- Bad Idea Racing – HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

So now I have a final resting place for my fully edited La Ruta story.

They Come to Snuff La Ruta

”Ain’t found a way to kill me yet

Eyes burn with stinging sweat

Seems every path leads me to nowhere”

Alice in Chains

I have dreamt of participating in La Ruta de los Conquistadores ever since I first heard about it in October 2000. Billed as “the world’s toughest mountain bike race”, it is over two hundred miles long and goes through nine micro-climates as it works its way from the Pacific to the Caribbean . Riders have to climb over 30,000 vertical feet and the pain is spread over three days of grueling racing. I decided to make it happen this year; however I had one small problem. Over the last four years I had sold all of my geared bikes and all I had left was my Dean Colonel single speed. Oh well, that just meant I would get more suffering for my money.

Three months of worrying later I found myself at the start line rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and wondering how I got myself into this. I lined up next to four Costa Rican riders and their attention was drawn to the obvious lack of components on my bike. They seemed determined to communicate their concerns to me, but the only words I could comprehend were “amigo” and “loco”.

About 350 riders headed for the mountains at 5:15am. The first stage was sixty-five miles long and we would end up 3,000 feet higher in the rain forest. We went up and down all day crossing rivers and climbing mountains so steep they would make a mountain goat consider quitting his day job. I chose a 34X20 gear for the day and if I was climbing on the bike, I was passing people. If I was climbing next to the bike (walking), I got passed. I saw my “amigos” off and on all day and they would cheer on the “loco”.
The descents were a test of skill and endurance. Unfortunately they were never long enough to recover from the last climb. Most of the riders I passed were walking or riding cautiously down the slippery slopes. With Rob Zombie on my MP3 screaming in my ear “I am the American Nightmare” I descended with the fury of a large angry rodent. I was riding way beyond the limits of my control. Shouting “rider” or “on your left” had little effect when the rider in front of you was potentially from one of the twenty different countries represented. I learned my first lesson; never assume anybody understands a word I say, unless I want to see how far my front wheel would actually go into somebody’s butt crack before coming to a stop.
I roared into a town on what I thought was the final descent. I was burning up the road at well over forty-mph and I was exhilarated that the day was over. No such luck. The green arrows on the road directed me back into the jungle again for more climbing. I struggled up one more climb only to be treated with another helping of technical descending. I learned my second lesson; never get my hopes up, for they will be crushed.
My ride over the river and through the jungle lasted 7 hours and 52 minutes. The leaders did it in just over five hours. They must have chartered a helicopter or something. I was the only person on a single speed, and I stuck out like a very sore thumb.

At the end of day one I had to load my bike on a truck and lose sight of it until tomorrow’s start. I had the option of paying fifty dollars for a pro mechanic to work on my bike, but since it was a single speed a mechanic seemed as necessary as a plumber for an outhouse. My original plan was to change my gear to a 32X20, but that seemed like too much work at the time. Besides, tomorrow was only a thirty mile climb up to 11,000 feet. I lubed the moving parts and put my bike on the truck. Lesson three; bad decisions will have dire consequences.
When I got back to the hotel that night I kicked back and watched TV. I was trying to learn Spanish by watching subtitled HBO and Cinemax. Unfortunately, words like “ammunition” and “boner” were not going to help me communicate with the other riders. I had serious doubts that my new vocabulary was going to help me obtain any food at the end of the day, which at times was more difficult than racing.
The second stage started in downtown San Jose . I knew the leaders would be at the top of the climb faster than I could burn microwave popcorn. I estimated it would take me closer to five hours of red-line effort to put the climb behind me. The first few miles of stage two were a single speeder’s nightmare, a slight downgrade. Everybody was flying past me, and all I could do was hunch down in a tri-geek aero tuck to maintain my minimal forward momentum. We zipped through the morning traffic and headed for the mountains.
After a few miles my urban-chaos-coasting-fest was over and I got to the mountains. The long climbs forced me out of the saddle for extended periods of time. Sparse sections of pavement only meant that the roads were too steep to use gravel. The roads were so near vertical that a single drop of rain could have dislodged a chunk of gravel and sent it hurtling down the mountain fast enough to kill a wandering cow. Gravity was my cruel mistress.
Occasionally a bright moment would lift my spirits. Other riders would shout out “Go single speed!” in passing. My “amigos” from the previous day cheered me on as we passed each other all day. Chickens, cows, dogs, and fervent locals, all these things would push the suffering to the back of my head for awhile. Otherwise the climbing continued to chip away at my resolve. I would stand on the pedals until it just seemed silly. Then I would get off and walk until that seemed silly. Things were really bad when both options seemed silly. When it got that bad I would stop and pee, pop some Endurolytes, and ponder on the fact that I would rather be rolling around in my own filth than continue.
At the top of the climb the locals said it was “all downhill from here”. Lesson four; never believe anything anybody says regarding elevation, distance, or time. Lesson five; it is never “all downhill” from any point A to any point B in . The final twenty-nine miles were mostly downhill and scary fast. Down the mountain, baby heads, switchbacks, big alien baby heads, cows, chickens, dogs, oncoming traffic, slow riders with eyes the size of saucers. I will never be able to slow down the flashbacks of the descent. It’s like Oliver Stone directed all the scenes in my memory and it is up to me to piece them all together. Somewhere near the bottom I had a mechanical problem of sorts. FFFFHHHWWWUUUPPPPP, my left contact blew right out of my head. I stopped and unpacked my spare contact while I watched people fly by me. I think one rider actually hit 88 mph because he disappeared leaving behind a trail of flames, went back in time, and convinced his past self to take up bowling.
With my eyesight back to 20/20 I finished the rest of the descent. The downhill had renewed my spirits and punished my body. I endured so much forearm pump from the white-knuckle descent that I looked like Popeye. I ended the day with 6:38 for a finishing time, and I was mentally fried when I got on the bus to the Guayabo Lodge.
Over the last four years I have read everything I could find about La Ruta. I knew that day three is the longest and hottest stage. The course climbs through the final mountains and then gradually descends to the East Coast. The surface conditions are a combination of pavement, gravel, railroad tracks, sand, and puddles deep enough to require scuba gear. The railroad sections included high trestles suspended over ditches, rivers, and crocodiles. I have an irrational fear of heights and a very rational fear of crocodiles.
I was wound up tighter than a bull’s butt in fly season when I saw the course maps. I was on a single speed and this route was a death sentence. I would start the day climbing 3,300 vertical feet in the first thirty miles, and then slowly descend to sea level over the next sixty-five miles. Gear choice was vital. If I went too high I would die a quick death in the mountains. If I went too low my legs would be spinning so fast I would melt my chamois. I had to make my choice at the finish line after stage two. I wouldn’t see my bike again until the start of stage three, so now was the time to make the change. I went with a 34X19. Back at the room that night I paced around the floor thinking about my gear choice. When I finally got to bed that night my head was spinning. I had disturbing nightmares about digging through my tool bag, doing gear ratio calculations, and getting to the start late. I was more nervous than I had been all week.
When I woke up in the morning my choice was clear. I wanted the quick death in the mountains. It’s what Rambo would have done if he were in my Sidis. I put a 17 tooth cog and my cassette tool in my Camelbak and I would swap out the cog before the start. 34X17 is the gear I run on the rolling trails of Charlotte, NC , but certainly not the steep mountains of . People who don’t understand the single speed thing may ask, “Why not change the cog at the top of the climb?” The answer would be my stupid single speed machismo run-what-you-brung attitude. If I switch gears in the middle of a ride I might as well install one of those shifter things and move over to the dark side.
I convinced myself that it’s “only” a thirty mile climb. Who was I trying to kid? The idea of climbing more than twenty-five miles on a 34X17 single speed almost had me in tears at the start. I knew I would be forced to walk for countless miles on sore feet in uncomfortable shoes. I also knew that if I missed the cut-off time at the highest checkpoint my race would be over. Two stainless steel teeth could make the difference between reaching the finish on my bike or a humbling ride in the sag wagon. If I didn’t make the cut-off I wouldn’t get the opportunity to be the first fatality on the train trestles.
The racing commenced with very little fanfare after they inflated the official Red Bull start banner. I climbed fairly well considering the perverse gear I was running. When I could turn the cranks I would pass people like they were standing still. When I was forced to walk they passed me right back. I saw my “amigos” intermittently and they would always give a shout out to the “loco”.

The climb broke into a quick descent down a gravel road. We were pretty bunched up and fighting for the fastest lines as we careened into a corner/switchback/fork in the road. Rider A on my left wanted to go right. Rider B on my right wanted to go left. Rider C (that’s me) wanted to live long enough to see Guns and Roses get back together. Rider B and I collided and went down gracefully to mingle with the volcanic rocks on the road. I was basically unscathed after our high-speed dance with danger. My dancing partner was not so lucky. He had a gash the size of a mouth on his forearm. I spoke frantic English and he spoke pain-filled Spanish. Without an interpreter we used sign language and nodding to communicate. I ended up tying my headband around his arm to stop the bleeding and he indicated that he would try to finish. I picked up his bike and made sure everything was functioning so he could continue and then I left him standing there.
A little more descending with a case of the shakes and then it was back to the task of climbing. I blew past the first check point hoping to get the climb over with and not miss the cut-off time at the top. I had lost my watch so I didn’t have a clue as to how I was doing. I was almost out of Gatorade and my morale had hit rock bottom. My “amigos” passed me. The racer with the prosthetic leg passed me. The guy wearing my bloody headband on his arm passed me. Riders I had never seen before today were passing me. I was dropping towards the back. My sunburn was killing me and the heat was intense. I started accepting the Tico showers (the locals would stand at the side of the road with their hoses and soak you) to keep my body temperature regulated. I took out my camera and snapped off a few shots. A passing rider informed me that I had been riding for just over two hours. It had seemed like a lifetime. Ride, walk, ride, walk, walk, walk, and walk some more. It happened; I was dying the quick death in the mountains.

As if by some miracle I found myself at the highest checkpoint of the day. I am going to buy the parcel of land that this checkpoint stands on and build a shrine because I have found salvation in a bottle of Gatorade. I was a new man and I was ready for the final sixty-five miles. My Lycra was bursting at the seams as I became the cycling version of the Incredible Hulk, except I stayed pretty small and my skin tone remained pasty. I was ready to do some real damage, but La Ruta laughed in my face once again. Lesson number six; if I think the worst is behind me I am probably facing the wrong direction.

The next section of the course was a paved downhill that went straight for somewhere between five miles and forever. Riders scorched past me in the big ring while I just sat patiently in the saddle. The scenery was less than stunning in this region so coasting down the hill was as riveting as watching commercial free golf. The death-by-coasting section ended, and I started riding down a busy highway. It was equally boring and nauseously long but at least the occasional over laden truck brushing against my left arm kept me awake.
I turned off the pavement and onto a dirt road which led me to the railroad tracks. The rain started as I approached my first opportunity to fall to my death. The trestles lived up to my expectations. They were from ten to fifty feet high and ten to three hundred yards long. The ties varied in condition from structurally sound to rotting or missing altogether. It was hard to convince myself that I couldn’t fall through a three feet gap. I talked to myself and sang out loud as I crossed at a sloth-like pace.
The last trestle was being repaired as I rode over it. The last thirty feet of wooden ties were being replaced with very widely spaced concrete ties that weren’t even as wide as my foot was long. The construction crew watched as I methodically worked my way across using my bike as a crutch. They taunted me in English shouting “Hey amigo, carry that bike!” Why did they have to be bi-lingual? Lesson number seven; just because a local can speak English doesn’t necessarily mean I want to hear what he has to say.
At this point my mental stability was somewhere between a meth addict and a serial killer. I had been pushed to the edge of my limits. There were no more trestles and the course was flat all the way to the finish. I started picking people off as a rain/drool mix streamed off my chin. If they jumped on my wheel I would pace line with them until they couldn’t hold on any longer. Then I would toss them aside, used up and worthless to me if they couldn’t keep up the pace. I was the La Ruta Express offering non-stop service to the finish in Limon so hold on or bye-bye.
Railroad track to dirt road and back to the tracks again. This theme would cycle over and over. The terrain didn’t matter because I was hovering three inches above the ground. At the final checkpoint I was welcomed with lemon crèmes, Red Bull, and the promise of a finish line in the near future. I got back on the bike and kept the cranks turning. The service road I was on ran parallel to the ocean, and its condition worsened as I got closer to the finish. I just stood on the pedals and forced my bike through the deep puddles leaving the other riders in my wake.
La Ruta still had one more trick up its sleeve. The service road ended and I jumped out of the coastal jungle and onto a paved road. The road had the same frustrating slant that I had faced a million times already. I watched riders mash their pedals past me as I coasted to the finish, one last stab at the remains of my pride. My “amigos” came up behind me right at the line and we shared our moment of glory. We laughed, we cried, and we said goodbye. Lesson number eight; nothing worth doing is easy, but some things worth doing hurt a lot more than others.

The La Ruta photo album is posted also.