Bad Idea Racing

I went to the Wilderness 101 with three goals:

1) Finish.

2) Don't get hurt and screw up the Trans Rockies trip this week.

3) Drink beer.

Stabby and I hopped in the Dirty Little Box Friday at 6:00am for the "nine hour drive" that lasted over ten hours due to an exploding sulfur truck and ubiquitous gas and food signs that lead us into small villages miles from the interstate. We arrived in Coburn and registered in the most orderly manner that I could ever imagine. From there we drove the two miles to the Millheim Hotel (circa 1793AD or something like that), and when we eventually got there we checked in at the bar downstairs. The room was described as European, but Stabby and I agreed that they must have been refering to the Feudal period as it was as bare bones of a room as we had ever seen. We picked up some overpriced sub-par take out pasta from across the street and ate it on the balcony as we watched a Ford Escort (looking splendid with a "01" duct taped to the doors) drive back and forth through town squawking it's tires for entertainment. Sweet. We did some final prep stuff and got to bed relatively early.

The race started the next morning at 7:00am and I saw a huge field of single speeders. Dan Jansen, Matt Ferrari, Tim Dougherty, Mark Elasser, Gunnar Shogren, and a whole mess of others, possibly numbering into the thirties. When the race got under way the lead group went out at an easy pace so I hung with them as long as it was comfortable. I made sure I told anybody I spoke with early on about my intentions either as a pre-excuse for a poor performance, or to remind myself what I was supposed to be doing here. Once we hit the first real climb I fell off the back and watched a lot of SS'ers go with it. I ended up going back and forth with Mark "Elk" Elasser and Pete Buck in 6, 7, and 8th place. They would spin the flats faster than me, and I would catch them on the climbs all the way to Check Point 2. When we got to the first section of singletrack I let them play through so I could play it safe following someone else's lead through the nasty singletrack. Of course I stopped like a moron right in front of them and in the process caused both of them some grief, but they didn't seem to mind (too much).

At CP 2 Mark got away from me. I don't think he needed to stop as he was carrying 124oz's of water (I guess). When I finally started reeling him in on a climb I saw that I was passing Dan Jansen. I paused to see if he was OK, as I never see him on the course because he is usually busy beating me by couple of hours. He said he wasn't feeling well, so I left him and continued chasing Mark. He got to the next singletrack downhill first and I made chase. It didn't last too long as I ripped a hole in my new 2.5 UST Diesel on the nasty terrain. I made sure I took my time when I pulled over to fix it because I was in the kinda place where a misplaced tool would never be found. I discovered the spare tube that I strapped under my seat was a silly little ultra-lite piece of crap with nary the volume to fill a 2.5 tire. I placed the fragile tube in the tire with a Hammer gel wrapper boot, and I shed a small tear when I saw the missing chunk of metal in my new rim. I was passed repeatedly as I cautiously took to my business, and I inflated the tire with my CO2 to what felt like 20PSI. It was probably the most time I ever spent fixing a flat during a race, but I didn't loose any tools or my overpriced UST valve stem. I took back to riding reminding myself that I was supposed to be taking it easy and not messing my bike up along with my body.

More climbing and gravel roads later I reached another singletrack downhill. I had given up hope of catching back up to Mark or Dan, and I descended carefully on the fragile stretched-out tube. It didn't take long before the silly thing flatted again. Doh, I only brought one tube for a place like State College? Moron. I started the walk towards CP 3. I figured it was at least five or ten more miles away. I didn't have a watch or bike computer, but I figured it didn't matter how far it was. Unless I wanted to go old school, build a log cabin, and settle in the woods I needed to keep moving. I got a lot of offers for help as I walked my bike, but I refused a tube handup. It was my problem to deal with, and I didn't want to leave someone else short on tubes. Finally someone pulled over and insisted I take his tube. He said he was quiting when he got to CP 3 anyways so it didn't matter. I thanked him, but my hearrt sank a little when I looked at the tube and saw the writing on the (side) wall, "Super-lite". It was better than nothing so I put it in and aired it up with the remaining CO2 left in the cartridge. It was maybe at 12PSI (if I had to guess), but at least I could ride CAREFULLY to CP 3.

When I got to CP 3 I saw that I was with the riders who treat aid stations like highway rest stops. I am used to riding with guys who fly through in less than a minute re-supplying and moving fast. These folks were sitting around eating cookies and drinking Coke. They seemed to be getting more for their money than the guys up front for sure. I swapped out my blown tube for a fresh one and procured a 16 gram CO2 so I would be safe till I got to CP 4 where I had my own back-ups in a drop bag. I also pumped up my tires to a "ping pong ball like" 40 PSI. I decided I would rather be beat to death than change another flat. I headed out to CP 4.

I remember so little about the course itself other than the gravel roads were relentlessly long and the singletrack was brutal. After riding for however long I made it to relative safety. My drop bag at CP 4 had my BIG 25 gram CO2 and my own tube. I took the opportunity to stick my jersey in my drop bag so I could ride shirtless. It was hot as hell and I just couldn't see the point of wearing it any longer. I stuck some Pringles in my mouth and headed off towards CP 5.

It was somewhere after CP 4 when I realized that going slower meant that 100 miles was going to take a lot longer than usual. I don't know why I hadn't thought of that earlier, but now that I realized it I was pretty depressed. I dopitty-doped my way to CP 5 with very little recollection of anything that happened since CP 3. I rolled up on Dan J and realized that just maybe I could beat him. He was sick, but it would be a small victory none the less. He got out of there pretty quickly when I rolled in, and I made my chase as soon as I got some more Pringles and Heed. I finally caught him on a climb only to have his big 29" wheels blow by me on the descent. I swear I never touched the brakes going down, but his weight combined with the big tires allowed him roll past me like I was standing still. Unngghhh. I was never able to make up the gap on the flat railroad bed that followed or the unrideable Fisherman's Trail, and I finished behind him at 9hrs 53min. That was a long freaking day, but since I accomplished all of my goals (including goal number three) I am not complaining.

Somewhere out on the course:

I rode through two tunnels that were so dark I couldn't see anything, seriously.

We descended something so steep the smell of brakes lingered in the air like I was behind a semi descending a 20 mile long 12% downgrade.

I punched myself in the stomach with my handlebars while WALKING my bike.

I rode across a bridge with railings that were about one inch further across than my bars were wide. I bounced between the two railings like a retarded pinball.

Dan Jansen pointed out that I still had my anti-chafe Band Aids on my nipples while I was riding the last 20 something miles shirtless.

I found out that passing a tandem on a single speed while riding in tight singletrack is like passing a semi on a winding country road in a Volkswagen. It can be done with a lot of planning and a certain amount of risk for everyone involved.

I had fun.

I'll post some more about what all this means as far as the Ultra Series and with Stabby's story tomorrow.