This is a 3-part series I'm writing for our blog. I figured I'd share it with the rest of you endurance racing fanatics too. For Part 1, check out our blog: lumintrek.com/blog
That next descent was tricky. The trail was essentially a big mudslide broken up by the occasional rocky stream crossing, and it had plenty of exposure. I had a brief love affair with downhill/freeriding, so I've always fancied myself a competent descender, at least for an XC guy. I passed several riders on my way down, and I was finally beginning to see why everyone raves about riding in Pisgah. With every stream I crossed, my confidence grew, but so did my exhaustion. I'm still not sure what I hit, but evidently going into the last stream crossing, I misjudged my line.
When I woke up, I was underwater. I remember my first sensation was the cold. If you've never felt a mountain stream in November, let me put your doubts to rest: that water is COLD. Immediately, my brain started jumping to life. My face hurt. My hip hurt. I couldn't feel my left hand. How long had I been out? Where was my bike? I picked myself up out of the water, found my bike and stumbled up onto the bank. I rested my bike on a tree, and began assessing my situation.
My face, hip and arm had bruising and scrapes, but I couldn't even move my left thumb. It was swollen and hurt like hell. I was sure it was broken. No doubt in my mind. I didn't even take off the glove. Then I looked at my bike. The rear wheel had come out of the dropouts, and the rear derailleur was in some shape. I sat down on the side of the trail and waved other riders by me as I considered my situation. I was 14 miles into a 40-mile race, on unfamiliar trails, hurt, with a broken bicycle. I began to feel defeated, but I didn't let myself quit. I put my bike back together, "aligned" my rear derailleur with a rock, and started pedaling.
In my semi-lucid state, my rear derailleur "adjustment" was less than effective. I could pedal, but only in three or four gears, and if I pedaled hard, the chain would skip something awful. To make matters worse, I couldn't shift at all with my left thumb, so for the rest of the ride, I had to shift both front and rear derailleurs with my right hand, and rely on my rear brake to slow me down. I knew it was only a few miles til the next rest stop, so I resigned myself to riding what I could and walking when my bike wouldn't make it. Those next few miles are a blur, but eventually I reached Rest Stop 2, and in considerably worse shape than Rest Stop 1, a mere 9 miles prior. Luckily the mechanic had a derailleur alignment tool, so I left my bike in his care while I grabbed some food and water. (19 miles down. 21 to go.)
I wasn't incredibly eager to leave Rest Stop 2. I was hurting, both mentally and physically, and while glancing at the forest road heading up and away from the rest stop, I had the terrible realization: this was the climb I'd been dreading. 8 miles of climbing. 8 miles. No flats. No rest. Just up. I gathered my strength, got on my bike and headed out to face my demons.
Let me tell you, that was a dark couple of miles. I've never experienced exhaustion so extreme. I was cooked, both mentally and physically. My legs started cramping, badly. I was in my absolute lowest gear, and I still couldn't stay on the bike. I'd pedal til my legs seized up, fall over on the bike right there in the road and just wait til I could unclip and get back up. I would walk when I couldn't pedal, collapse when I couldn't walk. That bike was my crutch. My companion. And yet, during that stretch, in my weakened mental state, I had convinced myself to sell my bikes, quit racing, quit my job in the cycling industry and never look at another bike again. Did I mention I was mentally exhausted?
Eventually, I made it to the top. I'm still not sure how. I just kept my head down, staring at my GPS, watching the odometer number go up. At the top, I took a break. Probably the most deserved break I've ever taken. I stretched, ate, hydrated, and headed for Farlow Gap. (27 miles down. 13 to go.)
That next descent was tricky. The trail was essentially a big mudslide broken up by the occasional rocky stream crossing, and it had plenty of exposure. I had a brief love affair with downhill/freeriding, so I've always fancied myself a competent descender, at least for an XC guy. I passed several riders on my way down, and I was finally beginning to see why everyone raves about riding in Pisgah. With every stream I crossed, my confidence grew, but so did my exhaustion. I'm still not sure what I hit, but evidently going into the last stream crossing, I misjudged my line.
When I woke up, I was underwater. I remember my first sensation was the cold. If you've never felt a mountain stream in November, let me put your doubts to rest: that water is COLD. Immediately, my brain started jumping to life. My face hurt. My hip hurt. I couldn't feel my left hand. How long had I been out? Where was my bike? I picked myself up out of the water, found my bike and stumbled up onto the bank. I rested my bike on a tree, and began assessing my situation.
My face, hip and arm had bruising and scrapes, but I couldn't even move my left thumb. It was swollen and hurt like hell. I was sure it was broken. No doubt in my mind. I didn't even take off the glove. Then I looked at my bike. The rear wheel had come out of the dropouts, and the rear derailleur was in some shape. I sat down on the side of the trail and waved other riders by me as I considered my situation. I was 14 miles into a 40-mile race, on unfamiliar trails, hurt, with a broken bicycle. I began to feel defeated, but I didn't let myself quit. I put my bike back together, "aligned" my rear derailleur with a rock, and started pedaling.
In my semi-lucid state, my rear derailleur "adjustment" was less than effective. I could pedal, but only in three or four gears, and if I pedaled hard, the chain would skip something awful. To make matters worse, I couldn't shift at all with my left thumb, so for the rest of the ride, I had to shift both front and rear derailleurs with my right hand, and rely on my rear brake to slow me down. I knew it was only a few miles til the next rest stop, so I resigned myself to riding what I could and walking when my bike wouldn't make it. Those next few miles are a blur, but eventually I reached Rest Stop 2, and in considerably worse shape than Rest Stop 1, a mere 9 miles prior. Luckily the mechanic had a derailleur alignment tool, so I left my bike in his care while I grabbed some food and water. (19 miles down. 21 to go.)
I wasn't incredibly eager to leave Rest Stop 2. I was hurting, both mentally and physically, and while glancing at the forest road heading up and away from the rest stop, I had the terrible realization: this was the climb I'd been dreading. 8 miles of climbing. 8 miles. No flats. No rest. Just up. I gathered my strength, got on my bike and headed out to face my demons.
Let me tell you, that was a dark couple of miles. I've never experienced exhaustion so extreme. I was cooked, both mentally and physically. My legs started cramping, badly. I was in my absolute lowest gear, and I still couldn't stay on the bike. I'd pedal til my legs seized up, fall over on the bike right there in the road and just wait til I could unclip and get back up. I would walk when I couldn't pedal, collapse when I couldn't walk. That bike was my crutch. My companion. And yet, during that stretch, in my weakened mental state, I had convinced myself to sell my bikes, quit racing, quit my job in the cycling industry and never look at another bike again. Did I mention I was mentally exhausted?
Eventually, I made it to the top. I'm still not sure how. I just kept my head down, staring at my GPS, watching the odometer number go up. At the top, I took a break. Probably the most deserved break I've ever taken. I stretched, ate, hydrated, and headed for Farlow Gap. (27 miles down. 13 to go.)