The Dirt Field

This past Sunday was the Shenandoah Mountain 100, a one-hundred mile bike race through the mountains of Virginia. I did the race for the first time last year with Bobby, but decided to fly solo this year. The Log Posse came out in full, with Steve joining me in the race and the rest of the Posse providing moral support and volunteering at one of the six aid stations along the course.

Log Posse headquarters. Photos compliments of Mike, Log Posse Magnate.

In the interest of keeping this race report a manageable length, I’ll break it up into a rough synopsis of my status at each of the checkpoints, as well as at the beginning and the end, followed by a summary of the overall race. If it still takes forever to read, I’m sorry. It took forever to ride.

The Start: In 2008, we started in a huge pack in the middle of the field; this year, the start was packed onto the road running directly in front of our campsite. Steve and I lined up right by the Log Posse tent, towards the middle of the start group, and rolled out slowly with the hundreds of other riders. I had hoped to start closer to the front (ideally in sight of Sue Haywood, so I could desperately try to hang onto her wheel for the first 0.02 miles), but a long line for the bathroom and my slowness in getting ready killed that dream and left me starting back with the masses.

Aid Station #1: This was supposed to be a waterbottle exchange checkpoint ten miles into the race, but it was clearly operating in stealth. I kept looking at my clock and wondering why I hadn’t seen the aid station yet when I had been riding hard for over an hour, until a guy next to me explained, “Um, we passed it a while ago.” Sweet. I guess it was a good thing I had conserved fluids by forgetting to hydrate, since it was going to be another twenty or so miles until a refill.

Aid Station #2: I came into this checkpoint with a group of riders and, determined to not be the slow one that hung around too long and got dropped, I hauled over to the food/water table, inhaled five orange wedges, filled up my bottles, and rolled out. My plan worked; I reconnected with my riding friends and stuck with them through the next long climb. Too bad I didn’t actually take the time to properly hydrate, rest, or refuel. At least I only had sixty-nine miles left to go.

Aid Station #3: This checkpoint was packed with racers when I came through. I slathered on more chamois butter, nibbled a PB&J sandwich square, devoured a few pieces of watermelon, and swapped out my swampy gloves for a fresh pair. No part of me wanted to mess with the Clif Blocks or bars, the clean socks or jersey, or any of the other supplies stuffed in the drop bag I’d packed for that aid station. After spending roughly five minutes longer than I should have hanging around, I left the checkpoint alone.

Aid Station #4: The Log Posse was working this checkpoint, but by the time I rolled in, I was too dazed and fatigued to muster up much enthusiasm. All I remember is getting my bottles filled, drinking some Coke and eating a few Fig Newtons, watching a man slather a frighteningly large amount of chamois butter inside his spandex (EW), and then leaving. This was the beginning of my descent into hell; unfortunately, that descent actually involved almost non-stop ascending up to the next checkpoint.

Aid Station #5: Getting to this aid station took everything in me. The first fifty miles of the day were spent riding hard, spinning strong, and feeling only a bit sore and tired. From Checkpoint #4 on, my lower back hurt intensely and I felt like there was nothing but miles of climbing ahead of me (which was true). About five miles outside of Aid Station #5, I had to stop on a steep climb and stretch because I could not possibly keep going. I didn’t start moving until a guy walking his bike came by, at which point I walked with him until we both remounted and pushed on. At the actual checkpoint, I had more watermelon and part of a slice of pizza, which I ate while sitting in a little hunched ball in the grass. Volunteers kept asking me if I was doing okay and while I wanted to scream NO KILL ME NOW and then cry in their arms, I settled for a feeble, “Yes.” It was pretty cold up there on the mountain, so I eventually got up and left the checkpoint to enter the next set of crushing climbs. It was still ninety minutes before the cut-off for leaving the aid station without a light, so I decided to skip the extra baggage and go without. The only thing I took from my second drop bag at this station was another package of Power Bar Gel Blasts. So much for my meticulous preparation and packing.

Aid Station #6: As this was the final checkpoint of the day, I was overwhelmed with excitement when it appeared ahead on the road. I knew there were only twelve miles left to ride and, even though at least half of that was climbing, I still felt optimistic about reaching the end. I talked to a friend who was volunteering at the station, sipped some more Coke, and pedaled out enthusiastically. That lasted for about ten minutes, until my back started complaining again and my knees joined the party and it seemed like the climbing would never end. One guy actually threw a shouting, swearing fit about the horror and unfairness of it all after we turned a corner and saw another climb winding into the distance. I felt his pain, but it wasn’t exactly like the race promoters put the mountain there.

The Finish: I rode the downhills into the finish area like a freaking bat out of hell, which was cool since I am not usually the best descender. Even the other riders on the trail yielded to my requests to pass, since I was clearly not going to go anything other than breakneck speed. When I passed the grassy area where Steve had his aerial peeing display last year (I could explain, but really that says it all), I knew the end was so close. Crossing the finish line felt blurry and awesome and long overdue, yet surprisingly quick in a Can’t-Believe-I’m-Done-Already kind of way. I smashed the finishers’ gong with everything I had left in me (nothing), collected my pint glass, and that was the end.

At the finish. I love the completely dead, empty look in my eyes.

The Good: For the first six hours, I was riding strong and hard with the guys. My legs felt good, I rocked the technical sections and cleaned parts that herds of men were walking, and I rode steadily up the climbs and quickly on the flats. When it came to the downhills, I was so thrilled to not be climbing and so eager to keep up a fast pace that I bombed through everything, even the loose, rocky sections with drops. One guy at a checkpoint even told me that I “descend beautifully” and another guy on the trail commented that I was riding faster and stronger than “seventy other guys back there.” Compliments like that felt pretty awesome, especially when they were about parts of my riding that aren’t often my strongest.

Last year, my biggest problem was a crippling fear of riding on loose, off-camber descents along drop-offs. It was so bad in places that I had to walk just to get through sections without panicking. This time around, I didn’t even look at the drop-offs; I rode carefully, enjoyed the flow of the downhills, and followed the wheel of the guy in front of me. It was a big boost to my confidence, especially when I was able to pull off technical descents despite being really fatigued. By the end of the race, I was in a swamp of discomfort and exhaustion, but I stayed on the bike, crawled steadily up the climbs, and rolled cleanly through the descents.

I was also lucky enough to not have a single crash, mechanical, flat, or cramp during the entire day.

The Bad: From shortly after Aid Station #4 until halfway to Aid Station #6, I hunched on the bike in survival mode and struggled to just keep turning the pedals. When riders would pass and ask how I was doing, it took everything to not cry and instead say cheerfully through gritted teeth, “I’m in a world of hurt. It’s GREAT! And you?” Going so slowly also meant that I rode almost entirely alone along long, empty fireroads. It felt very desolate and while I knew I was not going to quit, the thought was definitely in my head.

Eating and drinking also presented a problem. I was working so hard through the whole ride that food sounded terrible and even drinking was a chore, which meant that I was continually undernourished and slowly trying to force down chewy blobs of energy food. If I had managed to eat more, the suffer-fest would probably have been somewhat reduced.

The Ugly: One guy I was riding with noticed the dirt streaked all over my face and commented that I looked like a guy from Kiss or a freaky circus clown. He was right.

Couldn’t Have Done It Without You: The event volunteers. The Log Posse. The awesome racers I rode with who kept me pedaling all day long. Bobby, who had to share a tent and an air mattress with the most fidgety, restless sleeper on the planet. My mother, who kept Kobe and Scoot entertained all weekend. My father, who used our absence to fix all of the home repair issues with our condo. Sue Haywood, for providing tips on improving my technical skills and for approaching me after the race (and thrilling me and the whole Log Posse in the process). Megan, the waitress at Bob Evans who is forever scarred by having to serve the Log Posse a post-camping breakfast feast in which Arne tried to “shoehorn” (thanks for the word, Steve) an entire other meal into his order as a replacement for a small side of eggs. The maker of Handi-Wipes.

Sue Haywood, fresh and perky after winning the race, and me, drained and filthy.

Final Time: 11 hours, 11 minutes. My goal was to finish in under 12 hours. I am satisfied.