This is a 3-part series I'm writing for our blog. I figured I'd share the story with the rest of you endurance racing fanatics. You can find parts 1 and 2 here: lumintrek.com/blog
If you've never ridden Pisgah, or you've never heard anything about Farlow, suffice it to say that I don't know how anyone looked at that line and thought to ride a bike down it. Pisgah has some gnarly terrain, and Farlow Gap is the crown jewel. Think of the gnarliest rock garden you've ever seen. Make it steeper. Throw in some drops, stream crossings and rock stairs. Bury it with leaves, then stretch it out to cover a mile of steep downhill to take you to the bottom of the mountain. Or was it two miles? GPS doesn't do that part of the country justice. Needless to say, I cramped again on the descent. And wrecked. Several times. I leapfrogged other riders in the same predicament. We were like a ragged, leaderless army wandering the wilderness in search of hope. I've never felt so alone among a group of people.
At the bottom of Farlow Gap, there's a stream--a big stream--and my legs were spent. There was no way I was hopping from rock to rock with my bike like I'd done before. I put my steed on my shoulder and waded through the icy water. On the other side was another climb. I couldn't imagine climbing back on my bike. None of us could. So we walked. I would push my bike part of the way, but the climb was simply too steep and rocky. I spent most of the next 45 minutes carrying my bike on my shoulder. I would finish. I must.
At the top of that climb, I hopped on my bike and began descending toward Rest Stop 3. I had no idea how far it was, or even how far I had left. I could read the numbers on my GPS, but my mind was a blur. I couldn't process anything but pain. Every root, every rock, every bump sent shockwaves up my arms and down my spine. My palms, fingers, forearms, back and neck were killing me. I was going downhill now, but there was no rest, no relief. I finally reached Rest Stop 3. Dropped my bike and collapsed in the middle of the trail. (31 miles down. 9 to go.)
The nurse immediately rushed over to me, pulled off my shoes, socks and began trying to warm my feet. "You're so cold," she said. "And soaked. Someone get me a blanket...Do you have any dry clothes?" The only words I could muster were "How much farther?" Maybe it was a sincere request. Maybe it was just a mental reflex from my months of planning...the deranged ramblings of a broken man. She proceeded to tell me I couldn't go on in that condition and something about raising my core temperature. "How much farther?" I repeated. "9 miles. 4 downhill, 5 uphill," one of the volunteers said. "Put my shoes on," I blurted out. The nurse continued to argue with me. "Put my shoes on," I said like a belligerent old drunk. The volunteers eventually helped me, despite their warnings. I stood up, put on an extra layer, grabbed some oranges, downed some pickle juice, and averaged 24mph for the next 4 miles. (35 miles down. 5 to go.)
That last climb was a bear, but I was finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I'd seen several riders come through Rest Stop 3, so I decided to catch them--use them like carrots. 1 rider. 2 riders. 3, 4, 5, then 6. With every rider I passed, my spirit was lifted. I was still tired, but I was feeling better. It's amazing how much stronger your perception of pain is than the pain itself. I reached the top and began the short descent back to the start/finish line.
The suffering was almost over. I couldnt believe it. I was ecstatic, euphoric, out-of-body some might say. I continued passing riders. As I got closer, I could hear the group of people at the finish line. I could smell the burgers. I don't think I hit the brake the whole way down that descent. There wasn't anything that was going to slow me down. And then, I turned the final corner, exited the woods and crossed the finish line. Just like that, it was over.
I braced myself on my bike and just stood there, speechless for what seemed like hours. My friends were there, but I couldn't speak. I wasn't out of breath. I was simply exhausted. Never in my life have I felt such a sense of achievement. I smiled. I had to have help walking to the truck. I couldn't reach my feet to take off my shoes, and changing clothes was out of the question, at least for a few minutes. Right then all I wanted was a burger and a beer. I'd earned it.
I'm often presented with the question from friends and family: "why would anyone put himself through something like that?" And I still haven't come up with a good answer. It's hard to put it into words, impossible maybe. I just smile as my mind drifts off, remembering how I felt at that very moment.
If you've never ridden Pisgah, or you've never heard anything about Farlow, suffice it to say that I don't know how anyone looked at that line and thought to ride a bike down it. Pisgah has some gnarly terrain, and Farlow Gap is the crown jewel. Think of the gnarliest rock garden you've ever seen. Make it steeper. Throw in some drops, stream crossings and rock stairs. Bury it with leaves, then stretch it out to cover a mile of steep downhill to take you to the bottom of the mountain. Or was it two miles? GPS doesn't do that part of the country justice. Needless to say, I cramped again on the descent. And wrecked. Several times. I leapfrogged other riders in the same predicament. We were like a ragged, leaderless army wandering the wilderness in search of hope. I've never felt so alone among a group of people.
At the bottom of Farlow Gap, there's a stream--a big stream--and my legs were spent. There was no way I was hopping from rock to rock with my bike like I'd done before. I put my steed on my shoulder and waded through the icy water. On the other side was another climb. I couldn't imagine climbing back on my bike. None of us could. So we walked. I would push my bike part of the way, but the climb was simply too steep and rocky. I spent most of the next 45 minutes carrying my bike on my shoulder. I would finish. I must.
At the top of that climb, I hopped on my bike and began descending toward Rest Stop 3. I had no idea how far it was, or even how far I had left. I could read the numbers on my GPS, but my mind was a blur. I couldn't process anything but pain. Every root, every rock, every bump sent shockwaves up my arms and down my spine. My palms, fingers, forearms, back and neck were killing me. I was going downhill now, but there was no rest, no relief. I finally reached Rest Stop 3. Dropped my bike and collapsed in the middle of the trail. (31 miles down. 9 to go.)
The nurse immediately rushed over to me, pulled off my shoes, socks and began trying to warm my feet. "You're so cold," she said. "And soaked. Someone get me a blanket...Do you have any dry clothes?" The only words I could muster were "How much farther?" Maybe it was a sincere request. Maybe it was just a mental reflex from my months of planning...the deranged ramblings of a broken man. She proceeded to tell me I couldn't go on in that condition and something about raising my core temperature. "How much farther?" I repeated. "9 miles. 4 downhill, 5 uphill," one of the volunteers said. "Put my shoes on," I blurted out. The nurse continued to argue with me. "Put my shoes on," I said like a belligerent old drunk. The volunteers eventually helped me, despite their warnings. I stood up, put on an extra layer, grabbed some oranges, downed some pickle juice, and averaged 24mph for the next 4 miles. (35 miles down. 5 to go.)
That last climb was a bear, but I was finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I'd seen several riders come through Rest Stop 3, so I decided to catch them--use them like carrots. 1 rider. 2 riders. 3, 4, 5, then 6. With every rider I passed, my spirit was lifted. I was still tired, but I was feeling better. It's amazing how much stronger your perception of pain is than the pain itself. I reached the top and began the short descent back to the start/finish line.
The suffering was almost over. I couldnt believe it. I was ecstatic, euphoric, out-of-body some might say. I continued passing riders. As I got closer, I could hear the group of people at the finish line. I could smell the burgers. I don't think I hit the brake the whole way down that descent. There wasn't anything that was going to slow me down. And then, I turned the final corner, exited the woods and crossed the finish line. Just like that, it was over.
I braced myself on my bike and just stood there, speechless for what seemed like hours. My friends were there, but I couldn't speak. I wasn't out of breath. I was simply exhausted. Never in my life have I felt such a sense of achievement. I smiled. I had to have help walking to the truck. I couldn't reach my feet to take off my shoes, and changing clothes was out of the question, at least for a few minutes. Right then all I wanted was a burger and a beer. I'd earned it.
I'm often presented with the question from friends and family: "why would anyone put himself through something like that?" And I still haven't come up with a good answer. It's hard to put it into words, impossible maybe. I just smile as my mind drifts off, remembering how I felt at that very moment.
