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.

Smoke 'n' Fire 400, Day 3:

What a difference a day makes

Transitional moments are hard to explain. How our psyche gets from here to there, or there to here is often simply a mystery. For me, waking up from a Benadryl sleep in one of my favorite places in the world to ride my bike, was a transition of massive proportions, but this phenomenon may not be unique to me, or even the result of the Benadryl.

Billy Rice, a bikepacking legend with some truly crazy feats to his credit, like riding from the TD terminus in Antelope Wells, NM to the starting line in Banff, BC, then picking up his 16-year old daughter on a tandem mountain bike (three words that should never go together, unless in answer to the question, "So, how did you end up in the emergency room this evening?" Don't ask....) and jumping into the mix of racers to make the return trip--a trip that, I am sure, was his daughter Lina's lifetime highlight thus far, puts it like this: "It always takes me a couple of days to fall into the groove. It is hard for me to keep a focus early; I have to break it down into what I need to know for day one and day two--then it just seems to fall into place."

Amen Brother.

Wolves at the door...sort of

The Fisher Creek trail is part of the home range of a pack of wolves that are slowing re-populating Idaho's mountains, and as such, I was keenly aware that despite the Benadryl and earplugs I could experience a canus lupus vs. hipster doofus encounter. For that reason, being awakened by a faint howling sound, followed by another, louder howl, almost like a plaintive cry, and then another and another, each louder than those before, my alarm clock was strictly for show as a rapidly beating heart and a shot of adrenaline will do the trick just fine, thank you very much. It took me a bit to come to my full mental senses, which were a few clicks shy of a clean shift anyway, and realize that the sinister howling I was hearing was actually coming from inside my sleeping bag--inside my stomach to be exact. There was a ravenous creature in need of a good meal, but it turns out that that creature was me.

Larabars? You only have Larabars???

As I was shaking the frost off of my bivy sack, both inside and out, as well as off of my sleeping bag, I realized that at some point during the night I made the world-class mistake of tucking my head, and thus my breathing, into my bivy. Ooops.  Oh well, I blame the Benadryl. I also noticed something else as I was re-packing my gear onto my bike: a headlight approaching. My endeavor to get at it before everyone else, was clearly suffering an early defeat, and I was more motivated than ever to get my tires rolling. That haste must have been responsible for the fact that after spending too much time trying to get my bag of pseudo-food down from where I had hung it the night before, I realized that pulling down the dead snag that I had hung it in was the easiest option; I was quite proud of my Bunyonesque feat which resulted in my cache falling right at my feet--so proud that I was lost in my self-congratulations enough to ride off without it. Not that I minded, mind you. I realized my mistake about 3 miles up the trail, but decided that Larabars and string cheese are hardly worth retracing any steps for. In fact, my early morning thinking began blaming the extra weight of these non-essentials that I had lugged with me since Boise for all of my problems the previous day--and the day before that, and come to think of it, maybe even every bad day I had experienced since buying those horrible excuses for caloric intake. Nope, let the bears and wolves have them--as if.

In pursuit

Despite the significant chill in the air, I have to say, the morning of day three, riding on Fisher Creek in the silence of the early dawn was magic. I cannot adequately describe what that moment felt like, but it was powerful enough that it wiped the past two days clean out of my mind. Today was a new day, and it was going to be my day, done my way. 

I nearly floated my way through the remaining miles of single track, once again finding myself back on highway 75, this time headed south to return to Decker Flat Road and once again turn north headed for Redfish Lake. As if the morning wasn't already perfect, I found a new motivation on the road: the rider who passed me as I was packing earlier. I had seen his tracks on the trail and marveled at his tire choice: big, I mean big tires. Not fat bike tires, exactly, but really BIG tires. On pavement my narrower tires were too much for him and I let out a cheery, "Mornin'," as I passed by him. Later, we would play leap-frog as I alternatively stopped to pull my gloves off, then again to put them back on, then again to check my map, then again to pee--well, you get the idea. Ultimately, I hit the store at Redfish with no other racers in sight.

The road to Redfish with the Sawtooths in the background

"Books are for tourists"

Most captive-audience resort stores are poorly stocked and quite pricey, but the Redfish store was neither, and I took full advantage, wisely planning the entire day of meals completely devoid of candy bars and sugar-stuffs. I grabbed a coffee, a breakfast burrito, a chocolate milk and found a putative peaceful bench to enjoy them with a grand view of Redfish Lake and its mountain companions. I had barely settled onto my peaceful perch when I realized that I was literally in the thick of the early morning action at Redfish, of which there is surprisingly a LOT. Backpackers, day hikers, kids on bikes, racers on bikes, curious tourists, you name it, I was surrounded by it. Backpackers wanted to talk to me about my gear; others asked who I was on the phone with as I made my morning call to MTBcast (?!). Passersby wanted to know where I was headed: "Are you a part of Rebecca's race?," one elderly gentleman asked good-naturedly. "Well, she's in this race, but I would think that she has already finished by now." I was right. In fact, she was likely already back home in Ketchum in her cozy little bed wishing she was still out in the wilderness riding like the rest of us slobs. Pffft. Poor thing.


The curious are merely a distraction and typically mean well and as such I was polite and maybe even pleasant as I patiently answered their questions. It's no big deal in the long run, really. I am not going to win anything so a brief conversation of good will is a good idea. One visitor, however, put me a bit on my heels and left me shaking my head. She had fiery red hair and wore a flowing white gown (what else?). As she floated by, she paused as she turned to me and said, "I don't know you, but I say good morning to you!" I can honestly say, I was speechless, not that it mattered, because with only a moment's pause she was on to greet the 200 other people milling about, no doubt with the same naive sincerity. I swear the Benadryl had worn off; I know she was real--I checked: she cast a shadow.

I made a cursory stop at the grocery in Stanley, glad that I had stocked up at Redfish as there really wasn't much I could add to my stash except for a can of cream of potato soup, some salsa for my burrito and a plastic spoon....  As I was packing the last of my provisions for the day, I found myself again in the presence of the Big-Tire Guy. His real name is Greg Johnson and he is from Vancouver island, BC--maybe that explains the tires?? It seemed as though Greg was as enamored with the sports food product offerings as I had turned out to be. "Care for any Nuun tablets? I simply cannot stand the thought of them at this point. Even the packaging makes me want to throw up." I hear ya, brother, I hear ya.

The ride to Stanley Lake was one I had been looking forward to for an entire year. In our home we have a beautiful picture of Stanley Lake that stares me in the face as I descend the stairs each morning. Just think, I am going to ride my BIKE there, pushes every other thought from my head as I look at that photo--every single time. This was going to be special.

Stanley Lake

It was. Kinda. You know those people that just seem to spoil every special moment they touch?  It's the person who invites a bunch of his friends over for a barbecue, but after they arrive he informs them that the steaks and beer will be served right after they help him build his new barn? You know, THAT guy. Well, Norb Dekerchove and Tyson Fahrenbruck, SnF race directors, are those kinda guys. Just as you are able to grab the briefest of looks at the amazing, world-class beautiful, Stanley Lake they send you up a trail so ridiculously rough, so insanely steep, so diabolically relentless and just flat-out pure evil, that within 3 minutes you have forgotten everything from the past 3 hours and are completely focused on keeping your bike upright and moving forward while coming up with creative names for your joyous tormentors. Tyson was easy, just one look at his last name and you have some rough idea of the names I landed on for him; Norb is tougher, but I came through, I just can't repeat what it was. My mom might read this.

Suffice to say, the entire "Elk Meadow Trail" (all of which were conspicuously absent, I might add), was less than awesome. Did I mention the mud bogs? Yeah, there were also mud bogs, and babyheads so thick on the trail that riding through the woods next to the trail would likely have been preferable. I didn't do it, but I thought about it. Oh, and as a cherry on top of the dog-poo cupcake that is the Elk Meadow Trail, there was a tree across the trail...at head height... Those two thought of everything, bless their little hearts.

At the historical museum in Stanley, they have a copy of a journal entry made by Lewis and Clark's Corps of Discovery, on the day they attempted the Elk Meadow Trail:

"Lost game trail while attempting passage of rocky path. Checked map, unhappily, this is indeed the trail. I fear that if the intire [sic] way to Pacific Sea is like this, we will be obliged to turn this entire mis-adventure around, and open a hat emporium in Dayton."

Despite the boundless joys of the Elk Meadow Trail, I was still in a great mood and feeling stronger and stronger as the miles ticked away. The roads were good, the traffic was, thankfully, light, the sun was shining and I was eating normal food. It was a good day. For awhile....

Little Larry??

After a lunch of a roast beef and cheese-like substance sandwich, a bag of Maui chips and a--you guessed it--chocolate milk, I was ready to embark on the infamous Landmark road, when I was approached by two guys on four-wheelers. "Hey, is there a way to get back to Stanley on only gravel roads?", they asked.  First off, I have to say, they were very polite and courteous, however, they literally rode their ATVs about 50 feet from where they were hanging with their buddies, to ask me that question. Now, perhaps I am being a tad judgmental, or maybe a bit more than that, but, how do I put this?--they had an ample supply of stored calories to make the round trip with little metabolic cost, but they chose to ride their ATVs for a 100 foot roundtrip. They were probably trying to get to Stanley to get a big lunch. I told them that they would likely have to push their ATVs in order to make it their desired destination so they might as well forget it. Nah, I didn't. But I wanted to.

The rarely-used connector

The Landmark road is the only way to get from the Wood River Valley, or the Sawtooth Valley to Valley County, southern Idaho's other playground, without going far enough south on highway 21 to hit highway 55 and then come all the way back north to essentially where you started from. The only drawback is that it is 90 miles of dirt and gravel road. In a car, it may not be worth it--which makes it perfect for a mountain bike. The road also accesses the Salmon river, which makes it popular with rafters and rafting companies and their big rigs and trailers loaded with boats, which make for really nasty washboard--which is wildly unpopular with mountain bikers. It was into this world that I now dove headlong. It was rough, it was dusty and it was awesome. The scenery was alternatively straight out of the Idaho Tourism Department brochures, and late 20th century apocalypse, as about 75% of the forest was nothing more than scorched logs, some standing, most not. Vegetation was having a tough time returning to dominance, except along the many streams that crossed paths with the road, offering ample water supply opportunities, many of which I took. It was spectacular.

The route guide promised severe and nasty washboard on the way into Deadwood reservoir, but in the scheme of things, it was no worse than the previous 30 miles, which is to say it was a bit rough. In Stanley, I had purchased a large berry smoothie which I broke out about 10 miles away from Deadwood. It was yummy, but the road surface, combined with my lack of coordination, left me splattered with day-old blood colored goop, a fact that was lost on me until I ran into a couple at a Deadwood campground and the woman asked if I was Ok. I think she was referring to the berry blood, but maybe there was something else...who knows?

I noticed that the only water pump in the campground was conveniently nearby, so I approached it to avoid filtering from the nasty, stinky, appropriately named Deadwood reservoir, but it seemed as though I was too late. My new companions had brought their dinner dishes and in what was likely a re-creation of a domestic nightly ritual, proceeded to, in turn, wash and dry the dishes while telling each other about their day. As much as I was in a hurry to attack the Scott Mountain climb, I didn't have the heart to interfere with such a sweet, though ultimately untimely for me, moment between two people. Sigh,

The dam start of the damned climb

What can one say about the Scott Mountain climb? I am sure books could be written, and maybe have been, but the only metaphor I can come up with is to imagine you are on a roller coaster, and I don't mean a regional amusement park roller coaster, I am talking about a world-class, leave your stomach at the top of the drop, pick it up on the other side-type of roller coaster. But, instead of just one or two cycles of big climbs and precipitous drops, imagine doing that, say, 4-5 times. That, will give you some idea of what Scott Mountain Road is like on a mountain bike. It is a leg-searing, spirit-breaking, never-ending ribbon of elation and disappointment that ultimately tops out with a stunning view of the South Fork country and infinitely more as far as the eye can see. Or, so I hear. I began the climb in the beauty of late evening, so by the time I summited it was darker than the inside of your hat, as my friend, Mike Rust, is fond of saying. My plan was to eat my dinner of potato soup and moo juice once I reached the summit, but in the dark that is not an easy call to make. I am pretty sure I ate at the top of the climb, but flat ground was hard to come by, so I made a judgment call and cracked open the soup. Remember how I said I picked up a plastic spoon in Stanley? Yeah, well, it was probably as frustrated by the ups and downs and alternating cycle of joy and disappointment as I was, because it was nowhere to be found when I needed it.

Looks about right....

I will say one thing about cream of potato soup: when it is cold, it ain't real creamy, which is a problem when you don't have a spoon. I made a valiant attempt to get every last clump of nourishment out of that can, I really did, but it ended up looking more like a county fair pie-eating contest, you know the kind where the contestants' hands are tied behind them--you get the picture. It wasn't pretty, but it was good.

I had seen 3 racers up ahead of me as I approached what I guessed to be the summit, but noted that they seemed to pull off on a side road, likely to bed down for the night. While I was envious of the view they would wake up to, I wanted to get down that mountain as fast as I could. The Scott Mountain climb is only topped in legendary status by the harrowing descent down to highway 21 which leads to Garden Valley. The air was pleasant despite the lateness of the hour as I turned my wheels onto the ever-increasingly steep and rocky path which some people refer generously to as a road. I would love to give details about the descent, but honestly, my mind at this point was in a bit of a fog. I had been pedaling since 6 AM and it was now 10 PM and I had miles to go before I slept, so just living in the moment and surviving was taxing my brain to its limits.

The Road to Perdition

Adrenaline has the ability to sear memories on our brains in a way that is completely unique. It is for this reason that I have one of the two memories that I can access regarding the Scott Mountain descent. At one point, I was feeling self-assured enough to pick up a bit more speed than was recommended for those who wish to make it home without the assistance of a vehicle with flashing lights and swinging IV bags. At least, I think that must have been what happened, because in an instant I found myself, and my bike being swerved sharply to the right edge of the road by a thick patch of sand. Now, it should be noted that the right side of the road at this point was nothing but a blackened abyss. From what I hear, it is likely that at that point it was a shear drop of 50 feet or more, but I have no idea, fortunately. I reflexively turned my handlebars and leaned to the left so as to fall against the bank, not off of it; as I did so, my bike re-oriented itself sideways in the road, making the situation even more grim. I was picking out a patch of ground upon which to deposit myself when the numbness in my hands took over and I lost my grip on my brake levers. The instant my bike was again subject to a gravity free for all, it straightened back out on the trail and the bike and I were once again moving in the same direction--together. Whew.

My heart was still pounding when I heard a sound that sent new shivers up my spine: it sounded like a squeal from the hounds of Hades, but much more sinister: my disc brakes were heating up, and on a descent like this one, that is not a good sign. Three times I stopped to spray some of my precious water supply on the red-hot rotors. They sizzled and popped like searing steak, but the technique worked and they operated admirably--until they heated up again.

Sign(s) of life

It is amazing how the simplest things take on new, sometimes emotional, meaning in the right setting. I nearly cried when I saw the STOP sign that signaled the intersection with highway 21. Never before has so little meant too much. No more dodging rocks and sand at 20 miles an hour in the dark; no more squealing of over-taxed brakes--I was back into the land of the living, if rural Boise county can fit that description.

The ride into Garden Valley was surreal under the pitch-black sky and the steady glow of my, now reliably functional, headlight. I was warm, awake, safe and best of all: I had conquered Scott Mountain in the dark.

In no time I found myself at the dirt road that marked the route to Placerville and up the back side of Bogus and ultimately back to Hyde Park. Without hesitation, I turned off the paved road heading south. Well, without hesitation until I remembered that I was out of food. The South Fork of the Boise was right under my feet as I paused on the bridge not 200 feet off the highway, so water wasn't an issue, but food....  There was no way I could make it all the way to Boise without food, and a re-supply in Placerville was iffy at best in the early morning. As the clock struck Midnight, I made my decision: I would bed down near the bridge, make my way into Garden Valley at 6 AM, re-supply and mount my attack on the final 45 miles of this crazy adventure as the new day dawned.

I pulled out my bivy and sleeping bag, but stayed in my cycling kit--this would be a short night, and contemplated that day I had just experienced. It was amazing to think that I had started the day on the Fisher Creek trail and was now in Garden Valley. The day had gone like clockwork and my body had performed as asked with not even a hint of trouble.  Maybe Billy Rice was right: after two days riding is merely routine.

That is a routine I thought I could get used to.

To be continued.....

Smoke and Fire 400, Day 2

Rivers in the night

One significant advantage of chronic dehydration is not being bothered by the pesky need to stop what you are doing and answer the call of nature. In bikepacking, this can be a powerful advantage over your competitors, and is often overlooked as a race strategy.

My deep and much-appreciated sleep on the north side of Couch Summit was broken twice during the night by a mixed blessing: needing to pee. I say mixed because there is nothing more annoying than having to climb out of a cozy bivy sack, stumble an adequate distance from said bivy sack--preferably downslope--and struggle to maintain balance while nature perpetuates the water/mineral cycle, trying to maintain a balance of its own. However, this annoyance and inconvenience pales in comparison to NOT climbing out of a cozy bivy sack while nature perpetuates the water/mineral cycle--especially during a multi-day bikepacking race.

The fact that my body determined that it had an excess of fluid and was ready to purge useless water was indeed a good sign. I think we can all agree that 'Red Orange' is a fine color for Thanksgiving art projects, but not so good as a urine color. Suffice to say, on day one I could have produced some fine looking hand-print turkey cutouts for the holiday table. Day two was clearly going to be better, so to speak.

Not a good sign

My intention was to wake at 6 AM and try to get a head start on the day's first challenge: Dollarhyde. As a climb, Dollarhyde holds a fabled place in SNF racers' minds; but like the Wizard of Oz, or strawberry PopTarts, the actual thing doesn't quite live up to its billing. None-the-less, at 5:25 AM I was pulling out of the campground ready to re-join the original SNF route about a mile ahead.

Darkness fills my eyes

I realized that I would be riding in pitch dark for about an hour and a half, so I needed to get my Uber-awesome, German headlight working. In the mental clarity afforded by a night's (mostly) sleep, I noticed that a wire from my dynahub was not contacting light securely; well, mental clarity and the fact that as the wire would jiggle in time to the sadistic rhythm of the washboard road surface, a small blue arc of electricity was being produced at the loose connection.

Electrical circuits once again closed and the world was new again. The riding along the South Fork of the Boise river was peaceful and surprisingly warm in the pre-dawn hours. As such, I found myself in the gathering light at the bridge that marks the start of the Dollarhyde climb shedding my arm and leg warmers, my gloves and my Windstopper jacket, in no time flat.

Dollarhyde Summit sunrise

Once I reached the summit, I called MTBCast with a slightly less dismal report/prediction for the day ahead. On the climb I had hatched a plan, that if I was able to pull it off, could get me right into the thick of the second tier of the race. I called it my, "first grade" strategy, and it was so stunningly simple I was sure it would work brilliantly: I would ride for 5-6 hours, then take a 1-2 hour nap, ride for 5-6 hours, then take a 1-2 hour nap, and so on. The genius of this concept is that it could allow one to ride through the night by avoiding one big healthy dose of sleep. The obvious stupidity of this plan is that all of those 1-2 hour naps add up: add up to roughly one good night's sleep of restorative sleep. I called it, 'first grade' because it was a better living through napping strategy; I should have called it, 'first grade' because of the level of intellectual rigor that produced it.

Looking up at the Dollarhyde saddle

The fast descent into Ketchum was a blast, but I was getting passed by a fairly steady stream of riders, some of them with a little more attitude than was absolutely necessary, in my opinion. I clearly had moved up in the peloton and was just being passed by riders who were faster than me, right? I mean, it couldn't be that I was faltering, could it? 

Scrambled

The answer came as I was trying to negotiate the stairs into one of Ketchum's iconic morning eateries: The Kneadery. Not only were the steps higher than I remembered them, but the last time I was at The Kneadery, the floor wasn't sliding side to side and shaking; not only that, but I never found myself falling into fellow patrons as they attempted to negotiate the down lane of the stairs like I did today. I cautiously made my way into the men's room to wash up a bit before taking my seat at the bar. Surely, a splash of cold water on my face would stop the building from moving; but no, as soon as the clear, cold Idaho Snake River Plain aquifer water hit my face I was overcome with an intense wave of nausea. Oh, please, not here, not HERE. I put my head down hoping the gesture would serve as 'leadership by example' to the contents of my stomach. The wave passed and I felt relatively Ok, as I bellied up to the bar and ordered the daily special scramble--Daily Special, it will be quick and easy for the kitchen to make and get out to me, right? Not so much. Apparently, the daily special gets a special amount of attention from the chef, because I sat drinking $4 orange juices and ice cold water for nearly 30 mins--or as I was thinking of it, half of a nap.

By the time my food arrived, I was, once again, experiencing waves of nausea, so I ate an amount that I thought I would be comfortable cleaning up off of the worn pine floorboards and got the rest to go. I quickly made my way out of town, but not before stopping to buy 2 chocolate milks and a small bag of salty chips, a massive burrito and some gummy bears.

Valley of the Wood

As I exited the highway and threaded the 3 wooden posts that mark the entrance to the Harriman Trail, I was feeling quite well, as the 25 or so minute spin had allowed my food and my nausea to reach some form of detente within my body. The cloudless sky and Boulder Mountains called me deeper into the Central Idaho beauty that is the Wood River Valley.  I was soon joined by another rider who passed me with what could only have been an overly polite gesture of a friendly, "Nice pace." I say a polite gesture because his pace was easily 20-25% faster than my own, but the kindness of his thinly-veiled lie was not lost on me.

Which way to the stage entrance??

Entering into the first campground that disrupts the Harriman Trail, I was surprised to see my brief companion circling around the campsites as if he was looking for just the perfect place to pitch his bivy for a nice late-morning nap. As it turns out, he had lost the scent of the proper trail and was searching desperately for the road that would take us back north on our route. Like two soap bubbles circling the drain, we soft-pedaled lap after lap around the campground looking for anything indicating our appointed path. We stumbled upon the camp hosts cleaning a bathroom, and doing the most un-manlike thing I have ever done, I asked them how to find the Harriman Trail.

To look at them, these were not outdoorsy people. For one thing, they were using a golf cart to cover amazingly short distances within the campground, but that may have been mandated for them; more telling, however, was the fact that, although they were camp hosts, they were dressed quite sharply--the woman sporting full makeup and jewelry, and the man, not only over-dressed by half for his bathroom cleaning duties, was also sporting a healthy splash of cologne. The thought occurred to me that maybe we interrupted some mid-morning tryst by the Big Wood River, when the woman turned to me and said, 'I like your earring,' referring to the small crucifix that clung to my left earlobe. 'Thanks!," I said. It was the nicest thing anyone would say to me all day.

The Harriman Trail and Boulder mountains

All dressed up and no way I can go

Somehow despite getting sick, lost and humiliated, a bit over 2 hours after I left the Ketchum city limits, I again crossed highway 75, this time into the parking lot of Galena Lodge. Even with the yummy breakfast in town, the climb to this point at the base of Galena Summit had taken a lot out of me and I was spiraling lower and lower. It didn't help that as I approached the outdoor deck that marks the entrance of the cozy lodge I found myself surrounded by a group of middle-aged road cyclists, all sporting $5-6,000 road bikes with unpronounceable names and matching racing kits (size XL). The entire scene could have been out of a high-end touring catalogue as, although they were comparing war stories of their day thus far, not one of them showed any signs of exertion at all. Their tires were even pristinely clean. 

I tried to ignore their stares, but honestly, I felt pretty conspicuous as it occurred to me that I may have been the only one who rode my bike to its current location. It looked for all the world as if their bikes had been placed as props by highly-paid set directors, or tour guides. None-the-less, I made my food purchases of more chocolate milk, 2 more bags of Maui potato chips, and some sandwich concoction that proudly proclaimed itself to be fresh made. To my haul, I added a Gatorade before venturing back outside to spoil the perfect middle-aged cycling fantasy scene. 'Which flavor?' the athletic-looking girl behind the counter asked. "Does it matter?" I responded. 'No, probably not. How about 'Cascade Breeze'? Care to guess what color that is? 'Blue?" I guessed. "Yep!" She laughed, "But I bet that is the only difference."

Dog Park

At this point, I could feel my energy draining out as if someone had removed the plug that was keeping the life blood inside me. I stumbled to a shady spot near the parking lot entrance, and lay down next to my bike on some late summer alpine grasses. I had just blocked the cobalt sky with my closing eyelids when a foul odor wafted over me. It had to be pretty powerful because I could smell it; by this time I was pretty rank. My mind took a few milliseconds to place the smell, but when the match was made, there was no doubt--dog poop. Apparently, I had chosen as my lifeblood recovery location, the place where I would regain my strength to get up and over Galena Pass, the place to eat my Galena Lodge cookie, the very same location where people sent their dogs to do their business before or after accompanying them running or riding on Galena's miles and miles of trails. Yippee. I glanced over at the food I had laid out to aid in my recovery--sports bars and food of every variety and kind--suddenly, I was overcome by a wave of nausea from just the sight of such items. I closed my eyes and rolled closer to the dog poop.

'I nearly crushed your head like a melon!'

I was awakened by the slamming of a pickup door just inches from my head. "Hey, didn't see you there! I almost ran right over you!" My cheerful, would-be murderer, was a Blaine County Recreation District employee, likely pulling in to grab a quick lunch at the lodge. "Oh that you would have," I thought. "Oh, that you would have...."

The Call....

"I am at Galena Lodge, and I really don't think I can go on." I said into the phone attached at the other end to my wife, Angie's ear. "I KNOW you are. You are doing GREAT!" Clearly, although I was the one at 7,000 feet of elevation, she was suffering from a severe form of hypoxia. "Seriously, I can't keep food or water down and I have NO energy to get over that pass." Strictly speaking, I was being 100% truthful; honestly speaking, I was hoping that she would drop what she was doing and come rescue me.

She wasn't biting.

A family practice physician, Angie had seen these symptoms before, and unfortunately for my current mindset, knew just what to do about them. She walked me through the re-hydration process with salt tablets and water with brief bouts of rest, repeated on a 15-min schedule until the problem is resolved. I was skeptical, as I had been taking salt tablets, but knew she would never come pick me up if I didn't at least try it her way. To my great surprise, she was right; she was exactly right, and within 20 mins or so, I felt good enough to remount my bike and turn it northward....and upward.

Up...and down

To my amazement the climb went Ok. I have ridden up Galena numerous times, like most cyclists in southern Idaho, and this was no record-setting time, but I was up and over something that I had thought impossible just a short time earlier and that was worth something.

As I careened down the rocky, historic wagon road off of the summit into the Sawtooth valley, could feel the tide was turning. My vision was clearer, I was no longer hounded by the constant mini-hiccups that kept me from taking a deep breath and that threatened to become something much larger--and messier. I was actually enjoying myself.

Sawtooth mountains from the Centennial Trail

I was jolted out of my reverie by the approach of my friend, David Thomas. He is a much better descender than I and soon all I could see was the dust kicked up by his rear tire, but I didn't care. I was feeling better, I was riding with someone I knew and we were in the Sawtooths! Things were definitely looking up--and so were we: at what appeared to be an endless winding gravel road that generally headed north, but took, what was for me a far too circuitous route, getting there.

I confessed to David that had he called his wife, Mary, to pick him up at Galena Lodge, I would have gladly joined them for the trip back to Boise. "Yeah, I know. I have been rehearsing that phone call in my head for the past two hours." Hey, at least I wasn't suffering alone.

We discussed our sleep plans for the night, and we both decided that somewhere along the famed and vaunted Fisher Creek trail would make a fine end to a miserable, yet ultimately triumphant day. Glancing at my Garmin, I noted that the sun would be setting at exactly 8 PM, about 2 hours in the future. I calculated that I could make it to the first meadow of Fisher Creek, get an actual good night's sleep, and attack Friday with everything I had. With a firm plan in mind, my pedals moved just a tick faster, and David and I separated as we moved our way up the Sawtooth valley.

September bears in Idaho, especially in Blaine and Custer counties, are somewhat notorious. I have heard Ketchum residents say that you don't lock your doors in Ketchum as protection against thieves, you lock them for protection against bears. That I was carrying 5-6 pounds of high-energy food into the backcountry for an overnight stay gave me pause. Then I remembered the words of my friend John, one of the world's leading experts on bears and bear behavior. He had recently told me that bears rarely caused him much concern; it was mountain lions that scared him, because to a mountain lion a person is only one thing: food.

These words were still ringing in my head as I rode past the summer homes that mark the entrance to the Fisher Creek trail. I suppose it was the lateness of the day, the fact that I was alone, or just good old common sense, but I began to get uneasy about heading into the woods alone. At night. With food. Did I mention I was alone?

The beast in its tracks....

It was just then that I saw it: a tan colored animal, low to the ground, darting stealthily in the roadside brush just ahead of me. I still hadn't had time to fully comprehend what I was seeing when the animal bolted like a flash onto the road right in front of me---

Situations like this always raise the same question in my mind: who was more scared, me or the rabbit that just jumped in front of me? In this case, it was definitely me, as the rabbit appeared as though he was looking for a race or at least someone to run along side for a while. At this point, my shaky reasoning convinced me that I was not likely to be targeted by a mountain lion when said lion had so many fluffy and apparently playful, bunnies around. My heart rate fell back into the triple digits.

It soon became apparent that word had gotten out in BunnyWorld that there was a chase to be had with a hapless cyclist, as every 100 yards or so a fresh cottontail would leap onto the road in front of, or beside me. "You know that 'slow and steady wins the race', right?" I shouted to one particularly energetic leporidae. "Oh, that's right, you CAN'T READ so you have never heard that story!" I added. Now, I am no expert, but I have heard that talking to yourself is normal, and answering yourself is a sign of impending mental breakdown; again, I am no expert, but I think that talking smack to bunnies is not usually associated with winning a MacArthur Foundation (Genius) Grant. Just sayin'.

First meadow

With 5 minutes to spare, I made it safely to the first meadow and my goal for the night. This is not a meadow in a traditional sense, as it was burned to the dirt about a decade ago, but old labels die hard, and so it is and always will be in my mind, 'the first meadow'.

"The First Meadow" with time to spare

I set up my bivy, ate half of the giant burrito, brushed my teeth and hung my food bag all within about 20 minutes. At 8:23 with the last light of day slowly fading I popped a Benadryl and prepared for a long recovery sleep.

Just as I pulled my down coat close to my neck beneath my satisfied grin, I spotted two headlights moving towards me on the trail, not 30 feet away. I was immediately struck by a wave of urgency to re-pack my gear and join these two hardy adventurers instead of losing ground to them.

"Ah, screw 'em", I said, and with that faded off into a drug-enhanced stupor that I hoped would last until dawn.

To be continued.

'Smoke and Fire 400' 

September 9, 2015, Day 1:

"...Just to face the shiny dawn."

Why is it that I can barely keep my eyes open while driving the five miles between my home and Costco, but sleep is a rare and fleeting commodity when I most need it? The excitement of the impending adventure compounded by a reunion with a few former running teammates at the mandatory racer's meeting on Tuesday evening, had my mind spinning perfect pedal strokes nearly all night long. 

Nothing brings the reality of what you are about to subject yourself to like sitting 2-feet away from multi-time world champion cyclist Rebecca Rusch; or, looking across to the next table and seeing Josh Kato, the surprise winner of the 2015 Tour Divide (TD), the World Series/Superbowl/US Open of bikepacking competitions, and next to him, Dylan Taylor 2015 TD fourth-place finisher. What other sport allows rank amateurs, too dumb to know better, to place their front wheel on the same starting line as the top competitors in the world? Beats me, but it certainly doesn't make for a long and deep night of sleep--the one night that it might actually make a difference.

At 6 AM sharp, the huddled and unruly masses milling around Hyde Park in Boise's North End, congealed into a semi-coherent mass and with the click of nearly 150 pedals, we took one last look around at the peaceful buildings and quiet streets we were forsaking for God only knows what, and made our way through the thoroughfares of Downtown Boise, heading towards the Greenbelt and from there to Lucky Peak Dam and points beyond; headlights and taillights adding a stunning visual element to the moving circus that was the field of SNF 2015.

As we approached the park at Lucky Peak, the sun was rising over the hill above the dam revealing a cloudless and peaceful sky. Even Nature has a way of making danger look inviting. Once up the face of the dam on a stout little climb disguised as a smooth gravel road, a quick glance rearward revealed the serpentine form the race was already adopting. The first real challenge of the day for me was Lyttle Gulch, an innocent-sounding modest little draw that points generally south-east towards the wide-open Snake River Plain, but whose surface consists of softball-sized rocks that resemble 18th Century cannon balls as much as they do surface rocks in these parts of southern Idaho. In this case, however, the cannon balls rest, not on a firm deck surface, but on 4-6 inches of soft, loose, mostly sandy soil and are generally contained within a 'trail' that is never wider than 5-6 feet. The lead pack had done their best to leave the back-markers with a nearly un-ridable surface, upon which some of us spent way too much energy trying to boost our egos and keep our pride in tact by heroically attempting to keep our feet engaged with the pedals instead of where a sensible person would have placed them: on the ground.

16 minute and 42 second Rush to Glory

Allowing common sense to deliver a dope-slap to my pride, I dutifully dismounted my bike at what was an especially nasty bit of trail. As I struggled to maintain my balance while pushing my laden bike across the unstable and unpredictable surface, I glanced at the hapless rider I was overtaking on my left, and was surprised to notice that it was none other than Rebecca Rusch. I wasn't merely stunned to see her back with us pedestrian riders, but moreover, I was shocked that my brain had enough oxygen at its disposal to even retrieve a name, a face, anything committed to memory in more peaceful and serene times. I glanced down at my watch and noted the time, you know, so I could tell my grandchildren how long I had been ahead of Rebecca Rusch in a bike race.

The trail topped out on a basalt bench that once formed the foundation for the Oregon Trail, and as though we ourselves were travelers on the famed path, but having decided the West wasn't for us, we struck a generally backwards, or easterly, direction on some the remaining scars from this historic byway.

On the plateau, I was joined by my friend David Thomas, and we rode together, I in the left wagon track and he in the right, discussing the virtues of various lighting systems and dynahubs. It was truly stimulating conversation and I am sure every rider around us was mentally taking notes on our shared brilliance on the subject of bicycle illumination; all but one, that is. As we spoke there was a flash of light clothing and a gust of wind that split our bikes with surgical precision and left us in a cloud of dust. I could just make out the helmet of the rider who was choosing to miss out on our enlightening discussion: it was, of course, Rebecca Rusch. I looked down at my watch: 16:42 had passed since I had left Ms Rusch like a bad habit on the lower trail. Yes, it was only 16 minutes and 42 seconds, but it felt like a lifetime to me---I am sure it did to her as well.

Prairie-Style

My plan was to stop at the Y-Store in Prairie and eat a can of chicken noodle soup and a chocolate milk, grabbing two more moo-juices to go, so I was feeling pretty smug when exactly 5 minutes after pulling onto the porch of said business I was once again on the road, chocolate milk safely tucked into my jersey pockets. The sun was beating down now and there was no shade to be found, but I was on target, fed and ready for the grade which marks the eastern end of the Prairie valley. 

About halfway up the grade I was starting to fade as each pedal stroke became harder than the one before. Initially, I chalked this up to the heat and gradually rising elevation, but a glance at my rear tire revealed a more practical reason. Apparently, back on the greenbelt, I had picked up an old acquaintance: a goathead thorn. For some unexplained reason, it had decided to make its presence known some 4.5 hours after it had hitched a ride in my back tire. The good news was, I now had earned a brief rest while I patched the--thankfully--one puncture that was this piece of nature's gift to me.

Back on the road after suffering the indignities of being asked by every passing rider and every driver, including an Elmore County Sheriff, if I needed help, I soon found myself cruising into the micro town of Pine, Idaho. After the brief rest during the flat repair, I had felt good and was riding strong, but once I dismounted my bike at the Pine restaurant/bar, I felt a bit light-headed and disoriented. My plan had been to purchase more soup, chocolate milk and some other food as well as fill up with water for our unknown re-route that would keep us away from water or services for nearly 40 miles, but for some reason, I never made it to the store, instead I found myself in the restaurant with 5-6 other racers, ordering the daily special chicken wrap and potato salad from a very friendly and persuasive waitress--or should I say 'temptress'--as it was her hospitality and enthusiasm for the race that pulled me in like a Siren's call onto the rocks of Charybdis. My stupidity would be my undoing....

Re-route from the 'pits of despair'

Unable to finish the second half of my ill-advised chicken wrap, I allowed the still unfailingly kind waitress to fill my Platypus bladder and my two bottles while I drank my fill from the pitcher of ice water on the table. I knew that the only water I would have access to the for next 3-4 hours would be what I could carry on my bike and I wasn't going to waste any of it as long as there was a fresh supply on the four-top in front of me.

'Smoke and Fire 400' race director, Norb Dekerchove

Looking back, I never really felt the healing and strengthening effects of that meal in Pine, nor of the water. As I climbed the long, exposed expanse of pavement up and out of Anderson Ranch Reservoir, I began to feel more and more nauseated. Normally, nausea is an unpleasant, unwanted distraction from life's routine, but at this point in a 440 mile race, it could prove fatal--as least to any ambitions of keeping one's body moving in a generally productive direction.  I continued to grind out the miles and gain elevation inspired by the music of Idaho songstress, Eilen Jewel and her tight 3-piece band playing on my iPod, but my bike and the temperature were not the only things rising, so was my nausea. 

There are few things that can truly add fuel to an already moving nausea train, but one sure thing is the physical manifestation of someone else's nausea, and just when I was beginning to lose my battle against my rising lunch, I pedaled past a recent gastric deposit occupying the narrow strip of road between the white line and the shoulder of dirt and guardrail. My fate was now sealed.

There are few things that can truly add comfort to deep-seated nausea, but ironically, giving in to it and letting nature take its course is often one of them. I would like to say that is what occurred in this situation. I would like to say that after I left my own deposit on the soils of Elmore County I felt fresh as a flower, but I didn't. I felt no real relief at all, actually, despite the fact that nausea had exerted its dominance over my quivering will-power and intestinal fortitude. In the end, there was nothing to do, but keep turning pedals, so I did.

Once the climb finally topped out (an entire double-live CD performance later), the same cycling gods that had inserted that nasty goathead into my rear tire, those same gods who saw fit to deny my body of the nutrients it had dutifully hunted down and devoured, yes, those same gods, found it in their hearts to smile upon me and my fellow racers: for two miles we were blessed by a glorious tailwind that briskly whisked us along at 17 miles an hour under only the lightest of pedaling--in my case just for show as I was not going to spend one red cent of energy where it could be had for free.

A short navigation error and a correction, followed by another navigation error and correction, and I was back on the re-route, this time, however, our path was the Idaho Centennial Trail, or at least a rarely used bit of two-track that had been deemed as such by race director Norb Dekerchove. It felt like the middle of nowhere. At one point, I found myself riding with another racer who, waving his arm across the endless horizon in front of us like the king in a Monty Python sketch, exclaimed, apparently to me, "This is exactly what Patagonia looks like. Exactly like this!" Yippee, I replied, mentally removing Argentina and Chile from my bucket list.

'This is exactly what Patagonia looks like. Exactly like this!

It is a funny thing to be bikepacking on the movie set of "30 Nights in Patagonia"; brief alliances are formed as you find yourself riding with stranger after stranger, none for more that a few minutes in my case, however. It may not be correct to call them 'strangers', either. How can anyone who shares your passion for idiotic self-endangerment and limitless folly and happens to be on the exact road as you at the exact same time as you, be anything but a soulmate? These are the questions that distract your mind hopefully long enough to keep your heart beating while one pursues a pointless task, but there I was, left with little option but to contemplate the connectedness of all mankind, or wait for Verizon to extend cell coverage to Patagonia so I could call my wife and tell I was sorry for leaving and begging her to put her own life at risk to come rescue me before I ran out of water, or sanity, or both. It would have been a short trip in either case.

As I rode the monotonous ups and downs of this lonely track across remote southern Idaho, my eye was caught by a flash of color to the side of the trail. At first I thought my mind was throwing red-hot quarters to me from a passing car while I lay in the gutter holding a beat-up cardboard sign begging for some sign of humanity, but no, these colors were real and they were really attached to a human form--a human form curled into a contorted ball roughly fetal in nature, lying in the only postage-stamp sized shade visible for miles; shade provided by the loneliest willow scrub this side of Reno, Nevada. 

The strict ethics of self-support in bikepacking events, are what separate the competitors from the wannabes, the men from the boys, the jerks from the humanitarians; being a stickler for rules of any kind, I showed a modicum of humanity and decency with a quick glance in the direction of this poor soul surely breathing his last, and just as quickly put my eyes back to the trail so as to avoid riding through one of the ubiquitous cowpies. Priorities.

Soon, up ahead on the trail, it was possible to imagine to think that you could maybe see something that looked like it could be, might be, had to be the farms on the outskirts of Fairfield, Idaho, our next re-supply along the route. I was just sensing my spirits rising from their knees to bump their heads on the bottoms of my shoes, when I heard a voice approach from behind. It wasn't a voice like those of other anonymous approaching riders I had heard for the past 6 hours. No, this one had a familiar tone that jolted my brain out of its torpor. "Hey, Mike D, how's it goin'?" It was Travis Armstrong, a friend and former running teammate, a steeplechase All-American in college and one of the toughest athletes I have ever known. Without sounding in the least bit winded or at all affected by the heat or lack of water, Travis informed me that it had been he who was lying in the desert under the lone willow tree, and that he had taken a little nap and was feeling "100% better." "You should try it," he opined. "No, I'm good," I lied, suddenly overcome with guilt for passing my friend and leaving him for dead in the desert. What would I have told his wife and daughter? I wondered--but not aloud.

Travis also informed me that it was he who had left his stomach contents on the hill out of Anderson Ranch Reservoir. "I ate a sandwich in Pine. It turned out not to be a good decision," he observed dryly.

Upon our approach to Fairfield, Travis had moved up the road as I was in the unenviable position of having to choose between breathing, blinking, steering the bike, looking ahead, thinking and remaining upright. At any moment I could perform 2, maybe three of these tasks, but never all 6 at the same time. It made for slow going. I could see that Travis had stopped and was talking to another rider, but then I had to breathe and lost focus and even Travis and the other rider out of my field of vision. It turned out to be our friend and former teammate Mike Kaufman, from Helena, Montana. He was fresh off the sharp end of the race, now suffering with some chest and breathing issues. He had eaten in town and was off to race the setting sun over Couch Summit north of town, after which our re-route would re-join the original route. 

As I soft pedaled semi-aimlessly through the main drag of Fairfield, I turned towards the grocery store, vaguely guided by a sense of need to wander its aisles, but not really clear as to why. Coming around a corner of a faux Western storefront that served as an ice cream parlor by day, I saw something that nearly shocked me back into semi-coherence: my friend and training partner, Grant Beebe. Showing no signs of battle, or even effort, Grant looked like a model from an REI catalogue in his bright orange Novara jersey that, I swear, didn't have any dirt on it, much less the sweat, mud, cow crap and blood that adorned my own formerly stylish kit.

Grant was carrying on an animated phone conversation with his wife Mary, in a voice that was so normal as to seem practically alien. I nearly looked for the car that had brought him to Fairfield. Mary was filling Grant in on the goings on of the race, as she had been glued to Trackleaders all day long. The only words I could muster were a faint, "How did you get ahead of me?" To which Grant replied, "Apparently, I have been ahead of you the entire time, according to Mary." I would have cried, but I couldn't spare the tears, and besides, it was all I could do to remember to breathe.

Gotta Get Outta This Place

After a half-hearted attempt at eating a pizza I had ordered in Fairfield, I admitted defeat, packing up four pieces of the pie and leaving the remainder for another racer, who appeared on death's door entering the 'out' door at the same time as I was using it for its intended purpose. Finally, someone who looks worse than me, I thought, but as soon as this thought entered my brain, I heard him say to me, "Man, you don't look so good." I would have punched him but I needed to take a breath, so I just smiled. Priorities.

I gathered my energies and as the sun was slowly heading for morning in Asia, and started north towards Couch Summit. We had been told in the racer's meeting that there was a trail to the top of the summit that we had to take and it was easy to miss; or was it that the trail was easy to find, and the summit was hard to take? I couldn't remember, but by shear stroke of luck I found myself on the trail, at least I think it was a trail, There was no smooth path to recommend it, only more softball sized rocks ("baby heads" in racer shorthand) and sand, and impossibly steep terrain. The only real way to know I was on the right route was the relative lack of trees in my path and the drops of bright red blood that appeared to be left for us stragglers in some sick Hansel and Gretel scheme. No matter; popcorn, gold coins, blood droplets, I would gladly follow any marker that promised the assurance of navigational correctness.

Now, I lay me down to sleep....

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally summited the blood-laden trail and struck off blindly down the backside of Couch Summit. I say, 'blindly', because for some reason, my fancy, German-made light that I had been so proud of 14 hours earlier, was not performing any better than a Mini-Maglite with dying batteries clutched between my teeth. My desperation was such, however, that I hurtled myself wantonly and nearly blindly, down the winding road leading me closer to where I hoped to finally get some sleep. 

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally pulled into the campground that had been indicated on our course guide and immediately noted that I was not alone, not by a long shot. There were 10 to 15 other riders in various states of sleep or preparedness for sleep revealed as my feeble light bounced up the road leading to what I hoped would be an empty campsite. I found one in the back, near a stream, unpacked my sleep kit, brushed my teeth and then attempted to hang my food in a nearby tree so as to not tempt a bear into a life of crime--and wrapper-laden diarrhea--to the amusement of my new neighbors. After three throws I gave up, pulled on my sleeping hat and promptly fell into a sleep coma: 17 hours after I had started the day, not 10 blocks from my home back in Boise. The bear could have eaten me and I would not have cared.

To be continued....