Bad Idea Racing

I got to the venue late Friday afternoon to be welcomed by a searing lungful of air when I jumped out of my air conditioned Dirty Little Box. I already knew that the competition would be stiff with Sam Koerber, Harvey "Guns" Minton, Peter Joski, and Chris Janiszewski signed up, so when Eddie O'Dea (FG Honcho) tapped the kegs I decided to handicap my chances of getting on the podium with some liquid happiness. As those of us who thought beer the night before a hundred mile race in the scorching heat sat in front of a fan enjoyed our cold beverages we saw Garth "I just got 9th at Leadville last week" Prosser roll in. This only bolstered my determination to further limit my future performance with more diuretic fun. I was enlightened with new information during our fluid discussion that the course info I based my gear selection on was probably quite off base. Instead of two 50 mile laps with 6,000ft of climbing we may be facing two 52-55 mile laps with 8,000ft of climbing. Hmmmmm.... that 32X18 didn't seem like such a good idea anymore, but since I was planning on sucking anyhow why not just shoot myself in both feet while I have the gun out. By the time I left the keg I was faced with a very dark roll down a half mile of gravel road to my campsite on my fixed gear messenger bike with no light. I ended up walking part of the way as I couldn't even see two feet in front of my face. Yeah, that seemed like a good way to kick start the weekend.

The hundred mile race went off at 6:35 AM with some pre-dawn squinty eyed climbing up a fire road. The climb shook out the top few riders and I found myself with Sam, Peter, Chris, and Garth as our neutral-ish start gathered steam. I had my short lived fun with one fake attack on the climb and then settled into reality as I watched them climb away into the distance. When I hit a relatively flat section Harvey came by and left me like I was standing still. Trish Stevenson caught up to me and left me behind shortly thereafter. One of my goals was to not get "chicked", but I had lots of goals so I felt like I could let a few slide.

Most of the racers had elected to do the 50 mile race that started about a half hour behind us so I knew that we 100 milers would be in for a long and lonely day. I also knew that I would be seeing my car when I finished the first lap, and I was going to have to motivate myself to go back out for the second lap. I also also knew that the second lap would start with the same monster climb that I was horribly over-geared for and the temps would be twenty degrees higher when I hit it. All these facts tumbled around in my head and drew me into some depressed stupor. Even though the trails were great I just couldn't get my mental game going. I would pass Trish and then she would catch me while I was at the aid stations bitching and moaning about what a pansy I am. While I was in the woods I kept wishing for a large carniverous animal to make an appearance so I could poke him in the nose and end the race in a glorious manner that would ensure that all future Fool's Gold races be renamed the Rich Dillen Memorial Fool's Gold Race. I was in a deep dark hole.

I waited for Trish at a checkpoint a few miles before the fourth aid station thinking maybe we could ride together (alright, so I could ride with her and she could keep me from poking animals). When she rolled up we took off, but as usual the single speed/geared bike pairing had us split up before too long and I was on my own after a bit of climbing. When my brain checked out again I found myself careening off the side of the trail in a most glorious manner and sailing through the air looking back at my bike. When I stopped rolling around on the ground I got back on my bike as fast as possible so I could get my mind off of any injuries that might have occured during my separation from my bike. I forged onward towards the end of lap one with some blood trickling down my leg, and a few body parts that were throbbing from the impact.

When I got to the halfway point I bitched and moaned and then asked Eddie "What time is it?" He said it was 11:45 or something like that, so I headed out and started doing the math....11:45 minus 6:35, carry the remainder... holy crap!!!!!! That first lap was over five hours long which meant I was probably going out for at least six more hours. I was not a happy human once I digested that information. My stupid gear selection had me pushing my bike up a gravel road in ninety degree temperatures, and my I could only think of one reason not to quit. I knew that as bad as my mental state was I would be so much worse off tomorrow if I quit. That was the only reason I kept going.

When I rolled into the first aid station after the climb I had a life changing moment. Once again a PB&J sandwich stepped into my life and whisked me off my feet. I washed it down with a cold Burn energy drink and suddenly I didn't want to die anymore. I can't explain why everything changed when I stuffed a piece of dry bread with condiments on it in my mouth, but it just did. Things turned around 180 degrees in my mind from that point on.

I rode a pretty flawless race (for me) until I hit the second to the last aid station. I had come to terms with the fact that I would be riding alone all day, and I was really digging the trails in the Georgia mountains. When I pulled up to the 8th aid station I took on a bottle of water, a bottle of "something-aide", and a PB&J. The "something-aide" was a mint flavored concoction that was served at something close to my body temperature. I figured why would I carry 22oz of this un-drinkable and heavy liquid, so I poured it out on the trail. It wasn't but a few seconds later when I started doing some more math....@15 miles to the next aid station plus one 22oz bottle of water, plus one packet of gu left in my jersey pocket, minus all the perspiration I would lose getting to the last aid station.... equals..... I'm screwed.

So I found myself in an interesting conundrum. One bottle of water was not enough for 1.5-2 hours of riding in 95 degree heat. Go too fast, burn up, cramp, and die, OR go slow, increase my exposure time, burn up, cramp, and die. I did a mix of both options while mentally kicking myself in the ass for pouring out what would have been my minty reserve. I was hoping that there would still be an intermediate checkpoint a few miles before the last aid station, so I just pinned my dreams to that notion and continued on. Without a computer or a watch it was just going to be a guessing game combined with a little luck that would see me through to salvation. I'm not sure how long I made my water last, but it wasn't long enough. I ran out and started thinking about drinking out of a creek, but I decided I would be better off laying at the side of the trail in a cramped up ball waiting for another racer to save me rather than suffering from ghiardia for the next few weeks.

Luckily I popped out of the woods and made it to the checkpoint before the "cramped up ball" card had to be played, and they were nice enough to hand over some water. The volunteers told me that I was two miles from the last aid station, ten miles from the finish, and two minutes behind the rider in front of me (Garth). How 'bout that? After all that I'm "racing" again. I chased hard and made up the two minutes before the next aid station. Garth didn't look so good, but since I wasn't sure if he would chase I just pinned it as hard as I could. I rolled into the aid, wolfed down on anything that looked good, took on way more liquid than I needed for eight miles, and took off up the road.

(Thanks for the photo Tomato. It very well could be one of my favorites.) clicky make biggy

I did everything I could to keep outta Garth's sight. I kept looking over my shoulder waiting for him to recover, but it never happened. I rolled in alone thinking that I just nabbed fifth place to be told that Chris J had dropped out, and I took fourth. Nifty. Garth finished some 17 minutes later saying that he would've just quit out there, but he had no idea how to get back without finishing the whole course. So much for my "attack".

From what I could gather from everybody who managed to finish the 100 mile course (which was closer to 110 miles) we all agreed it was incredibly hard, maybe a 60% drop out rate?? Ouch. Who woulda thought 110 miles in Georgia in August would be hard?

Did I achieve my goals I posted last week?

Not get chicked. Yep.

Ride 50 miles of trails, double track, and road that I have never seen before (twice). Kinda, it was more like 55 miles.

Push myself hard enough that it hurts most of the time. Yes, if not physically hurting I was mentally hurting the whole time.

Drink $135 worth of free beer. Probably not.

Get home Sunday by noon. I was up at 4:00AM, and after unwrapping the "caution tape cocoon" that was wrapped around my Dirty Little Box as I slept inside I was home before 8:30AM.

Oh yeah, when I got home my right big toe was throbbing. I decide to trim the nail and a bunch of clear liquid shot out. It's still draining today. I don't know what to think about that. 

Oh yeah, a big thanks to Eddie, Namrita, and anyone else involved in pulling this race off.  Things went smooth, the race was hard, and the beer was cold.