past Camelsback Park, gaining speed, but savoring every moment and every turn of the pedals. I needn't have worried about a reception, because as soon as I was in sight of Hyde Park I could here cheering and cow bells rising up from an otherwise quiet North End afternoon. As I got closer, the cheering got louder and I could see that it was accompanied by signs being waved, one of which said, Mike... faster!! the Yeti is coming. Clearly, people were following MTBcast after all.

My terrific co-workers: Monica (L) and Becky

 Without really thinking, I did something I had never done on a bike in my life, I raised my hands high in the air and began clapping--partly out of appreciation for the friends and family who sacrificed part of their day to be there for me, partly out of relief, but mostly out of reflex reaction. It is impossible to keep your hands on your handlebars when people are cheering and cow bells are ringing.

Finally--the finish line

I would have made a lousy criterium rider.

Huge thanks to all who came to Hyde Park to help me finish. Race director, Norb Dekerchove went above and beyond, being present for as many finishers as possible.

It was the least he could do....

What finishing 440-plus miles feels like

Cheers! Until next year....Thanks for reading.