Yak Attack, Part II, The Prelude

“You don't have to be a hero to accomplish great things---to compete. You can just be an ordinary chap, sufficiently motivated to reach challenging goals.” ― Ed Hillary



It’s the middle of the night and I’m lying in bed, kept awake from a cough that’s persisted since coming down from Everest base camp a few days ago. To make matters worse, I think I’m starting to feel the onset of dysentery that’s had Romney bedridden for the last 24 hours. We ate the same thing, after all, so why wouldn’t I be? Good timing for her, since she’s accomplished her objectives and will be heading home in the morning. For me, however, I’m a little over a day from beginning one of the harder bike races on the planet. Hopefully, all of my discomfort can be chalked up to nerves.

When I look at my prep for the Yak Attack race, in comparison to what I’ve done in the past, I can’t help but get nervous. I’ve trained a fraction of what I used to when I raced bikes all the time. Yet here I am, about to mix it up with a bunch of serious racers on training schedule that’s featured about an hour a day on average. My head tells me I can pull it off, but until my body follows suit, I won’t really know.

I probably shouldn’t worry about fitness, since the Yak Attack can force you out for any number of reasons. Besides the obvious mountain biking obstacles, like crashing and equipment failures, you’ve got third world cuisine, strange diseases, dodgy water, Spartan accommodations, and many days, and more importantly nights, at very high altitude any one of which can force you to be carries off the mountain by a yak, such as what happened to professional racer Jeff Kerklove last year.

Not that I’ll see much of it from my perspective of eating everyone’s dust, but the race itself should be outstanding. There’s even a chance someone could beat the locals (Yuki, from Japan, comes to mind though I wouldn’t bet on it). The field is loaded, with 11 countries (at least) represented, that includes a professional adventurer followed by a film crew as he tries to tick off all the hardest challenges in the world, a stack of professional riders, a slew of eccentric, adventurous types, the crème de la crème of Nepalese cycling, and another bloke named Steve Edwards. We did a group ride the other day and everyone is flying. I know the the Yak Attack is more about adventure than racing but with all the talent here there’s no way it won’t be heated.



My only objective at the moment is to survive day one. I’m not feeling very good and I don’t think I’m the only one. Once the race settles into a rhythm it should be easier. We all suffer well or we wouldn’t be here. I think it’s the waiting around that making everyone crazy.

Anyway, it’s good to be back in Nepal with a goal instead of just touring. It’s not mountaineering but, in a way, more adventurous as the Yak Attack is a new kind of adventure with an unknown quality. The last time I was in Nepal one of my heroes, Sir Edmund Hillary, died. If you read this post from then you’ll see it was an oddly serendipitous thing. Now I’m back with what I hope will be an Ed-worthy adventure in store. My goal, like Ed, is simply to “knock the bastard off”. That said, if I can break 30 hours it’ll mean all of the prayer wheels I’ve been turning haven't been for naught.



This is so strange. This is a man who was profoundly influential on my life. The first thing that inspired me to climb was the book High in the Thin Cold Air, by Ed Hillary. On the cover was Amadablam, the mountain that inspired me to climb mountains. In fact, I was writing a blog on this topic, still unfinished, just this morning. I read everything that Hillary had written prior to ever lacing up a pair of boots. Hillary always reminded me of my dad. And here I am, in Nepal, Hillary's true home (he was the New Zealand ambassador and did a ton of work on the schools here) and most likely even drinking Everest beer, with Tenzing on the label, when he dies. Life can be poetic in the oddest sense.

This will likely be my last post for a while. We might find an internet connection over the next 4 days. Then we hit the mountains and will be limited to 10 kilos of stuff, which must include enough gear so we don’t die of exposure at 18,000’. When things get grim, I'll focus on one of my favorite quotes from Sir Ed.

"I don't remember much about those seven days (stuck in a snow storm on Cho Oyu) except that somewhere around day 4 or 5 George (Lowe, Kiwi not ours) came over, stuck his head inside my tent and said, 'You know, Ed, some people wouldn't think this was fun."

vids: the first is from our training ride this week, courtesy of nepali tea traders. the second is from 2011, which i'd heard about from andre, 60 years young and back for his second yak attack. it's a little tedious but starts picking up at minute 18:00. "i never want to see another mountain bike race in my life..."

In The Wake...

This week’s Psyche offers some reflection in the wake of part II of my November trilogy of pain, along with a couple of short videos that are follow-ups to earlier posts. First, I’ve cancelled this weekend’s trip south because moving is such a chore that I doubt its training effects would have been positive. In the last 7 days I’ve completed two big days that offered up completely different experiences. Here’s a little comparison.

The 25 Hours of Frog Hollow – Spending 12.5 on the bike in a day in every-other-lap fashion is a strange lesson in suffering. The down time between each lap is mainly spent refueling and arranging things for your next lap. You end up with about 15 minutes to relax before you need to get moving again. While it’s less painful than soloing, because you get some rest, you also can’t cash it in and nap when you’re tired because you know you’ve got a partner counting on you to show up every hour and ten minutes or so. Sitting on a bike for this long is simply painful, especially for your butt, feet, and hands. The latter got so pounded on the rocky descents that Jeff, my partner, switched to his suspension bike during the last few laps. And while you’re very tired at the end recovery is quick. I was back on my bike feeling decent (though not strong) in a few days.

11 Beachbody workouts – I’d stacked Beachbody workouts together before but nothing like this. The first four felt good but all of our workouts (unless you only chose recovery workout which wouldn’t be very interesting) break you down. I was slightly surprised that Power 90 and Slim in 6 still felt like exercise at their easiest level even though I’m fairly fit at the moment. These workouts shouldn’t be discounted. They’re the real deal. Reversing the order would have made sense but I was also after a chronological experience and, unfortunately, our workouts have been getting harder over the years.

And so Asylum Game Day (and last-minute addition Overtime) at the end were a fantastic trip to the pain exchange. Not surprising, since these workouts are extremely difficult and painful when done fresh, it was simply a bizarre experience to be screaming to keep up after many hours of training featuring workouts designed to be your only activity of the day. And while my explosiveness was kaput I managed to hit Shaun’s number benchmarks for “winning” (I think it’s 40 jump shots and 50 home runs) meaning that I never slacked off. In Overtime I hit a wall, big time, struggled mightily not to puke but this didn’t surprise me at all since that is certainly the hardest 12 minutes of exercise ever put on video.

By comparison the gym training is somewhat easier in that it’s got no outside elements such as cold and wind and no single points of overuse where your skin becomes a limiting factor. You can always turn down the intensity a notch and minimize the pain. However, because the workouts (by my designed line up of choice) systematically targeted all elements of body movement and fitness the overall breakdown factor was far more complete. Last night, trying to sit through a symphony, I could feel every muscle competing for limited resources for recovery and it was a struggle to stay awake. This morning, with the healing process still in its infancy, it took a big commitment to force my body out of bed. And while, in contrast to the 24 hour race when I had hot spots of pain, nothing really hurts; it just refuses to work. Translation (which should not be a surprise): the home training is better for you than playing a sport. Also, because the breakdown is specific the process of replenishing full body strength is going to take a lot longer.


And with that, here’s your weekend entertainment, both in the form of trailers. First (top), we have a video on the El Cap races. I’ve written about this a lot but this year, Hans again got himself fit enough (at 47 with a full time job) to have a go. In three tries with young hot shot Alex Honnald he’s come within 45 seconds of the record set last year by Sean O’Leary and Dean Potter. He says he’s now got the fitness to break it but the duo is waiting for the weather to improve and may not get another attmept 'til spring.

I’m saving my Wideboyz follow up for a training Psyche in the depths of winter but those interested know what they’ve done. Here is another trailer for what promises to be a cracking good time at the movies (silly pun not intended. I'm tired). And you want to take about pain? Well nothing I’ve described in the post comes close to this.


Wide Boys climb Century Crack from chris Alstrin on Vimeo.

12th Fastest 50 YO Short Course Duathlete In The World

My race didn’t go quite as planned as you might guess from the self-deprecation in the title. Actually it went very well given that I couldn’t run two steps 24 hours prior to the event. But, still, it’s not what I was envisioning whilst training. The title’s a play on an old birthday challenge video on one of Todd Mei’s challenges where everyone kept referring to Nate Emerson as “the 27th fastest ultra runner in the United States. 27th ain’t bad. Neither is 12th. It’s only bad when you could have gone faster.

so easily could have been 13th

“I’m running better than I have in years.”

Never say things like that. Especially right before a race. It virtually assures something bad will happen. And, sure enough, a couple of days after this utterance I’m pushing my training a little beyond normal (since, ya know, I was running so well and all) and, boom, one step too many. I knew right away what I’d done but didn’t think it was too bad. I’d aggravated an old soleus injury that manifests in the Achilles. I stopped immediately, walked home, and put my calf on ice.

Timing was pretty bad as it was during my last hard session before leaving for Europe, meaning I didn’t have time to see Geoff or Mike at Elite. Where I was heading, rural France, wasn’t going to have anyone to see either so I was on my own. This seemed fine as I know the rehab protocol well and I left optimistic.

hard to complain about lack of hard training in this setting

It improved over my two week race taper but not quite fast enough. Three days prior to the race I landed in Gijon and went straight to the Team USA medical team. After some consideration they decided on a light course of therapy. It was a gamble but given it hurt too bad to be competitive, and perhaps even race, it was worth a shot. A few hours later, as the team paraded down the beach to the opening ceremonies, my Achilles felt as though it had been replaced with a burning iron rod. I listened to the festivities at a hotel bar while icing my calf, figuring that my race was probably over.

But I had two days so I kept trying. Ice, therapy, ice, rest, ice, sleep, ice. Repeat. Miraculously, the day before the race it felt ok, at least to walk. So I put on my shoes and warmed up, going through my series of warm-up drills. A okay. I then ran a little in my Hokas (huge crazy-looking shoes with heaps of padding designed for ultra runners), which went well enough. So I tried my race flats. Step one, yes! Step two, damn!

In a last-ditch effort I went back to the doc (and chiro) for a more aggressive taping job and some meds. He said he’d found heel lifts in a random store (I’d already tried the local sports store) so I bought three different styles. I also picked up some compression socks on his recommendation. I was going to try every possible option to keep my soleus together for what I hoped to be about an hour of hard effort.

In the morning the pain was still there so I added some old school cast-style taping to the new-fangled physio tape I’d been given. I then quaffed down some new meds provided to me my friend Spider, that the team doc told me were now banned. Spider assured me that with a prescription they were legal (he is a doc so I had one) and that he’d been tested at Nationals while taking them, told them he was taking them, and was fine. Plus, I had to medal in order to be tested anyway, the odds of which seemed precisely nil even if I could run pain free given:

I had the wrong bike set-up for the hilly course

there was room for one wheelset so I gambled

I hadn’t been able to do a hard effort in three weeks

I could not warm-up properly since my bike was already in transition and I wasn’t going to waste precious steps before the race

I was running in what would look like clown shoes to the other competitors

admittedly the entire outfit is clown worthy

Then I added more tape outside of my compression sock, stacked two heel lifts inside my shoes, and was ready to square off against the fastest age-group athletes in the world. As the pic shows, I’m pretty confident.

About 400 meters after the gun my “race” was over. I started slow—needing a proper warm-up—and hoped if nothing hurt I could steadily speed up throughout the race. But after a quarter mile or so it already seemed as though I was far too far behind to be competitive. And my calf hurt. A lot.

But I really wanted to finish as long as I wasn’t going to do any lasting damage. My thoughts were that if I made it onto the bike I’d be in there, which I still felt was the case until I had to do the short transition run in bare feet. By the time I’d clipped into my bike I was no longer sure I’d even finish the bike, much less the final run.

As I rode it began to feel better. There was a 5k climb on the bike course and quite a few riders passed on my way up. However, I was able to keep them in sight and at the crest of the climb, with everything seemingly intact, I got to thinking I would finish and decided to race a little bit. On the downhill and subsequent flats I passed everyone who had passed me and quite a few more. For the only time during the race I was actually flying. It felt good, until...

I had just caught some guy coming into the last transition and we started our few hundred meter transition run together. I lost at least 100 meters to him over the course of my barefoot hobble. The last run, however, started oddly fine and in the first half I caught this guy and a couple of others. Then I felt a bad twinge up my calf and spent the last mile or two running slow and worrying about the hot poker someone had rudely shoved inside my calf. I got passed by a couple of Spaniards with nary a reaction but, upon entering the stadium, when I heard a guy closing quickly I managed to summon up a kick feeble enough to fend him off, which I’m pretty sure bummed him out based on the scream he let off when he didn’t catch me by the line.

the more i look at these the more i think that he really deserved to catch me.

I had no idea what place I’d finished and I didn’t care (I only found out when Bruce posted it on Facebook). All I knew was that it wasn’t last and that I’d managed to finish the race, which made me happy. I hobbled out of find Romney, who helped me into the med tent, where I needed to spend some time before starting our actual vacation.

romney properly holidaying

Lying in the tent I asked her—and myself—why I did these races when it’s so much more fun to climb, or ride, or just run through the mountains without a thought of time or speed or placing. I didn’t have an answer and started wondering how much money I could get for my bike in Spain (someone asked to photograph my bike—just the bike) so I wouldn’t have to cart it around. But as people wandered in and out of the tent, all psyched just to be at this event, no matter how injured they were or how they finished, the vibe grew on me. And I started wondering what it would be like to come to Worlds and have a race where everything went perfectly....

Non-Race Report

After crashing hard on a ride Sunday it now seems official that my only races this year will a state championship, national championship, and world championship. I guess if you’re going to race you might as well go big. I will also add that this is not the best way to prepare for racing, especially if you’ve any interest in your results.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. At the beginning of the year my calendar was filled with preparatory races. Duathlons are scarce in my part of the world but I travel a fair amount so it didn’t seem like such a task to run into a few here and there. However, my work and race schedule’s never synched up and the closest I found myself to a duathlon on any given weekend was a nine hour drive. I’d also circled some tris, runs, and bike races to do and none of them worked out either.

Other than Duathlon Nationals, which I had to do in order to qualify for Worlds, the only race I made it to was our mountain biking state championships. This had nothing whatsoever to do with prepping for multi-sports. I only entered this race so I could qualify for nationals, visit my friend Rebecca, and ride all the trails she’s always going on about. I did manage to qualify, traveled to Ketchum for the event, which leads to this installment of the non-race report.

biketown.


The non-race report requires some back story. Cycling and triathlon teams have tradition where the best placed rider on the team writes up a race report and submits it to the team mailing list. During the end of my race-every-weekend stint as a road racer, when I missed a long stretch of races for strange, amusing, and downright lazy reasons, I submitted a “non-race report” that seemed to entertain the lads as well help them not feel bad about calling early on a race morning to make sure I’d show up.

reed on a night where we probably weren't making the races in the morning.

Most of these tales included my friend Reed. We were on the same team we lived an hour apart. This meant that it generally made sense to stay at whomever’s house was closest to the next day’s race. And this led to a series of last-minute decisions about things to do that might be more fun than riding our bikes in circles as fast as we could. These might include an epic road ride, a long climb we’d been wanting to tick off our list, a casual group ride that was supposed to be attended by cute girls, mountain biking, rock climbing, or simply a long night of drinking and socializing leading to us wanting more sleep. The first few excuses were legit but, after a while, we decided that it really was more fun to just ride our bikes on our own time than it was to race. I haven't raced much since.

who looks like a pig?

yep, biketown.


So I’m in Ketchum, a few days before Nats, and not exactly tapering. In fact I’m trying to ride as many of the classic local rides as possible before the short holiday is over. I’ve got two races on the schedule, neither of which I care too much about. The morning of the first race I head out early to pre-ride the course, and crash. Hard.

reba got this call while we were at breakfast. it's mountain biking. sometimes you crash. at least my crash didn't turn out like this.

It’s a stupid crash because it’s on a part of the course that I’d already determined to run because Rebecca told me it would be much faster. But I’m going slow and warming up and just want to see if I can clear the obstacles. I don’t preview anything and one second I’m hopping over a tree and the next I’m doing cartwheels down a mountain side. I’m shocked, because it looked rather innocuous, but if I’d bothered to glance at it beforehand I would have seen a root shooting out from the back of the tree that was like a small ramp leading off of the trail. I’m pretty bloodied but everything seems to be working so I ride the rest of the course and then head to breakfast. The next morning one hand would be too swollen to grab my brakes—and is still bothering me a month later—but that’s an aside.

A little later, Finnegan and I begin a nice long and slow warm-up for the race. Norba (now USA Cycling) races are short (usually 10-20 miles) and ridiculously fast out of the gate. They are hard to warm-up for because the first few minutes are absolutely full gas. Since I often settle in about hour three (too much enduro stuff over the last decade) I decide to warm-up for an hour and a half; riding aerobic for most of it and putting in a few hard efforts to “open the pipes,” as cyclists say. This also doubles as a workout for Finn and allows me to preview another classic trail.

At some point along this trail thoughts of the long-forgotten non-race report start to trickle into my head. The trail is great. It’s empty. We’re surrounded with quiet, just a few mountain sounds, and jillion-dollar views. I hit the end of my warm-up and sit down to have a snack. I can faintly make out the race announcer, far below, and picture the mayhem of 100 guys all redlining to be first into a dusty stretch of singletrack. I look in the other direction, where empty trail stretches forever into a mountain range I’ve yet to visit. Finnegan has never looked happier. I ask his advice. Needless to say, the non-race report is alive and well.

at this point there's only one rational decision that can be made.

BAM - A Race Report

Since Tony likes to say "bam", it seems fitting that it would be the name of my first event during this round of 90X. My friend Mike told me recently that he needed "an eye opener" to motivate him to train so he had signed up for something that would destroy him. Last weekend I heard about an off-road duathlon called the BAM (for Battle at Midway). Since I hadn't been able to run and had not done a single run this year--since hurting my ankle in India--it didn't seem feasible but I had been getting better and decided to peruse the race web site anyway. As soon as I saw there was a dog division I was sold. If I could run at all, this would be my eye opener.

Not only hadn't I run but I hadn't mountain biked but once, and this hurt as my now 6 week old surgery has me in a state sensitive to jarring movements). Furthermore, I was swapping out my Anasazi frame to turn my "silly" 69er into an actually usable 29" squishy geared bike. Beyond that, I'd never run with Beata. Tuco's beyond his racing years but B would be psyched, for sure. But since I hadn't been running, and Romney doesn't run, well than neither had she--at least over distance with a leash. So my first race of the year would include three milestones: first run of the year, first run with Beata, first ride on my new hippie bike. I think this qualifies it as an eye opener.

Sunday morning we lined up with a small field of dogs behind the main pack of competitors and waited for that cannon to go off. If you're thinking that a cannon might not be the best device to start a race with dogs you'd be right. One dog got away from the owner, who had to chase it down and then run back to the start. Beata was clearly confused but happy. We were running with a pack of dogs and chasing a bunch of people. Woof.

Soon we'd moved ahead of all the dogs and were passing most of the people. B looked a little uncomfortable and kept looking back for other dogs. Around a mile in a couple of dogs pulling their owner made a move and passed us. Beata seemed a little more at ease racing from behind.

By mile two they were a ways out in front and she began to sense what we were doing. Instead of running at my heels she moved up, looked at me, then up the trail. "Want to get 'em?" She looked enthused. We picked up the pace. We were about to catch them when one of the dogs stopped for her morning dump, which thrust us into the lead. B seemed pretty pleased about this and we headed towards the transition near the front of the entire race.

I handed her to Romney and took off on the new hippie ride. With 1,200' of climbing in 12 miles I figured this would make or break the race. By the summit I'd created a gap, which I held all the way to the second transition. Our race was still up in the air, however, since Beata had never run this fast over this much ground. I had no idea how she'd be dealing.

"How's she doing?" I asked entering the transition.

"She's can't wait to run," replied Romney.

Apparently, as the other dogs came in B's eyes where glued out to the course awaiting my return. Romney was stellar as our team's director sportiff. She hydrated B, let Ratso intimidate the competition, and made sure B had taken care of her business so we wouldn't have to stop during the race. As I approached she was fired up to get back out there.

We began the final run slowly. This is always the case in du's as you need to get your "sea legs" back after being on the bike. in spite of her protesting to go faster, I walked B on a couple of steep paved sections because pavement can be hard on paws and I was tired. Well before mile one, however, I noticed her look back with a sense of urgency. Some dogs were gaining on us. And quickly.

I'd hoped for a cruise home but it was not to be the case. I was hurting but we weren't going to let this one go. How many chances do you get in life to stand on a podium with your dog, anyway? We picked it up and B did fine. We increased our lead a bit so I stopped at an aid station to see if she wanted anything. She looked at me, then back down the trail, then up the road again and accelerated. She knew we were racing and didn't want anyone getting back in it. At the next one approached I pulled us near the "doggie pool" just in case.

"Need a drink?" A glance at the pool, then eyes fixed straight ahead and another acceleration. By the finish we'd put an extra two minutes into our completion. Beata then ignored a dog who ran up to us on the finishing straight. She was like a race horse running for the wire and nothing was going to interfere with her concentration.

She seemed really pleased when I placed the medal over her neck and revelled in all the attention. She like the medal ceremony, too, but I think her favorite part was when Tuco found the pizza delivery guy before it was announced and brought her over so they could score a bunch of pizza before anyone else.

We were a pretty happy family. Romney was like a proud parent and wrote this race report. Tuco may have lost his physical dominance but can still work a crowd. And I think I've found my new sport. I wonder if it has a world championship event?

The E100 - A Day of Mass Carnage

It's time to finally get my report up, so here we go. The E100 is one of the hardest single-day mtn bike races in the world. Its profile looks difficult enough on paper, with 100 miles and somewhere between 16,000 and 18,000' of climbing, but the true difficult is the nature of the racing. It's almost all single track. Much of it is winding and technical and slow. Over the 100 miles course there are only a few short points where you can relax on your bike. Mainly, you're paying close attention the entire time. It’s not ultra technical, just enough that you need to pay attention. It’s also fun riding. Really really fun.

The bike decision

All summer I'd been riding my 29” single speed. However, I didn't feel like I could finish 100 miles on it, at least not this particular 100. The week before the race I did two loops on the most technical part of the course on my Rig (ss) and my light, geared, 26" Fetish Seduction. I was much faster on the Fetish. Furthermore, I felt like I was using a lot less energy. I purposefully chose the section of the course that would suit gears and small wheels but, still, the advantage seemed significant. Most importantly, however, was my concern over my knee that I’d injured in a similar race two seasons ago. I’d ride the little wheels.

The course

I’d helped the race organizer, Boris, mark the course the week before. Unfortunately, construction had closed many of the trails used in prior years so we wouldn’t be riding on Deer Valley. This meant that two sections of the course would be done twice. The “full” course was now 100k, which was an option for the race.

These laps meant that we’d climb Spiro four times. Spiro is a nice climb. It’s technically easy but a steep grind. On two of the laps we’d continue beyond the top of Spiro for another 1,000’ nearly to the Wasatch Crest. As we finished our work we ran across a guy who was prepping for the race. His comment “I think four laps on Spiro is going to cause some problems” would turn out to be prophetic.

Stage 1

At 6:00, in the dark, we set off up the mile-some-odd steep dirt road that was used to sort the field prior to the single track. I spun up this at a fairly easy rate knowing we had a long day ahead. I passed a bunch of single speeders and wasn’t missing my Rig yet.

The next section, Billy’s Bypass and John’s, are quite technical climbing. I’d never cleared this section on my own and, at race pace, I didn’t even try. It was easier to just get off and walk during some sections as opposed to riding anaerobic.

As we hit Mid Mountain I felt pretty good. The long ride to The Canyons was a section I was familiar with but it sure went a lot faster with all these folks out here pushing me along. As we neared Red Pine Lodge I thought I felt a twinge in my knee. “It couldn’t be,” I thought. “I must have clipped a bush or something.” I took it somewhat easy down Holly’s into the transition where I ate, stretched, and re-filled my pack.

Stage 2

This stage begins with a long rocky climb back to Mid Mountain. I took it slow and steady. A couple of single speeders had passed me on MM and as I passed them going up we chatted about the difference in a race like this. Even though I was passing them, I missed my other bike.

My knee was definitely hurting. It wasn’t bad, yet, but it was certainly exactly the same thing that had knocked me out of the 508 two years ago. I kicked it into a very small gear and soft pedaled the best I could. At the top of the climb I stopped, let a bunch of people past me, and stretched.

I passed some people on Mid Mountain and finally settled into a small group. We passed a few people already hurting. On guy said he was done, even though he was riding the 50 mile version. This was on the downhill section, so I think he was thinking about his last climb up Spiro. I rolled into the checkpoint still feeling hopeful. I got rid of my lights, re-fueled, but didn’t take any anti-inflammatories. I want to feel my knee. If it got bad I’d back out. It wasn’t worth another 6 month rehab process just to finish this thing, which I was started to wonder about the prospect of even if my knee wasn’t hurting.

Stage 3

The climb up Spiro was obviously bothering people as I passed riders at a regular rate. I sat and spun the best I could, trying to conserve energy. My knee felt fine for a while. In fact, it felt fine through the hardest section of the climbing. Near the top it all changed. It began to hurt, exactly like before. I could stand and it would go away, which confirmed that it was the same issue. I began to wonder about my future as an endurance cyclist.

On the last section of the climb, up Mid Mountain, I knew my ‘race’ was over. There was no way I could survive this climb three more time without risking some serious time off the bike. It was irritating. I wasn’t suffering enough to quit, so I began to think of a way to earn my day. I was cautious on the descent. No reason to risk anything, like hitting a tree, going down John’s. I’d done this trail a lot, but never too fast. I don’t even know how to do it fast. By this time the leading racers were passing me on their second laps of stage 3 and it was cool to see how fast they could negotiate this terrain. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to ride like that and it made me wonder how I could possible suck so bad at something. I then came upon a guy being rescued who’d obviously hit a tree. He didn’t look well. I’d remain cautious.

Stage 4

We were supposed to do stage 3 twice but by the time I got to the transition I had a plan: to finish the course. This meant I’d do stage 4 instead, which would get me a 100K finishing time—though it would be unofficial. I asked Boris about it and he encouraged me to finish the 100 miler. I had time, he said, so even going slow I wasn’t doing too badly. But it just wasn’t an option. I was 100% sure I’d get injured, if I wasn’t already. I now just wanted to finish the course, tick 100 of something, and not have to stay off my bike through the fall.

5 minutes later I realized this was going to be a longer proposition that I’d hoped. I was walking. Last lap I’d ridden all of Spiro without a break. Now I could hardly pedal without pain. All I had was about 5 miles and 3,000’ of elevation gain to go before I could ride. It was going to suck.

For a while I tried to ride the flatter sections but as soon as the pain began to radiate to the back of my knee I bagged this idea. I’d have to walk the entire climb. Yikes. I took at break at the Mid Mountain transition with an official and a guy who was hurting, too. There was carnage everywhere. Most people were walking and turning into their second lap of stage 3. By this time they had no hope of making the time cut.

Like an adventure racer, I walked with my bike. The race official at the lake asked if I needed medical help. I told him I was fine, just injured, and was going to finish the course no matter how long it took. Finally, I arrived at the top. From here it was 12 miles, most of it downhill, to the ‘finish’. Except for the few short up hill sections it was pretty uneventful. I felt like I’d made the best out of the situation. It was a good day of riding—even the walking part.

Postscript

Here’s another report I found. This guy finished 80 miles and didn’t make the cut. From the data it looks as though the 100k was 69 miles. It’s got a lot more detail than I provided. He also has pictures, which is what he did when his race went south. They were the only pics of the course I could find. Too bad. The course is stunning.

http://www.mtbguru.com/trip/show_static/2775-e100-race

In the end, only 22 people finished the 100 miles. And not one of them was on a single speed. NOT ONE. Crazy. And only two women finished. This was far worse than in previous years so, apparently, those laps on Spiro took their toll. I was about the last person after lap three who still had a chance, time wise, so the carnage had begun fairly early. As I sat at the finish sipping beer and icing my knee people were coming in after stage 4 just cooked. No one seemed bummed about missing the time cut. “I’m done,” was the common sentiment. I didn’t hear one person ask to be let out for their final lap, and quite a few were only minutes off the cut-off time. It was/is a hard race.

After talking to a bunch of people I’m pretty sure my bike caused my knee problems. It’s too small, for one (I’ve never had a proper mtn bike fit like I do for my road bikes, which I’m gong to change) but I think it’s mainly the slight suspension bob and the continuous seated pedaling. On the ss you are constantly stressing different muscle groups because you can’t sit and spin. I talked to a few single speeders who have experienced the same problem.

If I could do it again I’d opt for the 100k on the ss. However, my goal for next year is to finish the 100 mile on the ss. I’d better start training now. I think I’ll begin with some rehab and then a solid off-season of weight training. I’m going to need stronger legs.

This race is awesome. I can’t wait to have another crack at it. See ya out there next year. Start training now.

3 Scrapes to the Ground, Baaaahhhh

I did my first official ultra the other day, the Wasatch Speedgoat 50k in Snowbird. This wasn't your typical ultra as it was designed by the Speedgoats, two guys that include Karl Meltzer, the best trail runner in the world. Karl hates running on flat ground. For him, the more rugged the better. The course would end up outdoing their initial estimate of 20,000' of elevation change for 50k.

This was all fine with me. I dislike flat running as well. In fact, I almost never run on flat ground anymore. If I can't get to a trail I don't run, and most of the trails I choose are really more hiking than running anyway. So while I kinda knew this course would suit me, I had no idea if racing such a thing would.



Turned out to be a blast. With 100 degree temps at home, the altitude was just where you wanted to be this day. The air was cool and the wildflowers were going off. And, as it turns out, ultra-running is a lot like what I do when I roam around in the mountains anyway.

The race began with a massive climb to the top of Snowbird. This gave us plenty of time to sort things out and even though I had no clue as to what I was getting into, after about 15 minutes I was in the group I'd be with most of the day. I learned that everyone has strengths and weaknesses in these things. Some can fly on the downhills while others prefer the uphills. I didn't find out about flats because we never had a step of such terrain (the Snowbird tunnel being the closest thing to level).

My forte was anything technical, so I put in an attack going over the top of Baldy to catch a large group before we decended the "ropes" section. I knew this would not provide a challenge and didn't want to end up waiting for people. I ended up meeting another climber in this section, Joy, as she passed me with a cool bold move as I was tactfully waiting for someone I'd caught at a roped section. We ended up with a pretty good gap during this and spent a fair bit of the race together, mainly talking about climbing and her upcoming trip to be old backyard, the Sierras.

The main difference between what I normally do in the mountains was not stopping. Normally I move fast but stop to eat. This, I think, caused some problems with my nutrition and on the last big climb I started to lose it. I couldn't tell if it was lack of water, salt, too much gel or too little calories but something had me on the verge of puking. Greg, A guy I'd spent much of the first part of the race with, caught and quickly dropped me here. He was training for the Wasatch 100 and, I could tell, was going to need to sort this problem out to complete that sucker. While I was a bit worked there was no doubt about finishing. I was moving fine, just not as fast as I would have liked. I'm thinking this is just part of this whole ultra experience.

The final downhill was a steep fast pounding down a loose dirt road. Here I found a place where more rugged shoes would be better than what I was wearing. I generally don't like stiff trail runners but, on a course like this one, they would be an advantage. Guess this is why Meltzer is always pimpin' his Montrail Vitesses.

I was catching someone on the early technical section but as soon as we hit the steep road he reversed this and pulled away. Not wanting to risk getting injured (my so-far successful training goal for the year) unless getting passed was on the line I slowed down. This didn't last too long as near the end I saw Sarah, who'd been with Greg and I for the first third of the race, bearing down on me racing with another guy. I knew Sarah was a fast downhill runner because Greg had been passed and beaten by her at the end of their last race. This caused me to pick it up to hold them off. Thankfully there wasn't a lot more course left.

At the finish I was offered a beer and Ultragen. I accepted both. Of course, beer first. Maybe this was a sport I could embrace. I had no idea how long we'd been out there. It could have been 5 hours, it could have been 10. I was surprised at hearing 6:25. It seemed pretty fast until we heard the course was short. The winning time, 5:40, also didn't seem impossible to me at all as I was tentative during a lot of places I could have gone faster. All in all, I felt okay and wasn't injured, so it was a success.

While the course was short, it also had even more elevation change than anticipated, nearly 12,000' in each direction. This profile would make it the toughest organized 100 in the world. Though I'm not too sure I'd want to do nearly four laps on this course, the proposition of such a challenge is intriguing.

Here is one competitor's race data along with the course profile.

While waiting for Sandee, who'd come up from sea level to experience eight hours of hypoxia (the course averaged over 10,000'), I hung out with the ultra crowd who, not surprisingly, reminded me a lot of the birthday challenge crowd. It was a nice afternoon with good people, drinking beer and laughing at the absurdity of what we were doing.



In the end, Sandee and I both picked up some schwag (thanks, Nathan) and I won an award, one of the coolest trophies I've ever recieved. We all got "chicked" by Petra McDowell, which isn't odd for ultra running. And since Karl said he had expected her to win, I'll assume she's as good at this stuff as she looks--which is fast. I was a little beat up (Sandee ran the next day--sheesh) but will probably do some more of these things, or at least this one each year.



Special thanks to the Speedgoats, Scott and Karl, for putting on an outstanding event. Being new to this I asked runners along the course what their favorites races were. "This one's pretty damned good," was a common reply.

Three scrapes, guys. Baaaaahhhhh.

Speedgoat Web Site