Bad Idea Racing

Sorry for taking my dandy old time writing this up. An unplanned overnight stay at the Chicago airport left me a little drained.

One knows very little when they enter the Hellride contest. You know that winning means you get to ride 60-75 miles and climb over 13,000 feet, and that there will be a couple pros stomping the course at the same time you’re dragging your sorry ass behind them. If you finish the ride you win a new Santa Cruz Nomad that you just spent the whole day getting very familiar with riding all over the mountains that loom over the small town of Downieville (which I think should be renamed Uppieville as I barely remember riding down anything). All the other obscure details are in the gray areas, off the borders of the map, and beyond definition. Oh yeah, they did bother to mention that this course should be the hardest ever. Thanks.

I spent the better part of Friday traveling on planes and in cars with my enormous duffel of superfluous items that I thought I might need for the trip. When we finally pulled into to Downieville I thought it looked like the facade of Frontier Land at Disney World. We stopped in at Yuba Expeditions to check on the bikes and meet more people than you can shake a people meeting stick at. My bike was waiting for the arrival of the solitary 36 tooth front chainring so I wasn’t able to hop on it right away. Just before suppertime the ring arrived and was mounted quickly so I could bed in the brakes and attempt to dial in the suspension (note that I said “attempt”). I rode the bike around the parking lot, bounced up and down, and decided it was close enough for government work.

We headed across the street for some quality eats and conversation. I put down enough bread and pasta to feed a large Italian family and washed it down with a pitcher of water. Then we all headed back to the shop to put down the traditional night before the Hell Ride shot of liquor. Nothing quite soothes a bloated stomach like a shot of tequila. Urrrrpp. I put down my shot glass and headed back to the room. I’d been up for over twenty hours straight, and I was feeling like ass.

I woke up when my East Coast internal clock started ringing three hours before the start of the ride. I killed some time watching my portable DVD player until everybody started stirring in the “treehouse”. We headed off to a fine breakfast where I enjoyed some eggs cooked in bacon grease covered in salsa and chased down with all the coffee I could scrounge. I only needed to get enough food in my belly for the first loop as we would pass right by the grocery store before we head into the second and final loop. The charred embryo pig meat gut-bomb combo would certainly keep me fueled up for a long time, or not.

I have no idea when we left for the ride exactly, but instead of it being joined by Weir, Sarah, and Rachel I was in a group with Weir and his merry men from WTB and Santa Cruz. Some were just along for the ride and Danno from Santa Cruz was there to serve as my major mechanical support. I was carrying what I needed for basic repairs, but he had spare mechs, hangers, and what-not in his pack to make sure a major malfunction wouldn’t end my day. We headed out of Downieville at a neutral pace, but as we entered the first climb the pace went through the roof. I held onto the back of the pack for awhile, then I rode in their settling dust, and finally they were out of sight. Huh? Not what I expected, but I guess that’s how it was going to go.

I climbed alone for quite awhile until I finally caught back up to one of the merry men, and just like that he popped and went off the back. A little while later I caught up to Danno and another rider, and soon after that they fell out of my rear view mirror and back down the mountain. I continued climbing alone up the loose and steep doubletrack and at most of the intersections a moto rider would point me in the right direction. Occasionally the trail would give me a chance to recover with a short descent, but unfortunately I found out that my parking lot suspension test wasn’t thorough enough. The fork was diving way too deep into it’s travel and packing up while the rear was shooting my ass up in the air. Obviously I was wishing I had spent more time tuning the suspension, but luckily I kept running into Greg from Yuba on his moto, and he would tweak it a little bit here and there to get the bike back in line. I was incredibly thankful as I really didn’t want to do the whole ride with a six inch fork locked out (as I had for the first umpteen miles). I didn’t have a watch, but I figure I climbed for 2/3’s of an eternity until I popped up out above the tree line. It was finally time to go downhill (well mostly downhill).

The downhill is just a blur in my memory bank. Riding over petrified footballs and deep powdery dirt at high rates of speed is pretty much all consuming and hypnotic. I finally realized I had been riding for too many hours fueled only by my greasy breakfast and one gel, so I took a short break to suck back two gels and shake the cobwebs outta my brain. Before I knew it I was back in town at the grocery store buying Gatorade, Coke, Nutter Butter’s, and peanut M&M’s. The Gatorade went in my Camelbak, the Nutter Butter’s went in my pant leg, the M&M’s went in my jersey pocket, and the Coke went straight down my throat. I was good to go out for round two.

Dane from WTB decided to head out with me on the second loop. I was told it was a gravel road climb instead of the crazy loose stuff, but that it was a "little steep" at the beginning. Less than ten minutes in I stopped to "butter my muffin" so to speak. My taint was starting to feel the effects of climbing on the front of the saddle and some TLC was required. Dane rode on ahead, but I caught back up to him and eventually he dropped back out of sight. The road had some steep-ass pitches and in between the gut wrenching sections I pounded my Nutter Butter's. When I went to eat the M&M's the bag was soaking wet with sweat, and it spilled it's vital contents onto the dusty gravel road as I pulled it from my jersey pocket. Being a person of low standards I found that they were still quite tasty after being covered with sweat and dirt, so I pulled over and collected my scattered morsels and had a nice picnic under the hot sun.

The climb continued, but the severity of the pitch decreased eventually. The moto guys were going ahead to make sure I made all the right turns... well almost all the right turns. I came to an unmanned fork in the road, so I pulled out my map so I could make an informed decision. Unfortunately this part of the course wasn't on the map, so I relied on my memory of a misunderstood suggestion. I zigged when I shoulda zagged, and I ended up climbing an extra mountain on a road that dead ended at a lookout tower. Ooops. I turned around and blasted down the mountain knowing the my moto companions would be looking for me. I got back to the missed turn and headed down the road balls-out trying to make up for lost time and vent some frustrations created by my detour.

I saw the motorcycle coming around the blind corner before I heard the engine noise over the rushing wind. He was blasting up the road looking for me and I was bombing down. I saw his eyes get real big and we both moved a little (I mean a little) to our respective rights. As we made our way past each other at a combined speed of well over 60MPH my handlebar passed under his. It was as if we were Blue Angels, except I was doing my share of the flying tricks piloting an ultralite aircraft. We both pulled up to a quick stop, and he apologized profusely. I was too pumped full of adrenalin to care about my mortality at the time, and was just glad we were both smiling when it was over.

From that point on I had a small decline in morale. The route took us above the treeline again and along some precarious slopes. These were the "I hope they find the body so my family can have closure" kinda drops, and my fear of heights was making me a little shakey. I was hoping for some relief, but the climb continued on swapping from one side of the mountain, over the ridge, and to the other side. The wind was so powerful that while I was on the right side of the mountain I was actually blown over twice while pushing my bike. By the time I reached the actual summit my hands were shaking and my eyes were bugging out of my head with fear, but at least it was over. Or was it?

I was so shaken up by the unrelenting exposure that I couldn't get my head back in the game. I was all over the trail, and a couple times I had some real "OH SHIT!" moments. I had to pull over, bang myself in the helmet, and get my head straight. I also dropped the PSI in my front tire way down, and then life got sooooo much better. Oh yeah, the double caffeine espresso Gu probably didn't hurt either. Things started falling into place, and easy street just got more crowded. Smiles and miles to go to the finish.

The last few miles required no effort. My bike and I had finally gotten familiar enough with each other that I was “pouring like an avalanche coming down the mountain”. I got on the gas and enjoyed a pain free ride into town not feeling any of the miles I had put behind me in my legs. I wasn’t sure what was expected of me, but I felt like I had put in an honorable effort. I never saw Weir after the first twenty minutes or so, and I rode alone about 95% of the time. It was an incredible ride, and it was a nice private hell.

A big thanks to Santa Cruz for setting this up; the course, the support, the logistics, everything. Even if they took the new bike outta the equation the experience was still so worth it (but seriously, send that bike my way when you get a chance). The folks that told me I was lucky for being selected don't know the half of it. I usually have to pay people a lot of money to organize a painful experience for me. In the end Hell Ride was way more than I had hoped for. The isolation, the heavy bike, the big gear, the ridiculous climbs, the party, the people, the life.

Sweet, perfect suffering on two wheels, the way it should be.

Photos should be up soon on the Santa Cruz site.