The Swank 65
The Swank 65 is a rugged backcountry race limited to 100 riders held in the Pisgah National Forest. The length of the race is generally close to 65 kilometers, and Todd Branham (race honcho) does his best to make it a challenge. I got to the venue early Sunday morning and watched the competition arrive. There are no classes (except male/female) so everybody there was to be considered a threat. I recognized parts of the Koerber Klan, Garth “Sideshow Bob” Prosser, Wes “The King of Pisgah” Dickson, Ross “crushed me last winter in the short track” Doswell, Crazy Dennis Helton, Matt “Bio Wheels Owner” Johnson….the list goes on. I got tenth in last year’s race, but it was looking like that may be a difficult goal to duplicate. I got my race map at registration and scanned it over. It was going to be a doozy with multiple major climbs and a descent down the deadly (and leaf covered) Farlow Gap.
It was thirty seven degress when we had our Lemans start that took us through the woods. I realized as I watched the knees and elbows running through the woods that I was already smiling. I love running starts on trails instead of open fields. People look funny running on trails in helmets and riding shoes. I got to my bike somewhere in the top twenty or so riders and took off. The first few miles were not SS friendly, and I lost a few more spots on the gently rolling terrain.
Once we hit the first serious pitch I was able to go into “attack mode” and I began to push my pace higher. I started getting back some places as we approached Gloucester Gap. They were just setting up aid station one, and I only had a half a water bottle. I blew it off and continued on course. We finally hit our first section of trail and I went in having no real idea where we were going. My mind was runing through the laundry list of mistakes I’d already made. I didn’t have any Endurolytes (left them at home), no Ibuprofen (keeping the Endurolytes company), and I am now starting a loop of unknown distance with half a water bottle…hmmm. I’m off to a good start. My legs were really there for me, but my brain was fuzzy. I came to a downed tree, and I tried to ride through some of the branches “George Bush style”; full bore with no exit strategy. I ended up just like G.W., on my ass and looking stupid. I realized I’d better not be needing my brain the rest of the day, because it must be at home hanging out with the Ibuprofen and Endurolytes.
When the trail headed up I would gain a few spots, but when the trail went down I would lose all the places right back. Deep leaves, rocks, speed, and a rigid fork were combined to achieve what is known in physics as “chaos”. I would randomly get chucked to the side or popped from my pedal without warning, so I had to use the brakes more than I woulda liked to. I was then reminded about something I wanted to forget. My hands weren’t even close to being recovered from Conyers, so I couldn’t hold onto the bars without a large amount of pain. This was going to be a long day. Oh yeah, I’m out of water at this point. Ooops.
I’m not sure how long I was without water, but it was probably over a half an hour. I finally popped back out at the aid station hoping to get some Gatorade to replace electrolytes, and to hydrate. No luck, just water. I chased outta the aid and got back a few places only to be passed on the road descent to the next trail. When I got on the trail I just started hammering. All the climbs were gradual, the trails familiar, and I was geared right for the conditions. I got back Matt, Crazy Dennis, Wes, Sam K., and some dude in a purple jersey. I figured based on the company I was in I must be doing okay. I kept them behind me and popped out at the aid station totally out of water again. Damn, I was cutting it close.
I know the climb to the top of Farlow well. It is long, steep, and long. I decided not to go “all in” as there was still one more major climb of the day, but even climbing at a reserved pace my heart rate was through the roof a couple of times. I could only see a few tracks in the dirt which added to my crazed euphoria. I had to be doing well. When I got to the top of Farlow I knew I just had to get down as fast (and safe) as possible. The horrendous rock gardens were so covered in leaves that they looked flat. Damn, off and walking down a hill is not very manly. At the creek crossings I chose to walk right through the deep cold water, instead of pussy footing around trying to stay on top of the rocks to keep my feet dry. I didn’t want anybody to catch me. I made it down Farlow to Daniel’s Ridge where I just blasted the high speed sections with some vague remembrance of what was under all the leaves. Occasionally a rock would grab me and try to throw me down. I had some very “thrilling” moments, but I kept it upright.
I knew the next section was not single speed friendly at all. It was a gentle double track along the river, and if anybody caught me there it would give them a huge mental boost. I went as fast as I could, but soon into the trail I looked back and saw Crazy Dennis catching me. We spoke for a few seconds, and after that I saw him disappear into the distance. Damn. I caught up to him at the last aid station, but he got out before I did. I made chase, but Dennis was fighting back, and I could see it in his pedal stroke. Halfway up the climb he was looking cashed in, so I gunned it hoping to put some time on him before the last descent. I knew it would be almost impossible to gain a big enough advantage on Dennis to hold him off to the finish. I can go down Cove Creek pretty fast, but he’s a local and they don’t call him Crazy Dennis for nothing. I was close to the bottom when he caught me, and he put me outta my misery quickly. We came through the finish line 26 seconds apart. As I laid down in the grass I asked what place I was in.
“Fifth”
“Fifth? Are you shitting me? Wow.”
There you have it. I couldn’t have wanted more than that. I ended up about 17 minutes down on the winner Garth Prosser, a fair dinkum better than I’d anticipated. Hunting season is over.
