100 miles. 23,000 feet. 100 miles. 23,000 feet. Just numbers Chris, numbers. There is a wonderful and unavoidable component to these ultra events for me, the unknown. For the known, I plan (my crew would argue with me here). For the unknown I simply remind myself to 1) roll on the way down, and 2) get back on my feet quickly. Everything is temporal, so enjoy, it will be gone shortly.
Heather (#1 crew and #2 pacer) and I drive from Boston to Staunton, Virginia on Thursday, October 2 because my plan dictates I should start the Grindstone 100 well rested. It is also part of my much needed taper. I have spent the last 14 days pedaling from Vermont to California helping a friend of mine train for the Furnace Creek 508. I believe tapering is a good idea for ultra events, so I officially taper for 3 days. The first day I taper by flying back to Boston from LA. Second day by packing my running gear, and the third day driving to Virginia. Shortly I will find out if biking for two weeks is suitable training for running 100 miles.
This is my first attempt at running 100 miles and I have the following information somehow in my head from talking with other runners and what I have read online. The run doesn't start till mile 70. Watch out for bears. 23,000 feet is going to destroy your quads. You will need to replace your knees if you run that far. Take it very slow and conserve your energy. Walk all uphills. Drink milk if your stomach doesn't feel good. Stop if it hurts. You’re too old to run that far. Run it one step at a time – no kidding, as if I had wings and the choice to fly for a couple of the more difficult miles.
The Grindstone 100 starts at 6 pm on Friday night at Camp Shenandoah, Virginia. Check-in is at 1pm and we listen to the race director Clark Zealand talk about race details but it is David Horton's description of the course that starts my nervous leg twitching. David ran the course earlier this year and spares no details about the elevation challenges with phrases like “you will lose you lunch here” and “here you will find some fine climbing opportunities.” David is known for some drama but with 23,000 feet ahead of me I can't imagine he is too far from accurate in his descriptions and warnings.
Heather and I go back to the bed and breakfast. I fill my Camelback and change into my running gear. Heather urges me to leave the cold weather running gear with her and most of the food I am packing. She wants to meet me 23 miles into the run at the third aid station. I explain that I am more comfortable carrying these things because there is always a chance that we won’t meet at the aid station, and I can’t risk not having food or warm clothing while running cold mountain trails at night. She squares me up and insists that she will be there. Hesitantly, I return the food and clothing to the support bags.
I struggle with my gators in the parking lot before the start. Gators provide protection from rocks and other trail debris by covering the area from my lower shin to the top of my shoe. I can't seem to find the right material for a securing the strap across the bottom of the shoe that the rocky trail won't wear through within the first 5 miles. I end up searching the back of my car, finding and securing a steel fishing leader across the bottom of each shoe to keep the gators in place and working properly. Foolishly, I am worried about only two things 1) keeping my feet in good condition and 2) keeping my stomach healthy. I figure if my feet remain in good shape, I can walk if necessary and if I can eat and drink I can continue walking for a very long time. Sounds reasonable doesn't it?
Monte (Crew #2 and Pacer #1) drives from Richmond, arriving 10 minutes before the race starts. We have time for quick greetings, a laugh, and a picture. The race starts and I run off into the woods like a good little monkey on my way into the banana trees. My strategy is to run at a moderate pace and walk all steep uphills. Conserve for as long as possible and then damage control when the unknown comes to play. The field spreads out quickly and I find myself running in between two groups. The slower group requires me to be patient and the faster one requires me to chance burning too much fuel and muscle early. I opt for the faster group and stick to the tail of a 3 person pack.
Mentally, I am optimistic but I know this will not last. On any given day concentrating for 30 minutes is difficult for me and I cannot imagine keeping focus for 30 hours. My mind drifts a bit but the steepness of the grade and rocky trail bring me back quickly. My thoughts are all over the place and I try to reign them in. I find with some thoughts I am running easier than with others. I decide to manipulate this in my favor and begin picturing and reciting the word Joy. Each time the running becomes difficult or I feel challenged, I focus on the word Joy. This works, or appears to momentarily, and I bound along down the bunny trail.
After 15 miles our pack of 4 has thinned. Two runners accelerated, Larry and I continue to clip along at a good pace. Larry is a talker and on these long runs I don't mind being a listener. In addition, Larry's eyes are not good in the dark and the reflectors on the back of my Camelback make it easy for him to follow me. Larry lets me know that he has a tendency to get off track in these longer runs but the course is extremely well marked with pink streamers and reflector tape. My night vision strategy consists of a Princeton Tech headlamp and a Cat Eye bicycle torch (love this word). I quickly find holding the Cat Eye in my hand gives steady light on the trail while the headlamp bounces too much like a Blair Witch movie. I opt for the hand torch and return the headlamp to my pack.
Larry has experience in the 100 mile range and I listen intensely to any advice. I ask many questions and Larry has answers. The pace is good for both of us and we chat about everything from politics to pain.
We run into the third aid station at mile 23. There are many people there and so many headlamps that I am blinded and start stumbling around. Larry goes immediately for his drop bag and I begin looking for my crew. It is dark and I see many faces in my light. I call “Heather”, “Monte”. “H, where are you?” I yell, “Hello, is my crew the only one asleep?”. “I lost my crew, is anyone missing a runner?” No response. I walk to-and-fro calling their names. Larry stops me finally and asks what is going on? I explain that my crew isn't here. He shrugs his shoulders. The lady next to me hears this and asks what I need. I say, “I need my crew”. She laughs. I laugh. Then I realize, she understands what I haven't yet accepted. My crew is not here but she is. I stare at her for a long time. Not in the eyes but in awe. She is patient with me and realizes I am way too focused and looking for the little leprechaun at the end of the rainbow. At 23 miles, I don't know it but I am starting to lose mental dexterity (some would argue that I have never had any but that is part of another discussion).
Finally after a full minute of disbelief, the words come out of my mouth, “electrolytes and body glide”. She opens a large Tupperware container and there are Hammer electrolytes. I open the bottle and spill 5 or so into my 1950's coin gizmo. Now for the hard part. I see the body glide but this goes on parts of the body that people, yes runners included, don't like to share. She looks at me and says, “go ahead, I won't tell my husband”. I open the body glide and apply it liberally to my inner thighs which are already starting to chafe. I want to hug her. I want her to understand she has just enabled me to continue, but there is no socially acceptable phrase or hand shake for such kindness. Her generosity comes at a critical time. At 23 miles this isn't a deal breaker; emotionally, however, her kindness when I am absent my crew is the complete world to me. I thank her with my feeble words and run to Larry who has waited through all of this. “Let's go”.
For the next 5 miles, 1000 thoughts go through my head. “I knew I should have never listened to Heather”, etc. My mind spews blame and chatter in every direction. Now I need to keep my thoughts in check or they may find an excuse that I didn't have warm clothing or the right food in order to continue running through the night. I bring Joy into my thoughts but this gives no relief. I take inventory of only the necessary and conclude that I have all I need to get to mile 50. I tell myself “Run Chris, just run”.
Larry and I continue our discussion. He apologizes for talking and I keep reassuring him that it is helping pass the time and mileage. Larry is older and has more experience than I in running ultras and in life. He tells me about businesses he had owned and run. I listen and focus on making sure my feet are finding their way over root and rock. At one point, I lift my foot to clear a chunk of ledge but my toe catches the underside and I feel a hot flash of pain in my right shin and ankle. I block it out by trying to focus intensely on Larry's words.
We run through aid station 4 at mile 31 with me eating salted baked potato and anything else that looks healthy and caloric. Larry has a Hammer pill program that works for him. He won't eat any food for the first 50 miles so I eat his share at the aid stations. He will only drink liquid and take a number of different kinds of Hammer pills to the tone of his watch alarm every hour. I also use the pill breaks to get electrolytes into my system.
Aid station 5, mile 36. Heather is waiting and very apologetic. She moves sheepishly towards me. “Fired, is there another crew that would like employment?”, I ask the crowd. I introduce Larry and let Heather know that another crew took care of me at the earlier aid station. I am feeling relatively good and tell her not to fret over what was missed. Make sure you get me some “body glide” from Monte and I will need milk when I see you again at mile 51. I also tell her to get plenty of rest as the course is very hilly and I am going to need someone to carry me later. My hamstrings are very tight so I lay down on the ground and have Heather stand on each one for about a minute. I also grab “The Stick” and try to crank out the ever growing cramp in my right calf without success. The hug feels great and for a moment I close my eyes, forget about running and curve into the warmth. Larry is waiting. “Let's go”.
On top of a long uphill we encounter a runner sleeping on the trail. Larry stops and asks if he is alright. He responds positively. Larry encourages him to get up and continue running with us. His name is Brian. He is dressed in shorts and a long sleeve shirt, he is under-dressed for the 40 degree night and visibly shaking. Larry chats with Brian and we find out this is also his first 100. On the uphills Larry and Brian walk faster than me, my pace is a bit quicker on the downhills so I take the lead on the flats. We pass through the night slowly marked by hourly watch chimes and scrambling feet. I am very alert.
We arrive at aid station #7, Reddish Knob. We have to run ½ mile up to the top of the knob and stamp our numbers with a special hole punch. The volunteer at the aid station says she will refill my Camelback while I run up and stamp my number. Larry, Brian and I run up the hill. There is a camera crew on top taking pictures. I grab the punch and stamp Larry's number. I reach for my Camelback and realize my mistake. My number is on my Camelback. I look at Larry. He smiles. Shit! I start running back down the hill. It doesn't hurt much but my legs have 50 miles on them and there is no such thing as a couple free steps. I get back down to the aid station and grab my Camelback. I run back up the hill and stamp the number and get my picture taken with the sunrise on the mountains in the background.
Monte and Heather are waiting. We do a quick exchange of greetings and Heather is quick with a hug and food offer. Monte is without his usual running belt and is carrying a plastic water bottle filled with colorful fluid. I look at him and know better than to ask questions. Monte gives me a serious look followed by his Southern smile and we start walking back up the hill from the aid station. I tell him that my ankle is really starting to bother me and he will have to kick me twice to get me motivated. It is great to see him and I am grateful to be running with him for the next 16 miles. As we crest the top of the hill I start shuffling. Monte runs along side of me and we talk about everything but nothing important.
Several miles later, Monte completely stops in mid trail and says “listen”. I stop. I hear nothing. Silence. Pure uninterrupted silence. He smiles. I look over at him and slowly feel the smile creep fully across my face. I don't want to leave the silence; it is restful, warm, and filling. I close my eyes for a moment and find eternity. I open my eyes, Monte nods forward and I return to the noise. Pain is noisy. Noisy to my body in sensation and noisy in my mind with complaint.
I want to run but the radiating pain in my ankle is becoming severe. I apologize to Monte for not being able to run. Walking with Monte isn't a bad way to spend a day but my intention is to run as much of this 100 miles as possible. My ankle is trying to make this decision for me and I rebuke it. I struggle to shuffle along several more times but each time end up walking. Monte has brought a “pick me up” surprise and pulls a piece of gum from his pocket. This is a special electrolyte gum and I chomp on it as my ankles continues biting into my shin. I continue the walk/shuffle/walk routine to aid station #11 at mile 66.
Heather and Monte have the first of several private crew discussions. I hear the word “ankle” and start thinking conspiracy. I gave Heather my word before starting that I would be reasonable if my condition deteriorated to a state that I was damaging myself. What I didn't consider was my ability to make any type of sound judgment would deteriorate quicker than my physical state. This is exactly what is happening. My ankle is throbbing and I realize every minute I remain at the aid station the higher the possibility I will not be leaving it. I stand up and brace myself. I limp a couple of steps. Heather is going go replace Monte as my pacer for the remainder of the run. I say “Let's go” and I start to shuffle down the trail.
Heather easily catches up to me. I look over at her to smile and show her I am not in enough pain to stop. I look over but never get to my smile. She is wearing some weird cornucopia of clothing. I look again, up and down and then back to the trail. She starts explaining that she left her running gear back at the bed and breakfast and has borrowed clothing from the other runners’ crew members. I shake my head. For a moment I realize my ankle may not be the only issue working against me and my crew. I look over again and let her know she looks great in pink running shoes.
The next aid station is less than 6 miles and I am struggling to shuffle. Finally, I submit to walking and try to make up in conversation what I cannot in leg speed. Heather asks about the pain and I talk about anything but my ankle. She backs off the questions and we move along the trail. She says the advice given to her about pacing is to “stay behind me and shut up”. Two guys gave her the advice and I laugh when I hear it.
We make it to aid station #12. We are 72 miles into the run and I immediately sit on a chair and put my leg high up on the back of another chair. The guys at the aid station are fantastic. They get me soup and fill my Camelback. My right ankle and shin are very swollen and painful to the touch. I look at Heather and her eyes are pleading me to surrender. I look at my ankle. I remember the words I have heard “a 100 mile run really starts at 70 miles”. I think to myself, nice work Chris, you made it two miles. This is a remote aid station. It is 1pm Saturday afternoon and I have been moving for 19 hours. I ask the guys what stopping here would mean other than relief.
“The earliest a truck is leaving this aid station is 8pm tonight”. Seven hours. My body is already starting to chill and I haven't been here for 5 minutes. I could sit by the fire for 7 hours. I consider my options. I ask them what the topography is to the next aid station 8 miles from here. A long uphill, some flat and then a short and steep downhill. Uphill doesn't hurt my ankle nearly as much as the downhills. I look at Heather. She growls. I open my Camelback and take out three extra strength Bayer aspirin. 1500mg of courage. I gulp them down with some noodle soup and look back at Heather.
“I need your help”. She listens. “I just took 1500 mgs of aspirin”. In 5 minutes, I need you to lift my leg down off the chair and get under my shoulder to help support my weight. She shakes her head. “Listen”, I say, “If it doesn't work we can always come back here and get a ride”. She shakes her head. It takes me the other 4 minutes to convince her and we are up and moving. Step. Stop. Breathe. I repeat this sequence several times before my ankle reminds me with certainty that we are not going anywhere. I stop. I look around in desperation. One of the aid station volunteers is stirring the fire. I ask him for his stick. He and the other volunteer scramble to find me a better one but I am quickly running out of time and forcefully say “just give me the burnt one you have”. He shrugs his shoulders and hands it over. I have Heather under my left shoulder and use the fire stick as a cane to support my right side. We limp, one slow step at a time out of the aid station and down the dirt road.
Aid Station #13 is 8 miles away. At some point I drop the burnt stick and reduce my reliance on Heather to a conversation. Rules are that your pacer cannot sherpa food or gear. For several steps I think Heather sherpa'd the majority of my weight. I walk with a limp and then begin to shuffle. My ankle is screaming. I pretend not to understand the language and then my ankles gets smart and starts speaking in tongues. I retort by starting to run. I am willing to go to a point of complete physical failure if necessary to prove a point to my ankle.
I am ahead of Heather who cannot see the tears streaming down my cheeks. Pain is a universal sound and there is a symphony playing in my body. I allow the pain space but refute any complaining. I push forward but know I cannot keep jogging under these conditions. I return to walking and we enter aid station #13. Monte greets us and I want milk and food. Heather and Monte scramble to find the milk but it is back in the car. I complain but without sincerity. I am entertaining myself and happy to simply be taking a break.
It is very hilly between Aid Station 13 and 14. Hilly is misleading. It is a very long uphill and then a steep downhill. I struggle and my walking slows. Heather is very patient and keeps me entertained. We chat about nothing memorable and she is skillful in trying to make me realize I should stop. Several runners who stopped running long ago pass me walking. I shuffle past them a couple of times on the long uphill but eventually they pass me and disappear. It is very dark and the temperature has dropped substantially. I am walking and stopping. Sitting at times on tree stumps or rock walls. Heather is dressed for running and the slow pace and frequent stops has her cold and shivering.
Aid Station at Dry Gulch Gap is populated with a big fire and good spirited volunteers. Monte and Heather have another private conference. I stand near the fire and look deep into the embers. The warmth feels great and those parts of my body that are able, relax. Monte comes over with a very serious look on his face. I fear he will ask me to stop. As a fellow runner he simply says “you are doing well, keep it up”. I can see he thinks differently but knows there is no stopping me if I do not want it to end here. I drink some noodles soup and eat some food. Over the last 5 miles my stomach has said “no” to any liquids and now Heather and Monte tell me I need to drink. They tell me I am dehydrated and I know they are right. I drink the broth from another noodle soup and step away from the fire. The cold hits me with such abruptness that I stop. Looking at the dark path ahead I call for Heather, “Let's Go”.
I limp up the trail and the noise disappears behind me. Heather is by my side and trying to remain positive. I am not happy keeping her and Monte supporting me under such conditions but the only alternative is to stop. The next nine miles are very long. The darkness isn't an issue as much as the cold and hills. I don't remember much changing during these miles. At one point we crest the top of a trail and see lights below in the valley. I sigh a quick relief that the end is in sight. We start a very steep descent littered with gravel. Traction is almost impossible and with the condition of my ankle and tired legs I verbalize every slip and almost fall with noise. We traverse this steep road knowing that a fall could easily end the run. My worry is that if Heather falls it would take me an hour to return with help. I am sure she is thinking the same. Finally, we follow the markers onto single track trail.
We arrive at Aid Station #15: Fall Hollow. Monte is there and he reminds me I am almost there. Heather is now looking haggard from the cold, hills, night, and worrying about me. I sit for a moment. I get up. “Let's go”. I don't feel excited or relieved to know there are only five miles remaining. I am numb to most all sensation. “Number 33 leaving” I announce. The guys says “ok” and marks his clipboard. He says “The remainder of the course is downhill”. I suddenly feel relief. I look at Heather and smile.
We walk across the road and down through the ravine. The next five miles should take less than hour. Instead they last forever. My mind is completely insane. At the “1 mile to go” sign I think the last aid station was really the 100 mile marker and this sign will inform us of the joke. It is very hilly and I walking so slow I am convinced there is actually no end and we have just been walking in a circle since the sign.
We are following pink streamers and we come to a point where we cannot determine the direction. There are several streamers near a tall igloo looking briar patch. I shine my light into the patch and think I see a corrugated tunnel opening. Heather is meanwhile shining here light in the other direction looking for the next marker, when I announce “I am going in”. I get on my hands and knees and begin to crawl. She hurries over and grabs my leg I pull, “let me go” I say. She persists and I surrender and retract my body from the briars. I am standing myself up and she says, “This way”. I follow but not confident in any direction but the one I was taking. We walk for another 100 yards and she shines her light on a pink streamer. I realize I am conscious but only in a way that would bring me quickly to a Darwin award.
We come to the parking lot of Camp Shenandoah. Monte jumps out of his truck and greets us. The finish line is within 100 feet but I don't even look for it. I just hug Monte as if I hadn't seen him in years. We stand around for a minute and then with one of them under each arm I walk back across the line I crossed 32 hours earlier. Clark congratulates us. I hug and kiss the totem pole. I hug Heather and thank her for making the completion of this possible. I hug Monte and thank him for supporting me many hours longer than any of us thought we would need.
I walk inside the Camp Shenandoah lodge. Drink something warm and let Heather and Monte know I am treating them to a well deserved breakfast at the Waffle House. Monte declines and would rather sleep in his truck for a couple hours and return to Richmond than join us for breakfast. Can you blame him? Heather declines until I threaten to drop her off at the bed and breakfast and go without her.
I double order everything at Waffle House and proceed to eat it all. Heather eats some hash browns and we drive to the bed and breakfast. The water in the bath tub is dark brown but I don't care. I try several times to get out of the tub and finally resolve myself to throwing a leg over the side and dragging the rest of my carcass onto the floor. I crawl into bed and finally get some relief.
Two months have passed and my ankle has healed but my back has still not recovered it's health. It feels like the run happened years ago or that I just read a really good story about someone else who ran 100 miles.
------------------------- HEATHER'S POST ------------------------------
“L on Cattleman. “ It’s noon on Friday afternoon, and we’re navigating the country roads outside of Staunton, making our way to Camp Shenandoah with the aid of directions that I had copied onto the back page of Talking Hands, my weekend reading. The roads wind lazily through fertile fields, and we remark on their earthily evocative names: Slinky Hollow. Glebe School Road. Trimble Hill Way. We pass through a pair of totem poles and arrive at Camp Shenandoah, the start and end point of the Grindstone 100.
There’s an air of anticipation and excitement inside the camp. Chris signs in, picks up his race packet, and hops on the scale for his ceremonial weigh-in. 168 pounds. After checking out the buffet—“too much mayo,” I pronounce--we find a seat and wait for the pre-race instructional meeting to begin. The race director, Clark Zealand, speaks enthusiastically about the event before turning the talk over to David Horton. Horton launches into a lengthy description of the course. I haven’t really studied the course map, so the references to gaps and knobs are lost on me. It just sounds tough. Long climb after long climb. Horton can’t seem to emphasize enough how difficult the course is; just when you think the cruising section must be coming, he warns about another impossibly steep section. I can’t tell how much of his presentation is pure swagger, but Horton seems intent to make it known that this is not going to be a gentle run through the hills. “I expect that only half of you will finish. Which will it be?” It’s one of those fabled “look to the left, look to the right” speeches, delivered with a twang and a mischievous twinkle. Horton is Horton and enjoying every moment of it.
We retrace our route and head back to Staunton for a final “real” meal of pizza and a couple hours of pre-race packing. The race begins at 6:00 pm, and at about 4:30, we pack up the car and head back to Camp Shenandoah. After arriving in the parking lot, Chris directs his focus to repairs on his gaiters. Plumbing his fishing tackle kit, he devises an ersatz foot strap; it’s pretty clear that it won’t last the entirety of the 100 miles, perhaps not even 5, but performing gaiter surgery is preferable to contemplating the enormous magnitude of the mileage that lies ahead.
Minutes before the race begins, Monte arrives and bear hugs are exchanged. He’s hightailed it up from Richmond to see Chris at the start and it’s great to see him there. A few pre-race photos, a prayer is delivered, and the race begins.
Monte and I clamber up with the rest of the crowd to catch some photos at Mile 1 and ½--the last opportunity to see the runners before their first accessible aid station at nearly 23 miles. Chris passes and looks strong. Chris’s sciatica had been paining him mercilessly for weeks, and I am convinced that if he makes it through the first 25 miles of the race, he will finish all 100 miles. Although it’s encouraging to see him looking comfortable at this early stage, I’m concerned that the next time I saw him, the race might be over for him.
Monte and I return to the B&B in Staunton and, for the first time, pore over the list of aid stations and directions. We study the “Horton adjusted” times, and figure, conservatively, that Chris won’t be arriving at the 1st aid station until 11:30 or so. We agree to meet at the Camp Shenandoah parking lot at 10:15, and I spend the next couple of hours anxiously, envisioning of cold, dark trails as I prepare peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches in our comfortable suite. Monte and I reconvene and I lead him, slowly and haltingly, to the first aid station. We deliberate over a couple of turns along the way; arriving at the aid station, we discover the terrible cost of our squandered minutes. We’ve misjudged Chris’s speed. We ask at the aid station whether Chris has come through. 11:02, their log reports. It’s 11:12, and the next accessible aid station is a full 12 miles farther. Monte and I are furious at ourselves and I’m despondent at having missed him. The temperature is dropping and I have all of Chris’s warm clothes—not to mention all his food. It’s a sickening feeling.
Monte and I consult the Horton timeline and we agree that he’ll go back to Staunton to get some rest and we’ll meet again at 5:30 to take a single vehicle to Mile 51, where Monte will join Chris as a pacer. I drive tentatively along dark Forest Service roads; I have about 3 hours to cover just 12 miles, but the roads are unlit and the signage is poor. I’m relieved when I see a caravan of vehicles and I can simply follow the traffic to the next aid station, North River Gap.
The scene at North River Gap is festive. The aid station is well-lit, and a number of people are seated around a campfire. I pull out a Crazy Creek chair and sit so close to the fire that the glue on my wool clogs begins to melt. Every time a runner approaches, their number is called out and the aid station comes alive. During the extended intervals in between, conversation flows around the fire. There’s an inviting intimacy to the local ultra community; all of the other crew members and pacers seem to know each other and their respective runners. These guys around the fire are professionals. One runner—the eventual winner in the women’s division—has three crew members on hand, one of whom is armed with a spreadsheet detailing her projected times and needs at the various aid stations. Mile 38? Tortillas with hummus, thank you very much. A cool towel at Mile 66? Don’t mind if I do…
The preparation and efficiency of some of these teams is mindblowing; they spring into action with the alacrity and efficiency of pit crews. Declaring my rookie status, I seek advice for supporting Chris as crew and pacer. I’ve been chatting with two very friendly West Virginians, Adam and Bill, and Adam doesn’t hesitate for a second when he issues his advice. “Don’t speak unless spoken to.” I can’t help erupting in laughter. Chris isn’t the only one whose endurance will be tested.
Chris rolls into North River Gap at around 2:30—right on schedule. He takes one glance at me and pronounces to the aid station at large: “My crew is fired. Anyone want to crew for me?” 38 miles in, and he’s yucking it up. Outstanding. Not so outstanding in the hydration department however. He weighs in at 162, and recognizes that he’s down serious calories. After devouring some organic pop-tarts and filling his pack with bars, Chris throws himself down on the rocks and directs me to walk on his hamstrings. The sciatica hasn’t backed down and Chris howls when I dig my full weight into him. In a moment, he’s back on his feet for a hug and then off again into the chilly Virginia night.
While waiting for Chris to arrive, I’ve been talking to a runner, Mario, who had decided to pull out of the race due to excruciating plantar fasciitis. I had agreed to give him a ride back to his car at Camp Shenandoah, and when Chris departs, Mario and I hurry to the car to begin the drive back. Mario assists with the directions and we launch into a meandering conversation about family, running, surfing, Maine. By the time I drop him off at Shenandoah, I realize that I’ll barely be able to make it back to the B&B before having to return to the camp for my appointed 5:30 meet-up with Monte.
Having already driven the route between Camp Shenandoah and Staunton, I strike a rather cavalier approach to directions on the way back. At the Cattleman turn, I strike incorrectly. Soon I find myself at unfamiliar intersections; I’m listening to a BBC report on the demographic pressures facing Israel’s economy and although the sound of the broadcast is comforting, my predicament is becoming more and desperate. I’m lost. Some combination of darkness, poor signage, poor judgment, and fatigue is conspiring against me. A potent feeling of dread descends upon me; for twenty minutes or so, I just drive, hoping that I will be deposited at a familiar turn or major road. At last, I encounter a sign to Staunton and eventually pick up a signal on my cell phone. Reaching Monte at his hotel, I issue a quick update on Chris’s progress and tell him I’ll meet him at Shenandoah as soon as I can.
I’ve lost a half-hour or so and it’s 5:10 by the time I arrive at the B&B to collect my bag of running gear. Canvassing the room, I notice some items that Chris might want: some more of his now-beloved organic pop-tarts and an extra shirt. I rush out of the room and speed off to meet Monte. After some quick deliberations as to which vehicle to take, we settle on Chris’s car. It’s all packed and I don’t want to risk leaving anything behind. (Cruel, cruel irony…)
Monte assures me that he knows a more direct route to Briary Gap (Mile 51) than following the directions station by station. I ask if he’s certain and then submit. I’m shaky from exhaustion and anxiety, chastened by my recent experience on backroads. I’m reluctant to deviate from the security of our official directions and I’m in no position to make directional judgments of my own. For the next half hour or so, we are skidding around turns, rattling on gutted Forest Service roads; I’m taking corners too fast and too tightly in places, making frequent apologies for what is truly reckless driving. Monte remains unfazed and encouraging; I have the impression, perhaps misplaced, that he would be driving even more aggressively and I try not to disappoint. With dawn upon us, the visibility has improved, making the conditions a bit less spooky but just as harrowing.
When we finally arrive at Briary Gap, we dash out of the car and rush up to a group of people seated in lawn chairs, frantic to learn whether Chris has already come through. We are furious to discover that there is no log of runners, no way to confirm that Chris is still en route. Monte and I start up the hill, hoping that we’ll encounter Chris or at least get word of his progress. The sun is rising over the valley and we stop to take in the divine moment. We shoot a playful video for Chris about our evening of carousing and a few minutes later, there he is. I practically jump him in my excitement and relief. I scamper down to the car and dig furiously for supplies, snapping at Monte to get Chris what he needs. Even after some scavenging and snippiness, I confirm that the milk is back in Staunton. Curses are uttered. Still, the runner looks good and he seems to be in decent spirits.
Monte and Chris head off down the trail together, and I feel a wave of relief—after an extremely hectic couple of hours, I can recharge a bit before assuming my pacing duties. Everything is less harrowing by daylight. The race opportunities for me to consider my night anxiety—the sense of dread that sometimes engulfs me when I am in an unknown place after dark. It’s an almost atavistic response; I’m not conscious of any particular fears or phobias, but I’m acutely conscious of feeling exposed and uncomfortable. I remember having the same experience during Death Division; some of the scenes during the night haunted me, but arriving on the scene the next day, the whole event seemed less disturbing, somehow manageable.
I’m more buoyant mentally, but still physically shaky, as I visit the local mom-and-pop grocery store in search of milk and treats (for runner) and hot coffee (for pacer). Score some homemade apple bread (quite good) to accompany the coffee (quite bad), and with purchases in tow, make my way to the North River aid station. About a half hour or so after I arrive, I figure I might as well dress for running. I walk back to the car and canvassed the backseat and trunk. Sheer panic. No gear bag. Has the bag made its way into Monte’s truck when we were deciding which vehicle to take? Have I simply left in on the ground of the Camp Shenandoah parking lot? Could it be back at the B&B? My mind is racing, and after all of the frantic rushing the night before, I’m not confident that I have time to drive to Staunton and back before Chris and Monte make it to the aid station. I have the volunteers radio to Shenandoah to see whether the bag has turned up in the parking lot. No luck. Not knowing what to do, and not willing to risk being absent once again, I start asking around for a pair of running shoes in my size. Amazingly, one of the girls at the aid station has a pair, takes them off her feet, and hands them to me. (In retrospect, what is even more amazing is the distorted sense of urgency I attached to the request; given my lack of sleep and the drama of the night before, the run (and my attendant pacing duties) had assumed an epic quality.) I was determined to run, even if it meant doing so in borrowed shoes, borrowed shorts, an oversized t-shirt of Chris’s, and a borrowed fuel belt. No Camelbak, no jog bra, no high-tech synthetics. Ragamuffin crew transformed into ragamuffin pacer.
When Chris and Monte finally arrive, I pull Monte aside to explain my predicament in the hopes that he can track down my bag and hook me up with my own gear at the next station. We’re whispering, but Chris takes one look at my Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader shorts and the jig is up. I confess to missing my gear. Chris fuels and Monte warns me that Chris has been having trouble with his ankle. He’ll continue but we’ll keep it under close watch.
It’s about noon when we start off from mile 66. Chris seems upbeat but it quickly becomes clear that he is pushing through serious pain. We jog through some flat stretches and he manages to disguise the pain. At times, however, Chris walks slowly and laboriously, clearly in agony but trying to subdue the pain. By mile 72, we enter a crew-inaccessible aid station where Chris sits down to assess his situation and take some soup and liquids. His ankle is swollen and in excruciating pain; he looks almost faint from the severity of the pain. After taking a couple of aspirin, Chris discusses “evac” options—none anytime soon. Despite my urgings to DNF, he resolves to keep going, at least until the next road access. He hobbles out of the aid station, supported on one side by my shoulder and on the other by a crutch crudely fashioned from a stick. Still 28 miles to go, and he can barely walk—let alone run—without physical support. I know that it would be tremendously disappointing, but pulling out of the race seems to be the only reasonable option.
Chris hobbles, limps, but eventually forces a jog that he is able to sustain for stretches in the flats. The afternoon is sunny and bright and reminds me of Indian summer weekends in Maine when I was growing up, my parents doing end-of-the-summer cottage chores with the sound of distant chainsaws and loudspeakers announcing plays at the high school football game a half mile away. The afternoon passes slowly and, for Chris, agonizingly.
Mile 78 and Monte’s smiling face. Alas, no clothes or running shoes for me. Monte had driven back to Camp Shenandoah and exchanged vehicles but my bag wasn’t there. I’m ashamed to admit that Chris wasn’t the only surly one… More “negotiations with the insane” and on we go. It’s just a short stretch through the woods until we can meet up with Monte one last time at a road crossing before the first evening leg. We layer for the night, gobble down some more food, and then advance toward the hill.
My recollections from the next stretch are hazy, punctuated by isolated memories of clarity. A neighboring ridge bathed in the purplish light of dusk. Momentary fragments of trail. I am convinced that Chris will finish, his determination eclipsing his pain, but as I adjust and readjust my mileage calculations, it’s clear that we will be walking well into the night. I recognize that closer Chris is to the finish, the more difficult it will be for him to contemplate DNF. The math in an event like Grindstone lends itself to some strange mental contortions.
Despite the gorgeous moon that occasionally peeks through the trees, it feels very dark, and the headlamps start to play tricks on my eyes. We climb and climb, and then begin a long descent toward the valley. Seeing lights in the valley is encouraging, but we still have a long way to go. On one gravelly stretch, I lose my footing and fall awkwardly. The footing is terrible, but it’s difficult to control the downhill momentum—not to mention the instinct to break into a run and keep going until we reach the finish.
The night wears on and we arrive at mile 95 at 11:00 pm. Just five miles until the finish. Monte, heroically, is at the aid station once again waiting for us. We sit Chris down by the fire and Monte and I consult. We agree that he’s in tough shape—he’s gone from excruciating pain to dehydration to what appears to be silent near-delirium. At this stage, it’s not a question of exercising judgment; Chris won’t stop, so all we can do is support him. Chris takes a final last bite of soup and we start off on the final stretch.
It is hard to assess the toll that navigation takes on our eyes and minds. I’m constantly looking ahead, peering into the dark woods and hoping that my light will reflect off our next tag. These final miles are reputed to be downhill, but they are in fact somewhat rolling and the uphills are extremely demoralizing. Chris sits down from time to time and I try to force liquids and bites of Clif Bars upon him. His eyes develop a vacant appearance that terrifies me. I am convinced that he is going to pass out from dehydration or fatigue, and he is withdrawing into a mental space that I can’t access. Although I feel strong physically, my own mind starts to falter and I begin issuing reassurances to Chris that reflect my own fear and disorientation. We’re descending, and it seems like Camp Shenandoah must be just ahead, but the trail goes on. And on. Signs of firepits and still no finish. When we come across the “One mile left” sign, we have both entered a state of delirium. The sign is menacing, diabolical in its orange and black. Several groups have passed us, but there is no comfort in sharing the trail. It feels like they are fresh and frolicking and somehow taunting us. The last mile is interminable. Finally, we are skirting the pond across from the Camp, and even with the lodge lights beckoning at the finish, we are in a state of near paralysis. The destination is clear, but the trail eludes us. As I wander and cast my light around, looking for the next streamer, Chris spots a “tunnel.” “H, it’s a tunnel. I’m going in!” I rush over to him and try to convince him that crawling through a tunnel is not part of this particular adventure. He’s insistent, but I finally get him up off the ground. We walk insecurely but eventually find a marker. We walk slowly and approach the entrance to Shenandoah. With the final field ahead, we meet Monte and exchange hugs. With arms wrapped around each other, we tread to the finish. I have tears in my eyes well before Chris kisses the totem pole.
We’re jubilant, but jubilance doesn’t cure impaired mental capacities. We share some celebratory moments with Monte, but I know I’m in no state to drive and want to get off the road and back to the B&B without any stops. Chris demands Waffle House and there’s no dissuading him; we have food in the room, but he must have been fantasizing about Waffle House for miles. After thanking Monte and trying to convince him to stay in Staunton with us, we begin the drive back to town. I’m beyond shaky and a country intersection proves utterly mysterious. I stare down at my handwritten directions – “L on Cattleman”—then stare back at the road signs; although I try leaving the intersection, things keep looking unfamiliar, and I return back to the same intersection and repeat the exercise. This goes on for literally twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Chris is expressing wonder at the cow that has wandered into the road…
We finally arrive at Waffle House and Chris devours plate after plate of greasy goodness. Back at the B&B, Chris falls asleep in the chair, then in the tub, then finally in the bed. At last, sweet sleep.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Chet Warman Memorial Ride - Saturday October 20, 2008
Saturday October 20, 2008
Chet Warman dies Monday October 13, 2008 in a bicycle riding accident in Southeast Utah. Joe calls me with the news and I hang up with disbelief. I flew back to Boston. Bo flew back to New York. Joe flew back to Vermont. Chet was to drive the support truck back to Vermont as planned making several stops along the way to visit friends and take advantage of what is touted as the “best mountain biking on the planet” - Moab.
A final entry as I ride through the land of Chet today.
The ride today was organized in memory of Chet. One of Chet's favorite rides was Pittsfield to Silver Lake and back. Chet's sister Nancy is in Pittsfield and Joe is very generous with words, housing and food for all. I drive to Pittsfield. I have my mountain bike, my laptop, some pictures and a CD. I arrive at the Amee Farm in Pittsfield and the parking lot it is full of cyclists. I sit in my car for a couple of minutes and take in the scenery of mountains, trees and barns. I begin to open the door several times but stop myself not wanting to face Chet's death. Till this moment, I have kept the news wrapped in tissue paper away from my heart.
I open the car door and begin to prepare for the 35 mile ride. I start a conversation with the man next to me about air pressure, the age of our bikes and the good weather. Joe and Nancy pull up in the lower parking lot. I walk over to the edge of the ledge separating the two parking lots and wait. I am waiting to say hello to Joe but it is Nancy who looks over and says “Chris, I recognize you from the photos”. I climb down. We hug each other deeply and the sadness spills onto the gravel. It has been nearly a week since I heard the news. I hold Nancy until the two weeks spent traveling across the country with Chet returns and unwraps the tissue paper.
We all gather into the Amee Farm and Joe tells stories about Chet as we pass around pictures. There are about 60 people. I am in disbelief. I was expecting some people but this turnout is amazing. I didn't know Chet very long but I was under the impression that he lived more of a solitary, hermit life. This was not the case and I am looking at a crowd of cyclists ranging in age from 30 to 70. I glance over to Joe and say “for a hermit he had more friends than me”. Joe nods in agreement. Nancy finishes up by thanking everyone for coming and more importantly for being part of Chet's life.
We start to ride. I am in the back of the pack and pedal hard to stay up with the group. It is not long before the pack disappears ahead of me and I am pedaling alone. It is a fantastic cool and crisp fall day in Vermont. I like meeting people but riding alone for parts of today allowed me to reflect and feel connected to Chet and my surroundings. I imagine Chet pedaling on this road and enjoying the mountains and streams. I read the street names “Fort Defiance Hill” and “Mount Hunger Road” and understand why he loved to race up hills.
I pedal along and Chet's words come back to me. “Change gears”. “Always try to pedal with the least amount of effort”. “Change your position in the saddle to find better aerodynamics”. “Change the position of your feet to work different parts of your legs”. “Keep your mind active while riding”.
I catch a couple riders who are slower on the hills. I talk with Doug who is riding a Motobecane road bike. You don't see Motobecane bikes much anymore. Chet had a Motobecane and I ask Doug how he knew Chet. Doug tells me that Chet got him into biking several years ago. When he started riding he bought a bike from Chet and then graduated to this after becoming an enthusiast. I have a distinct feeling there are others in this crowd that Chet brought to the sport.
I meet Diane who is a member of the same bike club as Chet, the Killington Pico Cycling club. I tell her I never heard of the club before the ride but now it is etched into my mind for eternity. I tell her that the etching is so deep that every time I blink I see the back of a Killington Pico Cycling club Jersey. I spent many days riding behind Chet and that Jersey. If someone asks me what the country looks like from a bicycle I tell them that I don't remember much other than the back of this Jersey and Joe's shaved head. One night late in the first week of our riding I asked Chet if he would consider wearing a different Jersey the following day so I could convince myself that I was actually making some progress. He laughed, and then I said it was easier than asking Joe to wear a brunette wig.
Chet wasn't your ordinary person. He was special. If you spent any length of time with him you would not quickly forget him. He had what would be considered unpopular views on some topics and wasn't afraid to let you know if he disagreed with your thoughts. He didn't however insist that you adopt his view but did require that you at least heard what he had to say. He was passionate about what he believed and authentic in ways you don't often find today. Chet's views and opinions were not out of a book or dogmatic. He lived 64 years and similar to these Vermont mountains he pedaled was more pine tree than deciduous.
Most of all my feelings center around Chet's love for people. He wanted equality among people on every level in a way that if any of today's political candidates professed, I would vote for them in a minute. He reminded me on several occasions that he was still a hippie at heart. I believe he was a very sensitive man with deep feelings. Sensitivity of course is vulnerable to being hurt and Chet definitely built some good old fashion New England stone walls to protect himself from the pain people are capable of inflicting on each other. However, if you looked into his eyes when he was smiling, you could still see the wonder, innocence and glimmer of a five year old child.
On the ride back from Silver Lake I start chatting with another rider. His name is Bill. Bill never met Chet and doesn't know anyone else here today. Bill read about Chet in the paper and came out just to be supportive. Can you believe it? I ask him a second time to make sure I have the facts straight. Bill lives in Rutland and moved to Vermont from Massachusetts years ago. He is a dentist and thinks this area is as good as any in the United State. Today, I have to agree with him. Bill and I talk for a couple more miles and then he cycles ahead of me. I think to myself, even in death Chet is still bringing us together with biking – now that is giving.
There is always some time for payback. For all the nights I kept Chet awake blogging by clicking away on the keyboard, tonight he has kept me awake writing this till after 2AM – I miss him.
Chet Warman dies Monday October 13, 2008 in a bicycle riding accident in Southeast Utah. Joe calls me with the news and I hang up with disbelief. I flew back to Boston. Bo flew back to New York. Joe flew back to Vermont. Chet was to drive the support truck back to Vermont as planned making several stops along the way to visit friends and take advantage of what is touted as the “best mountain biking on the planet” - Moab.
A final entry as I ride through the land of Chet today.
The ride today was organized in memory of Chet. One of Chet's favorite rides was Pittsfield to Silver Lake and back. Chet's sister Nancy is in Pittsfield and Joe is very generous with words, housing and food for all. I drive to Pittsfield. I have my mountain bike, my laptop, some pictures and a CD. I arrive at the Amee Farm in Pittsfield and the parking lot it is full of cyclists. I sit in my car for a couple of minutes and take in the scenery of mountains, trees and barns. I begin to open the door several times but stop myself not wanting to face Chet's death. Till this moment, I have kept the news wrapped in tissue paper away from my heart.
I open the car door and begin to prepare for the 35 mile ride. I start a conversation with the man next to me about air pressure, the age of our bikes and the good weather. Joe and Nancy pull up in the lower parking lot. I walk over to the edge of the ledge separating the two parking lots and wait. I am waiting to say hello to Joe but it is Nancy who looks over and says “Chris, I recognize you from the photos”. I climb down. We hug each other deeply and the sadness spills onto the gravel. It has been nearly a week since I heard the news. I hold Nancy until the two weeks spent traveling across the country with Chet returns and unwraps the tissue paper.
We all gather into the Amee Farm and Joe tells stories about Chet as we pass around pictures. There are about 60 people. I am in disbelief. I was expecting some people but this turnout is amazing. I didn't know Chet very long but I was under the impression that he lived more of a solitary, hermit life. This was not the case and I am looking at a crowd of cyclists ranging in age from 30 to 70. I glance over to Joe and say “for a hermit he had more friends than me”. Joe nods in agreement. Nancy finishes up by thanking everyone for coming and more importantly for being part of Chet's life.
We start to ride. I am in the back of the pack and pedal hard to stay up with the group. It is not long before the pack disappears ahead of me and I am pedaling alone. It is a fantastic cool and crisp fall day in Vermont. I like meeting people but riding alone for parts of today allowed me to reflect and feel connected to Chet and my surroundings. I imagine Chet pedaling on this road and enjoying the mountains and streams. I read the street names “Fort Defiance Hill” and “Mount Hunger Road” and understand why he loved to race up hills.
I pedal along and Chet's words come back to me. “Change gears”. “Always try to pedal with the least amount of effort”. “Change your position in the saddle to find better aerodynamics”. “Change the position of your feet to work different parts of your legs”. “Keep your mind active while riding”.
I catch a couple riders who are slower on the hills. I talk with Doug who is riding a Motobecane road bike. You don't see Motobecane bikes much anymore. Chet had a Motobecane and I ask Doug how he knew Chet. Doug tells me that Chet got him into biking several years ago. When he started riding he bought a bike from Chet and then graduated to this after becoming an enthusiast. I have a distinct feeling there are others in this crowd that Chet brought to the sport.
I meet Diane who is a member of the same bike club as Chet, the Killington Pico Cycling club. I tell her I never heard of the club before the ride but now it is etched into my mind for eternity. I tell her that the etching is so deep that every time I blink I see the back of a Killington Pico Cycling club Jersey. I spent many days riding behind Chet and that Jersey. If someone asks me what the country looks like from a bicycle I tell them that I don't remember much other than the back of this Jersey and Joe's shaved head. One night late in the first week of our riding I asked Chet if he would consider wearing a different Jersey the following day so I could convince myself that I was actually making some progress. He laughed, and then I said it was easier than asking Joe to wear a brunette wig.
Chet wasn't your ordinary person. He was special. If you spent any length of time with him you would not quickly forget him. He had what would be considered unpopular views on some topics and wasn't afraid to let you know if he disagreed with your thoughts. He didn't however insist that you adopt his view but did require that you at least heard what he had to say. He was passionate about what he believed and authentic in ways you don't often find today. Chet's views and opinions were not out of a book or dogmatic. He lived 64 years and similar to these Vermont mountains he pedaled was more pine tree than deciduous.
Most of all my feelings center around Chet's love for people. He wanted equality among people on every level in a way that if any of today's political candidates professed, I would vote for them in a minute. He reminded me on several occasions that he was still a hippie at heart. I believe he was a very sensitive man with deep feelings. Sensitivity of course is vulnerable to being hurt and Chet definitely built some good old fashion New England stone walls to protect himself from the pain people are capable of inflicting on each other. However, if you looked into his eyes when he was smiling, you could still see the wonder, innocence and glimmer of a five year old child.
On the ride back from Silver Lake I start chatting with another rider. His name is Bill. Bill never met Chet and doesn't know anyone else here today. Bill read about Chet in the paper and came out just to be supportive. Can you believe it? I ask him a second time to make sure I have the facts straight. Bill lives in Rutland and moved to Vermont from Massachusetts years ago. He is a dentist and thinks this area is as good as any in the United State. Today, I have to agree with him. Bill and I talk for a couple more miles and then he cycles ahead of me. I think to myself, even in death Chet is still bringing us together with biking – now that is giving.
There is always some time for payback. For all the nights I kept Chet awake blogging by clicking away on the keyboard, tonight he has kept me awake writing this till after 2AM – I miss him.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday September, 29 2008 - Day 15
Monday September, 29 2008 - Day 15
http://ultrabongo.blogspot.com/
We wake up before 7AM. LA is dense with marine layer only I don’t think it is marine layer. I think of wearing a towel over my nose and mouth to protest the air quality but give it up quickly knowing I will be shot down in the streets while donning this garb. Chet goes down to get his morning cup of free coffee and returns upset mumbling to himself “for $300 dollars I should at least get a cup of coffee”. He uses the machine in the room but continues to mumble. If you want to get Chet off to a bad start in the morning 1) screw with his coffee or 2) don’t allow him time to cycle his intestines.
Bo and I decide to go for a run and start at Santa Monica pier heading south. We run past Venice beach and a cadre of homeless every mile. We run at a slow pace for 25 minutes chatting about the trip, the homeless people, the sand and the upcoming furnace creek 508. We agree Joe has trained very hard over the past two weeks and just hope he can remain cool enough to rest a bit over the next couple days before the race. We head into the sand and over to the Pacific. We both dunk a ritualistic hand into the water. It is warm. I spread the polluted salt water onto my face and Bo, much smarter than I wipes his off on his shorts. We walk along the beach and then crank up the pace for the run back to the hotel.
My legs feel a bit awkward running and I wonder how much all this cycling is going to help me when I start my 100 mile run later in the week. I tell myself not to worry and continue to worry. I run deeper into my thighs and feel the soreness from the desert ride the day before. Body warning to brain stem, “take it easy or the other parts have agreed to go on strike later in the week”.
We all eat breakfast together and talk about the current world markets without resolve. I talk with my cousin Greg later in the day and he says “Nice coincidence that you have reached your end the same day the financial markets reached theirs”. We laugh but both know this is not my end nor is it the end of the financial markets.
Our plans for the next couple of days continue to change throughout the morning. By noon it is time to drive to Santa Clarita for the local radio interview. Joe, Chet and Bo will head directly North towards San Francisco after the interview. I have a flight out of LA on Tuesday afternoon and decide not to join them for the interview. This will allow them to get a jump start on their trip North and I will stay with my sister-in-law in LA Monday night.
We drag our packs to the truck and begin to load their belongings. Bo keeps putting my gear in the truck and I keep taking it out. I am not ready to separate but it happens quickly and I am standing in the Holiday Inn parking lot and missing my tribe. Joe calls me later to let me know the interview went well. We hang up and I text him “LA sucks even worse without you all”. They start North and I stare out at the Pacific.
Suddenly I miss everything terribly. The many miles we traveled every day was exciting but the difficulties and displacement of being in a different location each night don’t hit me till right now on the pier. This is it and now they move towards the Furnace Creek 508 and I towards my Grindstone 100. I sit, ass on wood covered Pacific pylons wishing I was going to be staying to crew for Joe during the race. This doesn’t feel right to be leaving after all we have been through together.
My run starts at 6pm EST Friday night. The Furnace Creek 508 starts at 7AM PST Saturday morning. I remind Joe that when I am suffering on Saturday about 10AM EST my only conciliation will be that his is just beginning. Isn’t friendship great.
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
http://ultrabongo.blogspot.com/
We wake up before 7AM. LA is dense with marine layer only I don’t think it is marine layer. I think of wearing a towel over my nose and mouth to protest the air quality but give it up quickly knowing I will be shot down in the streets while donning this garb. Chet goes down to get his morning cup of free coffee and returns upset mumbling to himself “for $300 dollars I should at least get a cup of coffee”. He uses the machine in the room but continues to mumble. If you want to get Chet off to a bad start in the morning 1) screw with his coffee or 2) don’t allow him time to cycle his intestines.
Bo and I decide to go for a run and start at Santa Monica pier heading south. We run past Venice beach and a cadre of homeless every mile. We run at a slow pace for 25 minutes chatting about the trip, the homeless people, the sand and the upcoming furnace creek 508. We agree Joe has trained very hard over the past two weeks and just hope he can remain cool enough to rest a bit over the next couple days before the race. We head into the sand and over to the Pacific. We both dunk a ritualistic hand into the water. It is warm. I spread the polluted salt water onto my face and Bo, much smarter than I wipes his off on his shorts. We walk along the beach and then crank up the pace for the run back to the hotel.
My legs feel a bit awkward running and I wonder how much all this cycling is going to help me when I start my 100 mile run later in the week. I tell myself not to worry and continue to worry. I run deeper into my thighs and feel the soreness from the desert ride the day before. Body warning to brain stem, “take it easy or the other parts have agreed to go on strike later in the week”.
We all eat breakfast together and talk about the current world markets without resolve. I talk with my cousin Greg later in the day and he says “Nice coincidence that you have reached your end the same day the financial markets reached theirs”. We laugh but both know this is not my end nor is it the end of the financial markets.
Our plans for the next couple of days continue to change throughout the morning. By noon it is time to drive to Santa Clarita for the local radio interview. Joe, Chet and Bo will head directly North towards San Francisco after the interview. I have a flight out of LA on Tuesday afternoon and decide not to join them for the interview. This will allow them to get a jump start on their trip North and I will stay with my sister-in-law in LA Monday night.
We drag our packs to the truck and begin to load their belongings. Bo keeps putting my gear in the truck and I keep taking it out. I am not ready to separate but it happens quickly and I am standing in the Holiday Inn parking lot and missing my tribe. Joe calls me later to let me know the interview went well. We hang up and I text him “LA sucks even worse without you all”. They start North and I stare out at the Pacific.
Suddenly I miss everything terribly. The many miles we traveled every day was exciting but the difficulties and displacement of being in a different location each night don’t hit me till right now on the pier. This is it and now they move towards the Furnace Creek 508 and I towards my Grindstone 100. I sit, ass on wood covered Pacific pylons wishing I was going to be staying to crew for Joe during the race. This doesn’t feel right to be leaving after all we have been through together.
My run starts at 6pm EST Friday night. The Furnace Creek 508 starts at 7AM PST Saturday morning. I remind Joe that when I am suffering on Saturday about 10AM EST my only conciliation will be that his is just beginning. Isn’t friendship great.
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
Sunday September, 28 2008 - Day 14
Sunday September, 28 2008 - Day 14
Blythe CA – One of the first things I learned while riding behind Chet and Joe is not pretty but practical, useful and made many a day go by without me getting upset. Two ways it comes. Either I get a warning or not. When I hear the rider in front of me clearing their throat know I have 2 seconds to look down and accept the wash. Many times I never get hit but taking the chance just isn’t worth it. I hear, I duck. That is my rule. Too many factors of wind direction and different riders to know if it is going to clear me so I put my head down and wait to hear the clearing “haaacktoooey”.
The second is much richer and enjoyable – the farmers blow. The farmers blow comes without warning or pattern change. One minute you are clearly looking at the beautiful landscape in front of you and the next minute you are looking through nostril excretion. No warning, no signal, just someone in front of you needed to clear their proboscis. By the 14th day I am actually enjoying such things and realizing the absurdity of my own musings.
From Blythe CA we go north deeper into the desert. Rt. 62 goes due west and is loaded with boat trailer traffic and 18 wheelers. Joe and I start pedaling and we are moving at 25+ mph. I am joyful that the mountains have prepared my legs well and now the flats seem easy to ride at 20 mph. The heat is over 100 degrees but I don’t notice it directly. I notice it because my feet are swelling into my shoes and my lips also feel a bit premenstrual.
We crank along for an hour alternating the lead every 5 miles. I drink often but don’t feel any sweat pouring off my body. It is an unusual experience when I realize it is evaporating immediately instead of cooling me. I think cool and continue to pedal. The road is long and is as far as the eye can see. Be describes this as spinning. You crank away and look up. Ten minutes later you look up again and it feels like you haven’t made any progress. Between the heat and the landscape he is smart by not riding today. My stupidity is proven many times over and Joe has not choice.
Initially my kneed doesn’t hurt and I am elated. Like our initial speed you would think I would learn one day that change is always nearby. Somewhere into the second hour lefty starts giving my signals of unhappiness. I look for a marker in the landscape to load myself back into the truck and there is none. Miles and miles of road in front of me like one of those pictures you learn to draw in elementary school where the three lines come together in the distance and give the illusion of three dimensions. I am stuck in four dimensions and looking to reduce it to two. No such luck.
My happy go stupid morning is challenged and I begin to realize the severity of the temperature when the water from my camelback is as hot as tea. I mouth some and spit it out. I reach down to my water cage and even the water and young coconut juice mixture we have used throughout the trip turns against us. I taste it and it is spoiled. It tastes rancid and I still don’t believe what is happening so I reach for the other bottle. Someone must have loaded this bottle with horse piss and now I squeeze the second bottle for some relief. The horse had a busy morning. I put my head back down and stick to Joe’s tire. My mouth is dry and I continue to cycle hot camelback water through it. I think maybe it is just my curse but Joe eventually dumps both water bottles onto the ground while pedaling at 23mph and exclaims “now I won’t have any temptation to drink it”. I realize we are both screwed. I look into the distance and see no support truck.
We pedal this way for some amount of time. It could be 15 minutes it may have been 45. Time has it’s own perspective and the heat is now talking to my body without letting me in on the conversation. Our pace slows to 20 mph and then to 15. I take the lead hoping to ratchet up the speed but can’t seem to muster more than 15 mph. Joe takes the lead back and I hear him swearing at his laziness. He cranks very hard to 17 mph for several miles and I tell him we are on a very long uphill. I can see the relief in his body with the confirming news that an external factor is responsible for the current slowness.
We get to the support truck and are both in a foul mood. We ask for water only and drink as much from the truck stock of cool liquids. I pour a water bottle over Joe’s head and instead of providing relief it runs rivers of sunblock into his eyes. He should punch me in the nose and say we are even but just asks for a tissue. We get back on our bikes. We ride and he says “I think our tires are sticking to the hot road”. I agree. We continue to be blow around by traffic passing in both directions.
The trucks and trailers that pass within feet of us are acceptable to my risk tolerance today. Any other day I would show a sense of reason and stop. In order to minimize wind resistance we pedal with our head down looking at the white line and looking up every couple of minute to make sure there is nothing major in our roadside path. The real terror is when I look up and a vehicle on the other side of the road is being passed. Now there are two vehicles coming directly at you at 70 mph. Something deep inside me willies and for a moment I become the deer in the headlights. This happens several times but each time I don’t get any more comfortable and the feeling returns. I tell myself the only way off this road is somewhere in the distance and the faster I pedal the sooner it will happen.
What I fail acknowledge is the second way off this road and that is of a religious nature. Joe must have the same feeling as we pedal frantically. The heat remains like a Kansas wind working on us slowly and progressively. The harder we fight the more we suffer. I try to surrender without success. I try to imagine myself in the cooling Pacific ocean the following day without relief. This sucks. That is my conclusion and my condition.
The Support crew must practice feeding Joe. During his race they will feed him while he rides in order to save time and not break is cadence/rhythm. They pull up next to us trying to feed us water melon but without success. On the fourth attempt I yell “move away you are going to kill us”. The truck disappears into the distance and I realize we are going to kill ourselves without their help. We catch up to the parked truck and beg for food and drink. The support crew in the Air conditioned truck is also having trouble dealing with the heat and they hand us rations through the window. Joe throws a blow by saying “it is not support unless at least one of you gets out of the truck”. Bo goes into a 10 minute rant and Joe is pleased that he has excited him. We get back on our bikes and ride west.
We reach Desert Center and go directly to the Desert Center Family Café. We walk in and the fly’s outnumber the patrons 10 to 1. You can hear them buzzing around. I order a milkshake and full meal. Chet joins me and Bo just goes for the milkshake. Joe doesn’t like the idea of so many fly’s and holds out for a while before ordering a mass of food. We eat, cool down and keep shaking our heads in disbelief. Disbelief of the heat, the traffic, the sticky road, the staff, the 35 minute wait for a sandwich and that the Desert Center has been open 24 hours a day since 1922. Their slogan “You need us a lot more than we need you”.
At the Desert Café there is a single waitress and she don’t take if from no one. We are stacked four across the bar stools and at one point Bo tries to get her attention with a hand wave. She is delivering food to a table and igores him. He gets a little Chinese NYC and tries verbally as she returns past us on our way to the kitchen. “We want”, before he can get the rest of the sentence out of his mouth she brings her hand up in the air and then motions towards him to shut it. He is silenced immediately and I go back to looking down at my eggs. Joe enjoys the show so much he thinks he is going to use some of this sweet Vermont kindness and says “you can come work at my store in VT any time”. She spanks him with “I get that offer all the time” and continues walking past as if his offer were some form of rudeness. Chet and I look quizzically at each other and then back down at our food. We drag our molten bodies up from the stools at the Desert Café, load the truck and head towards LA.
This is how the days go by,
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
Blythe CA – One of the first things I learned while riding behind Chet and Joe is not pretty but practical, useful and made many a day go by without me getting upset. Two ways it comes. Either I get a warning or not. When I hear the rider in front of me clearing their throat know I have 2 seconds to look down and accept the wash. Many times I never get hit but taking the chance just isn’t worth it. I hear, I duck. That is my rule. Too many factors of wind direction and different riders to know if it is going to clear me so I put my head down and wait to hear the clearing “haaacktoooey”.
The second is much richer and enjoyable – the farmers blow. The farmers blow comes without warning or pattern change. One minute you are clearly looking at the beautiful landscape in front of you and the next minute you are looking through nostril excretion. No warning, no signal, just someone in front of you needed to clear their proboscis. By the 14th day I am actually enjoying such things and realizing the absurdity of my own musings.
From Blythe CA we go north deeper into the desert. Rt. 62 goes due west and is loaded with boat trailer traffic and 18 wheelers. Joe and I start pedaling and we are moving at 25+ mph. I am joyful that the mountains have prepared my legs well and now the flats seem easy to ride at 20 mph. The heat is over 100 degrees but I don’t notice it directly. I notice it because my feet are swelling into my shoes and my lips also feel a bit premenstrual.
We crank along for an hour alternating the lead every 5 miles. I drink often but don’t feel any sweat pouring off my body. It is an unusual experience when I realize it is evaporating immediately instead of cooling me. I think cool and continue to pedal. The road is long and is as far as the eye can see. Be describes this as spinning. You crank away and look up. Ten minutes later you look up again and it feels like you haven’t made any progress. Between the heat and the landscape he is smart by not riding today. My stupidity is proven many times over and Joe has not choice.
Initially my kneed doesn’t hurt and I am elated. Like our initial speed you would think I would learn one day that change is always nearby. Somewhere into the second hour lefty starts giving my signals of unhappiness. I look for a marker in the landscape to load myself back into the truck and there is none. Miles and miles of road in front of me like one of those pictures you learn to draw in elementary school where the three lines come together in the distance and give the illusion of three dimensions. I am stuck in four dimensions and looking to reduce it to two. No such luck.
My happy go stupid morning is challenged and I begin to realize the severity of the temperature when the water from my camelback is as hot as tea. I mouth some and spit it out. I reach down to my water cage and even the water and young coconut juice mixture we have used throughout the trip turns against us. I taste it and it is spoiled. It tastes rancid and I still don’t believe what is happening so I reach for the other bottle. Someone must have loaded this bottle with horse piss and now I squeeze the second bottle for some relief. The horse had a busy morning. I put my head back down and stick to Joe’s tire. My mouth is dry and I continue to cycle hot camelback water through it. I think maybe it is just my curse but Joe eventually dumps both water bottles onto the ground while pedaling at 23mph and exclaims “now I won’t have any temptation to drink it”. I realize we are both screwed. I look into the distance and see no support truck.
We pedal this way for some amount of time. It could be 15 minutes it may have been 45. Time has it’s own perspective and the heat is now talking to my body without letting me in on the conversation. Our pace slows to 20 mph and then to 15. I take the lead hoping to ratchet up the speed but can’t seem to muster more than 15 mph. Joe takes the lead back and I hear him swearing at his laziness. He cranks very hard to 17 mph for several miles and I tell him we are on a very long uphill. I can see the relief in his body with the confirming news that an external factor is responsible for the current slowness.
We get to the support truck and are both in a foul mood. We ask for water only and drink as much from the truck stock of cool liquids. I pour a water bottle over Joe’s head and instead of providing relief it runs rivers of sunblock into his eyes. He should punch me in the nose and say we are even but just asks for a tissue. We get back on our bikes. We ride and he says “I think our tires are sticking to the hot road”. I agree. We continue to be blow around by traffic passing in both directions.
The trucks and trailers that pass within feet of us are acceptable to my risk tolerance today. Any other day I would show a sense of reason and stop. In order to minimize wind resistance we pedal with our head down looking at the white line and looking up every couple of minute to make sure there is nothing major in our roadside path. The real terror is when I look up and a vehicle on the other side of the road is being passed. Now there are two vehicles coming directly at you at 70 mph. Something deep inside me willies and for a moment I become the deer in the headlights. This happens several times but each time I don’t get any more comfortable and the feeling returns. I tell myself the only way off this road is somewhere in the distance and the faster I pedal the sooner it will happen.
What I fail acknowledge is the second way off this road and that is of a religious nature. Joe must have the same feeling as we pedal frantically. The heat remains like a Kansas wind working on us slowly and progressively. The harder we fight the more we suffer. I try to surrender without success. I try to imagine myself in the cooling Pacific ocean the following day without relief. This sucks. That is my conclusion and my condition.
The Support crew must practice feeding Joe. During his race they will feed him while he rides in order to save time and not break is cadence/rhythm. They pull up next to us trying to feed us water melon but without success. On the fourth attempt I yell “move away you are going to kill us”. The truck disappears into the distance and I realize we are going to kill ourselves without their help. We catch up to the parked truck and beg for food and drink. The support crew in the Air conditioned truck is also having trouble dealing with the heat and they hand us rations through the window. Joe throws a blow by saying “it is not support unless at least one of you gets out of the truck”. Bo goes into a 10 minute rant and Joe is pleased that he has excited him. We get back on our bikes and ride west.
We reach Desert Center and go directly to the Desert Center Family Café. We walk in and the fly’s outnumber the patrons 10 to 1. You can hear them buzzing around. I order a milkshake and full meal. Chet joins me and Bo just goes for the milkshake. Joe doesn’t like the idea of so many fly’s and holds out for a while before ordering a mass of food. We eat, cool down and keep shaking our heads in disbelief. Disbelief of the heat, the traffic, the sticky road, the staff, the 35 minute wait for a sandwich and that the Desert Center has been open 24 hours a day since 1922. Their slogan “You need us a lot more than we need you”.
At the Desert Café there is a single waitress and she don’t take if from no one. We are stacked four across the bar stools and at one point Bo tries to get her attention with a hand wave. She is delivering food to a table and igores him. He gets a little Chinese NYC and tries verbally as she returns past us on our way to the kitchen. “We want”, before he can get the rest of the sentence out of his mouth she brings her hand up in the air and then motions towards him to shut it. He is silenced immediately and I go back to looking down at my eggs. Joe enjoys the show so much he thinks he is going to use some of this sweet Vermont kindness and says “you can come work at my store in VT any time”. She spanks him with “I get that offer all the time” and continues walking past as if his offer were some form of rudeness. Chet and I look quizzically at each other and then back down at our food. We drag our molten bodies up from the stools at the Desert Café, load the truck and head towards LA.
This is how the days go by,
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
Saturday September, 27 2008 - Day 13
Saturday September, 27 2008 - Day 13
Flagstaff AZ – We get to Flagstaff late and pull right into a Hampton Inn parking lot. We are tired from the riding both bike and car. We need a real meal, showers and some encouragement. We get one of three. The Hampton Inn is booked but there are 15 hotels nearby. The attendant at the desk informs us that all the hotels in the area are booked. The national women’s high school soccer tournament is here in town with us. She points to a slip of paper with a local concierge’s phone number to call. Joe calls and finds out Amerisuite directly across the street has two double rooms. Another group of travelers comes through the door of the Hampton Inn after us and call the same number. They are told there are no more rooms available – phew that was close. Sometimes the “path of the cow” leads to the slaughter house. We jump in the truck and head over to Amerisuite.
Joe and I get up at 4:20AM. I eat an apple and put on several layers of clothing. It is less than 40 degrees outside and I don’t want the cold morning downhill wind chill to force me to surrender like Bo did coming out of Pagosa Springs, CO several days earlier. Joe adds a minimal amount of clothing to his body to handle the morning’s climate.
The sleeping arrangement changed last night so that Joe and I wouldn’t wake up the other crew members with our pre-dawn departure. We will simply slip our room key under their door and when they wake up and eat breakfast they can load all the baggage into the truck and catch us. Shortly before we depart Joe and I realize we don’t have a tire pump between us and wake Chet up for the truck keys anyway. Chet never get’s back to sleep and throughout the day mentions his most unfortunate start
We turn on our front lights, back lights and blinkers. Joe and I head out into the dark. Our day will cover 200+ miles and most of the state of Arizona. We head down a dark road and the new lights work better than the others we had but there continues to be the unexpected bump or hole making us fearfully aware that our limited ability to see the road. We pedal downhill but not at full speed. We are only traveling at 25 mph but we both know a fall at this speed could be crippling or worse.
The downhill is long and I start to think the day is going to be a breeze. I rationalized that we are coming out of the elevated northern Arizona into the flats. As such, we should be pedaling downhill or on flat roads most of the day. “YO”, Joe chimes. I stop. “Flat tire.” He says. He had been riding on it for the last 5 minutes. We pull over and spend 20 minutes changing the tube. Lucky we woke up Chet for the pump. Well, lucky for us – later come to find out sucks to be Chet.
The morning light in Sedona and the surrounding canyons of Arizona is magical. I don’t know much about energy vortex’s or palm reading but after riding through this area around dawn I sense something mystical and remarkable. We stop for a quick breakfast in Sedona and milk has become one of Joe’s staple foods. He keeps saying that hasn’t craved milk in years but can’t get enough of it on this trip. I grab the container of the local brand we have been drinking and am alarmed of how healthy this Southwestern milk is compared to our’s in the Northeast. Triple the protein, double the Potassium and Calcium. I spin the bottle over and see it is fortified milk. I shake my head and shove down another pancake.
In Clarkdale, 25 miles out of Sedona Chet and Bo catch up to us. We have been climbing hills every since Sedona and the sun is starting to crank up the temperature. Chet decides to start riding with us for the remainder of the day. It turns out to be a near terminal experience and also the best riding he will have for the remainder of the trip. The terminal part comes from a climb he didn’t know we are about to undertake on our way to Jerome. Jerome from Clarkdale may as well be OZ from Kansas.
The switchbacks start and the grade is very steep. The road signs start speaking of steep grades and I say, “get ready to go vertical”. During the whole climb my motivational thoughts are that the other side of Jerome must be downhill. Maybe in Colorado this is the case but in Arizona Jerome is only the half way point of the climb.
We finally arrive in Jerome but don’t stop. It is going to be a 200 mile day. We started in the darkness but don’t want to end in the darkness. Joe has become somewhat skeptical. No matter what time we start or stop riding each day we always end up checking into our hotel after 10PM and very tired. Today will be no different.
We pedal from Jerome to Prescott and are hungry and delusional from the heat. We stop at the voters think is the “Best breakfast place in Prescott”. Before we go in Joe says all he wants is an “Italian Sub sandwich”. I go in and talk to the hostess who somewhat agrees they have such a thing. We start to order and are informed there is no such sandwich here. Furthermore, they don’t make ice cream shakes which Chet wakes up every morning simply for the possibility of crossing paths with one. I eat a big and delicious breakfast, Bo is on a diet, Chet eats and Joe goes from polish sausage to French fries looking for the sub sandwich he doesn’t get.
The wait staff is interested in our attire and we start a conversation about where we are heading. One woman tells us the best route and that it is downhill and flat the remainder of the day. I think this comment alone made up for the missing Italian Sub and milkshake. We ride south on 89 through the remainder of town. A mile outside of town I see the street sign for steep grade again and conclude is must be for the downhill coming. We are about the round a corner and I see a heavy man on a touring bicycle fly past on the other side of the road. My brain goes haywire. I go back to the sign. I look back at the guy. I pedal up to Joe and say that I must be confused. We look at each other worried but both know the real answer. Heavy, seemingly out of shape guys don’t fly along the other side of the road coming off long and treacherous up hill climbs. Joe is still not ready to surrender to our fate and says “maybe he just started his ride on the other side of this bend”. I respond, “Yea”.
The rode climbs out of Prescott for miles. I think of the woman who gave us half a set of good directions and realize maybe people don’t know if the road is going up or down while they are driving. Looking at the guard rails I remind myself that some people can’t even comprehend when a road is turning much rather elevation. I curse the gene pool but mostly I am only cursing the gene pond inside my body for thinking it was going to be anything other than what it is.
We climb for another hour and then descend to the Arizona flats. My left knee is started to hurt on the Jerome climb and I find positions and gears which favor less pain. Finally, I can’t find relief on even the flats and drop my bicycle into the truck and keep Bo company. Chet and Joe continue to eat miles and on a 9 mile downhill into a town called Congress, AZ we come across a skateboarder traveling at 20 mph with no armor or helmet.
He is flying down this winding road and quickly flipping the board sideways to control his speed. I think to myself this is very representative of the current markets. This guy is going to Congress on a very dangerous stretch of road with a high probability of failure and any point of failure could result in a complete loss. When we arrive in Congress, AZ and find it is a ghost town with a single gas station for all conveniences that my analogy is confirmed – you can draw the other parallel lines.
We stop for convenience store food and look onto the Arizona flats. There are several major storm clouds dumping rain on the horizon and the wind has picked up to tropical storm category 3 level. The wind is at their back and they are flying at 30+ mph. The irony is that the 30+ mph winds suck them directly into the crossing dust and rainstorm. It is nasty riding but Chet has the “day I have waited a lifetime for”. They are being dragged along beyond speeds that their gears will allow them to pedal. The dust and rain blend into chocolate and slap them from behind. Cardboard boxes are flying through the air and garbage cans rolling in circles. They cross the remainder of AZ as the early settlers did with the promise of something better in CA. Time doesn’t change fools and fools can’t change time.
And this is how the days go by.
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
Flagstaff AZ – We get to Flagstaff late and pull right into a Hampton Inn parking lot. We are tired from the riding both bike and car. We need a real meal, showers and some encouragement. We get one of three. The Hampton Inn is booked but there are 15 hotels nearby. The attendant at the desk informs us that all the hotels in the area are booked. The national women’s high school soccer tournament is here in town with us. She points to a slip of paper with a local concierge’s phone number to call. Joe calls and finds out Amerisuite directly across the street has two double rooms. Another group of travelers comes through the door of the Hampton Inn after us and call the same number. They are told there are no more rooms available – phew that was close. Sometimes the “path of the cow” leads to the slaughter house. We jump in the truck and head over to Amerisuite.
Joe and I get up at 4:20AM. I eat an apple and put on several layers of clothing. It is less than 40 degrees outside and I don’t want the cold morning downhill wind chill to force me to surrender like Bo did coming out of Pagosa Springs, CO several days earlier. Joe adds a minimal amount of clothing to his body to handle the morning’s climate.
The sleeping arrangement changed last night so that Joe and I wouldn’t wake up the other crew members with our pre-dawn departure. We will simply slip our room key under their door and when they wake up and eat breakfast they can load all the baggage into the truck and catch us. Shortly before we depart Joe and I realize we don’t have a tire pump between us and wake Chet up for the truck keys anyway. Chet never get’s back to sleep and throughout the day mentions his most unfortunate start
We turn on our front lights, back lights and blinkers. Joe and I head out into the dark. Our day will cover 200+ miles and most of the state of Arizona. We head down a dark road and the new lights work better than the others we had but there continues to be the unexpected bump or hole making us fearfully aware that our limited ability to see the road. We pedal downhill but not at full speed. We are only traveling at 25 mph but we both know a fall at this speed could be crippling or worse.
The downhill is long and I start to think the day is going to be a breeze. I rationalized that we are coming out of the elevated northern Arizona into the flats. As such, we should be pedaling downhill or on flat roads most of the day. “YO”, Joe chimes. I stop. “Flat tire.” He says. He had been riding on it for the last 5 minutes. We pull over and spend 20 minutes changing the tube. Lucky we woke up Chet for the pump. Well, lucky for us – later come to find out sucks to be Chet.
The morning light in Sedona and the surrounding canyons of Arizona is magical. I don’t know much about energy vortex’s or palm reading but after riding through this area around dawn I sense something mystical and remarkable. We stop for a quick breakfast in Sedona and milk has become one of Joe’s staple foods. He keeps saying that hasn’t craved milk in years but can’t get enough of it on this trip. I grab the container of the local brand we have been drinking and am alarmed of how healthy this Southwestern milk is compared to our’s in the Northeast. Triple the protein, double the Potassium and Calcium. I spin the bottle over and see it is fortified milk. I shake my head and shove down another pancake.
In Clarkdale, 25 miles out of Sedona Chet and Bo catch up to us. We have been climbing hills every since Sedona and the sun is starting to crank up the temperature. Chet decides to start riding with us for the remainder of the day. It turns out to be a near terminal experience and also the best riding he will have for the remainder of the trip. The terminal part comes from a climb he didn’t know we are about to undertake on our way to Jerome. Jerome from Clarkdale may as well be OZ from Kansas.
The switchbacks start and the grade is very steep. The road signs start speaking of steep grades and I say, “get ready to go vertical”. During the whole climb my motivational thoughts are that the other side of Jerome must be downhill. Maybe in Colorado this is the case but in Arizona Jerome is only the half way point of the climb.
We finally arrive in Jerome but don’t stop. It is going to be a 200 mile day. We started in the darkness but don’t want to end in the darkness. Joe has become somewhat skeptical. No matter what time we start or stop riding each day we always end up checking into our hotel after 10PM and very tired. Today will be no different.
We pedal from Jerome to Prescott and are hungry and delusional from the heat. We stop at the voters think is the “Best breakfast place in Prescott”. Before we go in Joe says all he wants is an “Italian Sub sandwich”. I go in and talk to the hostess who somewhat agrees they have such a thing. We start to order and are informed there is no such sandwich here. Furthermore, they don’t make ice cream shakes which Chet wakes up every morning simply for the possibility of crossing paths with one. I eat a big and delicious breakfast, Bo is on a diet, Chet eats and Joe goes from polish sausage to French fries looking for the sub sandwich he doesn’t get.
The wait staff is interested in our attire and we start a conversation about where we are heading. One woman tells us the best route and that it is downhill and flat the remainder of the day. I think this comment alone made up for the missing Italian Sub and milkshake. We ride south on 89 through the remainder of town. A mile outside of town I see the street sign for steep grade again and conclude is must be for the downhill coming. We are about the round a corner and I see a heavy man on a touring bicycle fly past on the other side of the road. My brain goes haywire. I go back to the sign. I look back at the guy. I pedal up to Joe and say that I must be confused. We look at each other worried but both know the real answer. Heavy, seemingly out of shape guys don’t fly along the other side of the road coming off long and treacherous up hill climbs. Joe is still not ready to surrender to our fate and says “maybe he just started his ride on the other side of this bend”. I respond, “Yea”.
The rode climbs out of Prescott for miles. I think of the woman who gave us half a set of good directions and realize maybe people don’t know if the road is going up or down while they are driving. Looking at the guard rails I remind myself that some people can’t even comprehend when a road is turning much rather elevation. I curse the gene pool but mostly I am only cursing the gene pond inside my body for thinking it was going to be anything other than what it is.
We climb for another hour and then descend to the Arizona flats. My left knee is started to hurt on the Jerome climb and I find positions and gears which favor less pain. Finally, I can’t find relief on even the flats and drop my bicycle into the truck and keep Bo company. Chet and Joe continue to eat miles and on a 9 mile downhill into a town called Congress, AZ we come across a skateboarder traveling at 20 mph with no armor or helmet.
He is flying down this winding road and quickly flipping the board sideways to control his speed. I think to myself this is very representative of the current markets. This guy is going to Congress on a very dangerous stretch of road with a high probability of failure and any point of failure could result in a complete loss. When we arrive in Congress, AZ and find it is a ghost town with a single gas station for all conveniences that my analogy is confirmed – you can draw the other parallel lines.
We stop for convenience store food and look onto the Arizona flats. There are several major storm clouds dumping rain on the horizon and the wind has picked up to tropical storm category 3 level. The wind is at their back and they are flying at 30+ mph. The irony is that the 30+ mph winds suck them directly into the crossing dust and rainstorm. It is nasty riding but Chet has the “day I have waited a lifetime for”. They are being dragged along beyond speeds that their gears will allow them to pedal. The dust and rain blend into chocolate and slap them from behind. Cardboard boxes are flying through the air and garbage cans rolling in circles. They cross the remainder of AZ as the early settlers did with the promise of something better in CA. Time doesn’t change fools and fools can’t change time.
And this is how the days go by.
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
Friday, September 26, 2008
Friday September, 26 2008 - Day 12
Friday September, 26 2008 - Day 12
After the past two days of heavy hill climbing our bodies show outward signs of wear. Chet is limping a bit and dipping a shoulder. I am walking very gently on a sore knee and hip. Joe never walks the same way twice so who knows what his body is going through. Bo’s body has thawed and he is awake early and looking for food.
Chet and I agree this morning should be a cross training routine. We stretch, eat breakfast and then hike up a mountain trail in Telluride. The mountains surrounding Telluride are steep and colored with yellow Aspens against deep green pines. The trail is wide and we climb quickly. Joe starts running and I look over to Chet who is shaking his head. He just can’t seem to get Joe to rest or recover for the coming 200 miles he will pedal on Saturday.
I forgot to mention, yesterday while we were in in Silverton Bo ordered rocky mountain oysters. When they arrived I mouthed to Chet, “does he know”. Chet shook his head – no. I smirk and decide get a video of it. I go through the ingredients in each lunch at the table as if I am a gourmet on TV. When I get to Bo I stop and ask him what is within the fried batter. He says Oysters. I say “yea, from the nearby sea”. My clues go unnoticed. Chet finally takes one and eats it. He starts questioning Bo about the ingredients and their origin. When Bo learns where these fried gems come from he is surprisingly calm. After several minutes he says, “then these must be aphrodisiacs “. I add a comment that Joe should be a little worried as he and Bo are rooming together.
The road between Telluride Colorado and Flagstaff Arizona is much different than any road we have ridden. The traffic passes at 55-70 mph and the shoulder is small. The very noticeable difference is that the traffic participates in what could only be called a passfest. It is a two lane highway and the cars never stay in their own lanes. It reminds me of an ant trail. They head directly for each other all along the route. I am told there is some communication takes place when they run into each other. Joe pedals along the road with his head down to avoid being sand blown. When he looks up he is continually looking at two cars coming at him. One vehicle is in the proper lane on the other side of the road and the second vehicle in his lane.
The road passes through Four Corners. Four corners is where Utah, New Mexico, Colorado and Arizona meet. It should be called Four shit because there is nothing noteworthy other than the dust storm that envelopes Joe as he cranks along the flat road. Miles and miles of nothing but pucker, scrub brush and a bicycle rider. With any luck one of the three won’t be there tomorrow morning.
We have been trying to charge most our expenses to Joe’s Amex card. It has been a nightmare from the first day, every day and usually at the most critical point of any day. Last night we are between Ouray and Telluride. We come upon the only gas station even slightly open and won’t make Telluride without a refill. We swipe the Amex card at the pump. “See Attendant”. We go in to speak with the attendant and she says the card will require a special authorization.
This card has been cancelled for months but Joe grabbed it by accident. We have been using it with mixed results for the last 11 days. Joe had a new card sent to our hotel in Lamar, CO two nights ago. We have the new card but since we have been on the phone every day with Amex we decide to see how far we can get on the old card. Amex guaranteed Joe the card was null, void, cancelled and will never work again. That is why we go through the trouble of altering the “path of the cow” for a single night and must plan to be in Lamar to pick up the card.
Joe is on the phone again with Amex and the new card is in an envelope which fell behind the back seat in the cab of the truck. We cannot figure out how to drop the back seat. Joe assures us he has done it before but after 5 minutes of pulling, pushing and prying we resort to reaching arms underneath up to our shoulders. Another 5 minutes and we have the envelope. Open it, tell the Amex representative the card number for authorization. She won’t authorize it because Joe isn’t calling from his home phone number. He explains that we are traveling for 3 weeks and had the card sent to a hotel which is why he cannot call from his home phone number to authorize the card. She puts us on hold and says that for security reasons she cannot authorize the card.
Joe has a 10 minute discussion with her explaining that we not only need gas but will also need to use this card for our lodging. She puts us on hold. Amex authorizes us for $400 of spending for the remainder of the night. In the meantime he has had to use Courtney’s card to pay for gas. This attendant who has watched us pull apart the truck now has to reconcile that Joe’s name is Courtney. Joe is asked for identification and then does his best sales pitch in a plea of trust because they have the same last name.
We get to the hotel and use the old card to pay for the room no problem. This is how the days go by.
Other notable events because I hear Bo’s daughter is actually reading the blog. Tonight we stop for gas. We use the old card and $7.00 exactly into the fill the pump shuts off. The text on the pump says “Stopped See Attendant”. We go in to speak to the attendant while Joe calls Amex again. After 20 minutes Bo just uses the old card in the pump behind ours. It authorizes so I back up the truck while Chet is in with the attendant and Joe is on the phone with Amex. Bo fills the truck and just prior to driving away I glance in the side view mirror and the gas door is open with the gas cap flapping in the wind. I stop the truck and ask Bo who’s side he is on.
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
After the past two days of heavy hill climbing our bodies show outward signs of wear. Chet is limping a bit and dipping a shoulder. I am walking very gently on a sore knee and hip. Joe never walks the same way twice so who knows what his body is going through. Bo’s body has thawed and he is awake early and looking for food.
Chet and I agree this morning should be a cross training routine. We stretch, eat breakfast and then hike up a mountain trail in Telluride. The mountains surrounding Telluride are steep and colored with yellow Aspens against deep green pines. The trail is wide and we climb quickly. Joe starts running and I look over to Chet who is shaking his head. He just can’t seem to get Joe to rest or recover for the coming 200 miles he will pedal on Saturday.
I forgot to mention, yesterday while we were in in Silverton Bo ordered rocky mountain oysters. When they arrived I mouthed to Chet, “does he know”. Chet shook his head – no. I smirk and decide get a video of it. I go through the ingredients in each lunch at the table as if I am a gourmet on TV. When I get to Bo I stop and ask him what is within the fried batter. He says Oysters. I say “yea, from the nearby sea”. My clues go unnoticed. Chet finally takes one and eats it. He starts questioning Bo about the ingredients and their origin. When Bo learns where these fried gems come from he is surprisingly calm. After several minutes he says, “then these must be aphrodisiacs “. I add a comment that Joe should be a little worried as he and Bo are rooming together.
The road between Telluride Colorado and Flagstaff Arizona is much different than any road we have ridden. The traffic passes at 55-70 mph and the shoulder is small. The very noticeable difference is that the traffic participates in what could only be called a passfest. It is a two lane highway and the cars never stay in their own lanes. It reminds me of an ant trail. They head directly for each other all along the route. I am told there is some communication takes place when they run into each other. Joe pedals along the road with his head down to avoid being sand blown. When he looks up he is continually looking at two cars coming at him. One vehicle is in the proper lane on the other side of the road and the second vehicle in his lane.
The road passes through Four Corners. Four corners is where Utah, New Mexico, Colorado and Arizona meet. It should be called Four shit because there is nothing noteworthy other than the dust storm that envelopes Joe as he cranks along the flat road. Miles and miles of nothing but pucker, scrub brush and a bicycle rider. With any luck one of the three won’t be there tomorrow morning.
We have been trying to charge most our expenses to Joe’s Amex card. It has been a nightmare from the first day, every day and usually at the most critical point of any day. Last night we are between Ouray and Telluride. We come upon the only gas station even slightly open and won’t make Telluride without a refill. We swipe the Amex card at the pump. “See Attendant”. We go in to speak with the attendant and she says the card will require a special authorization.
This card has been cancelled for months but Joe grabbed it by accident. We have been using it with mixed results for the last 11 days. Joe had a new card sent to our hotel in Lamar, CO two nights ago. We have the new card but since we have been on the phone every day with Amex we decide to see how far we can get on the old card. Amex guaranteed Joe the card was null, void, cancelled and will never work again. That is why we go through the trouble of altering the “path of the cow” for a single night and must plan to be in Lamar to pick up the card.
Joe is on the phone again with Amex and the new card is in an envelope which fell behind the back seat in the cab of the truck. We cannot figure out how to drop the back seat. Joe assures us he has done it before but after 5 minutes of pulling, pushing and prying we resort to reaching arms underneath up to our shoulders. Another 5 minutes and we have the envelope. Open it, tell the Amex representative the card number for authorization. She won’t authorize it because Joe isn’t calling from his home phone number. He explains that we are traveling for 3 weeks and had the card sent to a hotel which is why he cannot call from his home phone number to authorize the card. She puts us on hold and says that for security reasons she cannot authorize the card.
Joe has a 10 minute discussion with her explaining that we not only need gas but will also need to use this card for our lodging. She puts us on hold. Amex authorizes us for $400 of spending for the remainder of the night. In the meantime he has had to use Courtney’s card to pay for gas. This attendant who has watched us pull apart the truck now has to reconcile that Joe’s name is Courtney. Joe is asked for identification and then does his best sales pitch in a plea of trust because they have the same last name.
We get to the hotel and use the old card to pay for the room no problem. This is how the days go by.
Other notable events because I hear Bo’s daughter is actually reading the blog. Tonight we stop for gas. We use the old card and $7.00 exactly into the fill the pump shuts off. The text on the pump says “Stopped See Attendant”. We go in to speak to the attendant while Joe calls Amex again. After 20 minutes Bo just uses the old card in the pump behind ours. It authorizes so I back up the truck while Chet is in with the attendant and Joe is on the phone with Amex. Bo fills the truck and just prior to driving away I glance in the side view mirror and the gas door is open with the gas cap flapping in the wind. I stop the truck and ask Bo who’s side he is on.
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Thursday September, 25 2008 - Day 11
Thursday September, 25 2008 - Day 11
http://ultrabongo.blogspot.com/
Pagosa Springs 7AM – Joe and Bo head out in the early morning light. It is 38 degrees and Joe refuses any offer for gloves or additional clothing. There is no wind in the parking lot and this gives Bo a very false sense of warmth. He is happy to be biking today and Joe has agreed to keep a pace that Bo can maintain. Bo doesn’t know the first 5 miles are downhill and fast. The windchill will most likely be closer to 25 than 35. Chet and I grab some melon from the hotel continental breakfast bar and load the truck.
The planned route today gives Joe and Bo some time together between Pagosa Springs and Durango (about 50 miles of rolling hills). I will join Joe from Durango to Silverton (about 50 miles over two steep passes). Joe will ride from Silverton to Ouray (about 24 miles over one pass) alone and during that time the support truck will drop me in Ouray and I will run back towards Silverton. We will eat dinner in Ouray and drive to Telluride in order to sleep at high altitude (Joe’s request).
Bo didn’t get to ride over Wolf Pass yesterday. He missed the suffering as well as the glory of the 10 mile climb and nine mile 7% grade descent to Pagosa Springs. Talking about it over dinner he is noticeably upset to have missed out on all the action. We remind him his support services were instrumental to our success but he has never seen such steepness and is interested in testing himself.
Chet and I catch up to Bo 15 miles out of Pagosa Springs. He is cold and hungry. We give him a small amount of food and a large portion of encouragement. Chet also gives him some winter riding cloves. His lips are purple and his fingers are not functioning. Bo pedals away and we track down Joe who is wearing minimal clothing and has abandoned Bo. We ride up next to Joe and he is frozen. His lips are moving but the words are not forming properly. It is like he has had several well place Novocain shots. We ask him if he wants gloves or additional clothing and he talks about the wooly mammoth he passed a couple miles back and makes other colorful references to the ice age. In the end, he refuses all support and cracks a couple more jokes. I turn up the heater in the truck and we head back to check on Bo.
We pull over and Bo stops his bike quickly. He says he is feeling light headed and can’t feel his fingers. He is shaking and we ask if there is anything we can do. He says “yes”. Load my bike into the truck. We get him in the truck and give him a dry change of clothes. He says that he surrenders. Unconditional surrender. I take a video of it because I know this moment needs to last forever. He says that being part of the riding crew isn’t worth whatever we are deriving from it. He continues to rub his hands together for the next 45 minutes and muttering random phrases.
We track down Joe and tell him we brought him a present. He sees Bo in the back seat and they have a very colorful conversation. Bo yells that he was abandoned and forced to bike without breakfast. Joe, from his bicycle chides Bo up and down and I think a little under the belly also. Chet and I nearly empty our bladders from laughter and then add some additional nitro to fuel the fire whenever the chance arrives. This will continue throughout the day in many forms.
For instance, I am in the middle of a 14 mile climb and Bo is on the side of the road in the support truck telling me the truck is warm and full of food all I need to do is stop and quit. He is yelling this with a heavy Chinese accent while hanging out the driver side window and pounding his hand on the truck door. This is how the days go by.
Joe is unimpressed with Durango. We eat at a local favorite breakfast spot Carvers Brewery. We walk in and are told there is a wait. The host goes to seat us and Joe immediately says “I want French Toast”. The host says, “I am not your waiter”, turns and walks away. Joe says “everyone working in a restaurant should be a waiter”. I explain to Joe that Durango has locals, who don’t like non-locals telling them what to do or how to do it. He says, “Yea, like I don’t know anything about that”.
During breakfast I convince Chet to come and ride with me between Durango and Silverton. It is one of the most spectacular roads in the country. I tell him Joe is going to blow me away like he did Bo in the morning and I won’t have the sense that Bo did this morning to quit. Chet really just wants to take pictures and relax. He agrees to come along but only at a touring pace (he should have had this term defined better). We leave on 550 North out of Durango. Yep, North, due North on the compass.
For any/all of you bothering to following our route let me digress deeply. First, when I was completing my undergraduate work in college an Indian professor teaching “Operations Mangement” explained a technical phrase “path of the cow”. He was doing research at the GE facility in Indiana where they build refrigerators. The first day on the job he was shown the production facility. The production line went left, right, left again, up down, left, right and all over the place without any rhyme or reason. I am no expert but my professor thought he was and he taught us if you watch cows grazing long enough they have the same random pattern, hence “path of the cow”. Second, finding the largest and longest hills possible is a priority in my nightly routing otherwise we would have been in LA yesterday. Third, gas prices are dropping so we figured we would waste some. Fourth, this is only the training ride. If anyone is interested in preplanned routes Joe will be starting a very predictable and planned route on October 3rd which can be found here - http://www.the508.com/route/index.html
The Durango to Silverton segment goes without incidence. Other than starting at 6,000 feet and climbing over two passes, one at 11,000 feet things went well. After the first pass Chet and I catch up with Joe. He is making phone calls on the side of a mountain. He complains about the length of these climbs and says that Vermont is a better place to train. A rainstorm passes nearby and drops the temperature by 20 degrees. We descend into Silverton on fast wet roads. Chet and I go full speed but Joe is not a fan of twisty downhills at 45 mph. This is the second day in a row that I am descending at 45 mph and the speed limit is 25mph. Chet also likes the speed and cornering. This may be the single example on the trip where Joe exhibits more sanity than the crew.
We eat in Silverton and take many pictures. We are wet and cold. Bo is very happy to see others have suffered like he did in the morning. He also points out that he suffered much worse in the morning. Joe loves the town and we talk about Bo opening a Chinese restaurant in North Carolina. The interesting part of the take out Chinese restaurant will be that there is no phone number or address for the restaurant. In fact, the name is BoJoe or JoeBo depending on who you listen to and the slogan is “don’t call us, we will call you”. We determine with a good list of eaters there will be no need to waste our time servicing the general population.
Chet decides Durango is his riding destination for the day. I decide to ride the remaining 24 miles instead of running from Ouray back towards Silverton. Joe and I head out of town and begin a long narrow ascent. The wind kicks us in the face and we gear down searching for speeds to allow some recovery on these steep climbs. Two bikers are flying down the other side of the road and I tell them they are going the wrong way. We climb, we stand, we sit, we climb. This cycle repeats itself until we surrender to the idea that there is not, and will not be any relief.
The downhill into Ouray has to be the most beautiful road in the world. It twists and winds through very steep ravines and the road surface is new. It is like going down into the Grand Canyon. The colors are vibrant and reek of reds and oranges where man threw these mountains innards onto their tuxedos. Deer are scattered and feeding roadside. The air is cool, crisp. I will never be able to find the right words for someone sitting in front of a computer terminal on the Northeast coast to explain why Google maps or any other program would not route any traveler within 1000 miles of this treasure onto 550. It is called the Million dollar Highway and in my opinion should be upgraded to platinum trillion dollar status.
Ouray creates a problem for Joe. He doesn’t know if he likes Ouray or Silverton better. Chet helps him out and gives him permission to like them both. It works. We enjoy all enjoy a Mexican trout dinner and then go to the Hot springs for some relief from the days riding. It is perfect. We go to a place that has a mineral bath in a cave. Bo is a little confused and I get him to put his shorts on before we enter the water.
Joe pedals for 130 miles today. I don’t know the ascent and descent numbers but they are high. We drive through the darkness to find out way to Mountain Lodge. Somehow these days start early, end late and are filled, correction overfilled. We have taken many pictures and movies over the past 3 days. I will try to upload them tonight and send out a link tomorrow.
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
http://ultrabongo.blogspot.com/
Pagosa Springs 7AM – Joe and Bo head out in the early morning light. It is 38 degrees and Joe refuses any offer for gloves or additional clothing. There is no wind in the parking lot and this gives Bo a very false sense of warmth. He is happy to be biking today and Joe has agreed to keep a pace that Bo can maintain. Bo doesn’t know the first 5 miles are downhill and fast. The windchill will most likely be closer to 25 than 35. Chet and I grab some melon from the hotel continental breakfast bar and load the truck.
The planned route today gives Joe and Bo some time together between Pagosa Springs and Durango (about 50 miles of rolling hills). I will join Joe from Durango to Silverton (about 50 miles over two steep passes). Joe will ride from Silverton to Ouray (about 24 miles over one pass) alone and during that time the support truck will drop me in Ouray and I will run back towards Silverton. We will eat dinner in Ouray and drive to Telluride in order to sleep at high altitude (Joe’s request).
Bo didn’t get to ride over Wolf Pass yesterday. He missed the suffering as well as the glory of the 10 mile climb and nine mile 7% grade descent to Pagosa Springs. Talking about it over dinner he is noticeably upset to have missed out on all the action. We remind him his support services were instrumental to our success but he has never seen such steepness and is interested in testing himself.
Chet and I catch up to Bo 15 miles out of Pagosa Springs. He is cold and hungry. We give him a small amount of food and a large portion of encouragement. Chet also gives him some winter riding cloves. His lips are purple and his fingers are not functioning. Bo pedals away and we track down Joe who is wearing minimal clothing and has abandoned Bo. We ride up next to Joe and he is frozen. His lips are moving but the words are not forming properly. It is like he has had several well place Novocain shots. We ask him if he wants gloves or additional clothing and he talks about the wooly mammoth he passed a couple miles back and makes other colorful references to the ice age. In the end, he refuses all support and cracks a couple more jokes. I turn up the heater in the truck and we head back to check on Bo.
We pull over and Bo stops his bike quickly. He says he is feeling light headed and can’t feel his fingers. He is shaking and we ask if there is anything we can do. He says “yes”. Load my bike into the truck. We get him in the truck and give him a dry change of clothes. He says that he surrenders. Unconditional surrender. I take a video of it because I know this moment needs to last forever. He says that being part of the riding crew isn’t worth whatever we are deriving from it. He continues to rub his hands together for the next 45 minutes and muttering random phrases.
We track down Joe and tell him we brought him a present. He sees Bo in the back seat and they have a very colorful conversation. Bo yells that he was abandoned and forced to bike without breakfast. Joe, from his bicycle chides Bo up and down and I think a little under the belly also. Chet and I nearly empty our bladders from laughter and then add some additional nitro to fuel the fire whenever the chance arrives. This will continue throughout the day in many forms.
For instance, I am in the middle of a 14 mile climb and Bo is on the side of the road in the support truck telling me the truck is warm and full of food all I need to do is stop and quit. He is yelling this with a heavy Chinese accent while hanging out the driver side window and pounding his hand on the truck door. This is how the days go by.
Joe is unimpressed with Durango. We eat at a local favorite breakfast spot Carvers Brewery. We walk in and are told there is a wait. The host goes to seat us and Joe immediately says “I want French Toast”. The host says, “I am not your waiter”, turns and walks away. Joe says “everyone working in a restaurant should be a waiter”. I explain to Joe that Durango has locals, who don’t like non-locals telling them what to do or how to do it. He says, “Yea, like I don’t know anything about that”.
During breakfast I convince Chet to come and ride with me between Durango and Silverton. It is one of the most spectacular roads in the country. I tell him Joe is going to blow me away like he did Bo in the morning and I won’t have the sense that Bo did this morning to quit. Chet really just wants to take pictures and relax. He agrees to come along but only at a touring pace (he should have had this term defined better). We leave on 550 North out of Durango. Yep, North, due North on the compass.
For any/all of you bothering to following our route let me digress deeply. First, when I was completing my undergraduate work in college an Indian professor teaching “Operations Mangement” explained a technical phrase “path of the cow”. He was doing research at the GE facility in Indiana where they build refrigerators. The first day on the job he was shown the production facility. The production line went left, right, left again, up down, left, right and all over the place without any rhyme or reason. I am no expert but my professor thought he was and he taught us if you watch cows grazing long enough they have the same random pattern, hence “path of the cow”. Second, finding the largest and longest hills possible is a priority in my nightly routing otherwise we would have been in LA yesterday. Third, gas prices are dropping so we figured we would waste some. Fourth, this is only the training ride. If anyone is interested in preplanned routes Joe will be starting a very predictable and planned route on October 3rd which can be found here - http://www.the508.com/route/index.html
The Durango to Silverton segment goes without incidence. Other than starting at 6,000 feet and climbing over two passes, one at 11,000 feet things went well. After the first pass Chet and I catch up with Joe. He is making phone calls on the side of a mountain. He complains about the length of these climbs and says that Vermont is a better place to train. A rainstorm passes nearby and drops the temperature by 20 degrees. We descend into Silverton on fast wet roads. Chet and I go full speed but Joe is not a fan of twisty downhills at 45 mph. This is the second day in a row that I am descending at 45 mph and the speed limit is 25mph. Chet also likes the speed and cornering. This may be the single example on the trip where Joe exhibits more sanity than the crew.
We eat in Silverton and take many pictures. We are wet and cold. Bo is very happy to see others have suffered like he did in the morning. He also points out that he suffered much worse in the morning. Joe loves the town and we talk about Bo opening a Chinese restaurant in North Carolina. The interesting part of the take out Chinese restaurant will be that there is no phone number or address for the restaurant. In fact, the name is BoJoe or JoeBo depending on who you listen to and the slogan is “don’t call us, we will call you”. We determine with a good list of eaters there will be no need to waste our time servicing the general population.
Chet decides Durango is his riding destination for the day. I decide to ride the remaining 24 miles instead of running from Ouray back towards Silverton. Joe and I head out of town and begin a long narrow ascent. The wind kicks us in the face and we gear down searching for speeds to allow some recovery on these steep climbs. Two bikers are flying down the other side of the road and I tell them they are going the wrong way. We climb, we stand, we sit, we climb. This cycle repeats itself until we surrender to the idea that there is not, and will not be any relief.
The downhill into Ouray has to be the most beautiful road in the world. It twists and winds through very steep ravines and the road surface is new. It is like going down into the Grand Canyon. The colors are vibrant and reek of reds and oranges where man threw these mountains innards onto their tuxedos. Deer are scattered and feeding roadside. The air is cool, crisp. I will never be able to find the right words for someone sitting in front of a computer terminal on the Northeast coast to explain why Google maps or any other program would not route any traveler within 1000 miles of this treasure onto 550. It is called the Million dollar Highway and in my opinion should be upgraded to platinum trillion dollar status.
Ouray creates a problem for Joe. He doesn’t know if he likes Ouray or Silverton better. Chet helps him out and gives him permission to like them both. It works. We enjoy all enjoy a Mexican trout dinner and then go to the Hot springs for some relief from the days riding. It is perfect. We go to a place that has a mineral bath in a cave. Bo is a little confused and I get him to put his shorts on before we enter the water.
Joe pedals for 130 miles today. I don’t know the ascent and descent numbers but they are high. We drive through the darkness to find out way to Mountain Lodge. Somehow these days start early, end late and are filled, correction overfilled. We have taken many pictures and movies over the past 3 days. I will try to upload them tonight and send out a link tomorrow.
Here is a link to the kids and cause we are riding for - http://www.lisas810.com/cause_AOR.html
With gratitude,
Chris
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