A day in the life...

A day in the life of this crazy rower usually entails some work in the lab, a ride on the bike, a climb in the gym, a hike out in the desert, or some form of athletic activity. But, if I could have it my way, every 24 hours (with maybe a few days rest here and there) would be spent like the Kona 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo. A day filled with friends, bikes, adrenaline, mud, nature, and an incredible community of like-minded people is a good day in my books.

After packing up the Jeep with three bikes, three people, all of our camping and biking gear, a ton of warm clothes, loads of food, and some blueberry beer, Hannah, Angel and I headed south on I-10 towards Tuscon. The weather was cold when we left Phoenix at 6 a.m., and as we drove south, the day dawned to an uncharacteristically gray, wet morning more fit for a Midwestern winter day than a western one. As the sun did its best to part the clouds, it revealed the peaks of Mt. Lemmon dressed to her foothills in a crisp white coat of snow. At 8:30 in the morning, the Jeep registered an outside temperature of 36, and as we turned onto Willow Springs Road, 20 miles of slush and mud led the way to 24 Hour Town. The long bumpy ride flanked by cholla was merely a foreshadowing as to what was coming...

When we arrived at 24 Hour Town, though, the festive, adventurous atmosphere put me at ease. I didn't care if the slush soaked our tennis shoes or the mud caked all over everything, it was an adventure, and we were far from being alone in elements. Thousands of racers and their mechanics, spectators, and families were camped out in tents and RVs all around our new desert home. Makeshift road signs were posted to help weary bikers find their way back to their own base camp. The feeling in the air was electric, alive with the prospect of racing, adventure, and the camaraderie of the mountain biking community. We found Jeremy and B.J. in the middle of the town and set up our portion of camp with hours to go before the start. After the race briefing and instructions on the Lemans start, we decided that I was to ride the first lap of our first ever 24 hour mountain bike race. It was by default, not skill, that I was chosen: no one else wanted the job and I was the only one that volunteered. I was a bit nervous, as I had only been on a bike for two weeks after returning from the ocean, but the excitement of racing again trumped the butterflies in my stomach, and I lined up my Gary Fisher with all of the other big name bikes, and jogged up to the starting line for the Lemans style start. Away from the rest of my novice, scrappy team whose characteristics consist of more toughness than talent, I felt a little out of place. In the five minutes before the gun went off, I tried to blend in as well as I could in my muddy tennis shoes and SIRAs rowing thermal. Everyone else... and I mean EVERY single biker other than myself on the starting line (I know, I checked), had on clipless biking shoes, and most had smart looking racing jerseys plastered with their sponsors. Only one other guy and I didn't have on clear lens glasses to keep the mud out of our eyes. The butterflies in my stomach threatened to burst through my ribcage the more I looked around the competition, but I was saved by the loud retort of Todd's (Epic Ride's easy-on-the-eyes organizer) shotgun that officially marked the start of the race. With the gun, all 500 or so of us took off like a stampede of high school cross country runners towards our bikes. A quarter mile of jostling elbows later, we found our respective teams, hopped on our bikes, and rushed out to the fire service road only slightly more spread out than when we began.

We rode in our crowded mass for the next mile or so before having the great pleasure of dropping down into "The Bitches." As a little bit of compensation for starting the race, we got to start at the top of these wonderfully tough little set of 6 hills rather than having to cut in at the bottom. Unfortunately, it didn't make too much of a difference, as there were so many riders and so much mud that with the exception of the elites out front, all of us were packed like slippery sardines on the ever narrower road and could not gain much speed downhill. On the ride up, I gained some confidence and started passing people who had been in the wrong gear or slipped in a patch of slop or had gotten bumped into. Once you lost your momentum on the infamous hills, you had no choice but to walk your bike to the top. I got bumped into on about the 3rd bitch, experienced some chain suck, and had to walk for a little bit, but soon got back up and into the pack. After a few miles, we had spread out a little more, and I was about mid-pack as we lined up for the first part of our singletrack adventures. We resembled a long colorful snake winding through the drab desert as we wound around the cholla and mesquite that lined the course. It was difficult to pass or be passed for the next couple of miles, and so we rode around in this fashion for some time, my group following a calculated rider who I dubbed "Old Mother Hubbard" (she was a solo racer who stood on the podium at awards and she turned out to not be that old, so I really can't say anything about her). Once we got back out to another service road, though, we started spreading out a little more. I pumped hard to get out of Mrs. Hubbard's pack, and by the time that we reached the "His and Her Trail," I was in a pack that I felt comfortable riding with. I was at the tail end of a group of about a dozen riders clipping along the trail at a good pace until the guy in front of me decided to become "Mr. Brakes." I had been having a great time for the first time on the curving, slightly less sloppy singletrack, and then he had to go and ruin my date with speed. We coasted along the rolling hills for some time, our original group leaving us eating the mud thrown up from their knobby tires and additional riders accumulating behind us until there was room to pass without getting a face full of cholla. When we finally did pass Mr. Brakes, we found ourselves up to our spokes in thick, soupy mud. My bike floated brilliantly through the 50 meters of uphill muck as I spun in my granny gear, all of us laughing together at the futility of what we were doing. The trail remained slick for the next several miles, finally spitting us out at the end in another 100 meters of mud puddles and ruts. Our bikes and bodies looked the worse for wear as we flung mud and spray high into the air and onto every inch of our beings, but you couldn't wipe the smiles off of our faces. By that time, the really good riders were well ahead, and we were a fun-loving group enjoying the hilarity of our situation. The next section of singletrack wound us around the back of the course, and I passed and got passed quite a bit, feeling more comfortable with the conditions all the time. Before I knew it, I had passed the final powerlines and was slogging up the last long hill, accidentally cutting off Mrs. Hubbard as I passed her and another young female rider, oops. After one more puddle, my tired legs pounded into the pedals and headed for home on the downhill stretch into camp. After 17 miles of mud, seeing the faces of my teammates cheering me on as I rounded the last bend before the exchange tent really got me smiling, and I flew the last half a mile on a high. In the tent, I checked in, handed the baton off to B.J., and walked out feeling on top of the world.

I spent the next few hours rehashing the first lap to my teammates, feeling really good that I had already gotten my first out of the way, and eating and drinking as much as I could stuff into my face. I got to fully enjoy the atmosphere for the first time, the sun streaming down on our camp and the excitement of the race still splattered on my face. Every hour and a half, we would walk down to the exchange tent to see in B.J., then Angel, and then Hannah. We were doing well, sitting 4th or 5th in our category with each lap. Well after the sun set, I waited for Jeremy to come in from his first lap. Finally around 9 p.m., the poor guy rolled in with busted tubes slung across his back, looking tired and defeated and having lost a fight with a thorny tree. I headed out, my HID headlamp burning up the dark night. I was alone as I started out, in complete and total contrast to my first lap. The adrenaline was gone, the sun was gone, and all of the other riders seemed to be swallowed up by the inky blackness surrounding the perimeter of my small lighted world. At first I was timid, cautiously riding over rocks and down the curving track, but by the time I reached the bitches for the second time, the effort of the hills pumped the life and excitement back into my body, and with every rider that passed me, I got more determined to step it up just a little bit more. When I reached the singletrack, I was confident in my abilities, and I flew along, again enjoying the freedom that speed allows. Looking up at the night sky, the old familiar friends of Orion and the Pleiades smiled back down on me. The track had dried up considerably since my first lap, and I happily pumped away in the cold night. I didn't want the ride to end, but before I knew it, I was turning off my headlamp and dismounting into the exchange tent, B.J. eager to get going on his night lap. The ride had me feeling as good as I had felt on the ocean, a bit tired, a bit wet with sweat, but completely at peace with the world and in awe of my surroundings. I spent the next hour staring into the flames of our little fire pit in a complete ocean rowing-like state. Ironically, Angel asked me what I was thinking as I appeared deep in thought, and it was so much like Kohl and I on the ocean that I had to laugh. After seeing her off for her second lap and stuffing my face with more food and drink, I curled up in my sleeping bag in the tent for a few hours, completely oblivious to the frost that was accumulating on my teammates and the trail upon which they rode. I heard all about the slick, Arctic-like conditions soon enough though while Jeremy was out on the trail, with the other four of us huddled in the tent and then in Jeep because it was warmer in there. I counted my blessings that I had taken the first lap and hadn't experienced those shifts. The "3-6" shift isn't a fun one anywhere, be it the ocean or the high desert. Just as the sun popped over the horizon, I headed out for my third lap. Even with the sun, it was still bitter cold and frosty. My hands complained against the cold handlebars and reluctantly shifted up and down the bitches. A wave of tiredness swept over me, and my legs were shaking by the time I finished them. My reaction time was greatly reduced going into the singletrack, but I dared not brake for fear of slowing down, plus my fingers were more content to rest on the rubber grips than the cold brakes. By the last uphill segment, my quads were shot, and my mind started to wander, but all it took for me to suck it up was one more pro rider to pass me. Every time I got passed, my blood boiled. I didn't care if I was a complete novice to the sport and they had been riding since they were 10, I HATE getting passed, so I switched into a higher gear, got off my butt, and pumped up to the top of the hill, splashing through the last puddle and speeding into the chute with my last remaining adrenaline. The adrenaline lasted just long enough for me to meet up with Hannah and Angel as they walked into camp. Once I sat down and downed several Clif Bars, a can of ravioli, the rest of my trail mix, two bananas, and the last dregs of my Powerade, I was done. Or, so I thought... B.J. was due in at 10:45, just in time for Hannah to get in another lap before the end of the race at noon. Except that we were all tired and didn't really feel like going out for that last lap. Angel and Jeremy were done for sure, and Hannah was contemplating throwing in the towel as well. We all knew that B.J. was putting a hard, last lap, and despite my weariness, my pride could not let us just wait around for noon. Plus, it was sunny and the course was perfect and dry. It was the last time I'd be able to ride the course for awhile, and so after discussing the matter with Hannah (ie. guilt tripping her into it), we decided to ride the last lap together, a fun easy ride to send out the race. We had a blast on the fast, dry course, jumping the berms on the bitches as we flew down the packed dirt, speeding around the singletrack, and taking time to enjoy the scenery of the snow covered mountains and the bright desert around us. At the finish, the rest of our teammates had cold blueberry beers waiting for us, and we sipped them with pleasure that can only come after the successful end of a great race. We ended the race in 5th place in our category, beating out only three other teams, but getting a cool tile plaque and some "shwag" as a result. All in all, a great 24 hours. We all learned a lot about our bikes, our training, and about mountain bike racing in general. I'm afraid it's only got me hungry for more, and I have the seed of racing solo, or at least as a duo, next year planted firmly in my head. We'll see. Until then, I've got the great memories and sore calf muscles to remind me of our first 24 hour mountain bike race. It's a first for me since the ocean, a last for Hannah for awhile (she has knee surgery on Thursday), and a first for ODP. It's gonna just be DP for a little bit until Hannah recovers, which isn't half as fun having to push her around singletrack in a wheelchair, but when we're all back next year and fully trained, watch out, cause we're gonna be flying.