Fog

Leonard pedals up Thompson Pass
just before midnight.

Of all the bizarre memories that come from crewing for a rider in the Fireweed 400 solo division, it was the fog in this year’s race that is going to haunt me the longest.

Any ultra-distance bike race contains moments of despair, humor, exhaustion, boredom and sometimes even a little excitement, but you hope danger will be kept to a minimum.

As we crept into the late evening hours Friday night, a photographer who was driving up and down the course warned me and crew partner Sarah that visibility was going to diminish as Leonard — the racer we were supporting — approached Worthington Glacier and began the climb up Thompson Pass. Daylight was fading, and the pass was covered in thick fog.

This was already going to be one of the worst parts of a very long race. Leonard was facing a hard climb, and from midnight to 5 a.m., race rules required us to keep him in our headlights as we drove directly behind him to shield him from traffic and help him see the road. Instead of regularly sprinting three or four miles ahead to set up for giving him food, supplements and fluids, we would have to drive slowly in dim light for at least five hours, trying to stay alert while pacing him at close range.

When we arrived near the base of the glacier, Leonard rode into fog and the visibility began dropping. Sarah and I decided to start pacing an hour early because if exhaustion or poor pavement conditions forced him off the shoulder and directly onto the highway, he would be invisible to fast-moving vehicles until they were within feet of his wheel.

Conditions already seemed bad. But shit was about to get real.

As Leonard crested Thompson Pass about midnight, visibility dropped to only a few feet as he steered into the descent. When we were close enough to see him, he was signaling that he wanted us closer for more light, but we were already dangerously close. If we dropped back as little as two or three feet, we would completely lose sight of the tiny red light on the back of his bike.

Sarah was driving and struggling to find a position behind Leonard that would allow us to see him without getting so close that we might hit his wheel. Each time he opened a slight gap and disappeared, I would be urgently nagging the ever-patient Sarah to “Move up! Move up! Move up!” until we could again see a red dot in the fog. We could only hope that he wouldn’t tap his brakes as she closed the gap.

We were intensely focused on maintaining some sort of visual contact with Leonard, so there was little time or mental capacity for consciously considering the risk of running over him, but we both knew it was a possibility. Meanwhile, as if we needed an extra dose of anxiety, the amber lights of a large semi came appeared in our mirrors.

Despite all the complaints cyclists have about impatient motorists on the road, I will be forever grateful that within a minute or two, the truck driver appeared to figure out what was happening in front of him and he backed off until we descended far enough to reach better conditions. He could have made our situation drastically more dangerous, but he gave us the space we needed to continue our mostly blind chase down the mountain. 



Hours later, on the way back toward Glenallen, Leonard was stopped for a food break when he asked if we had taken any good photos of the descent. He was baffled when I replied that no, there weren't any pictures.

“We were a little busy trying not to kill you,” I told him.

“Really?” he asked. “Was it that bad?”

All we could do was say, “Yes, it was,” then get him rolling, throw everything back in the car, and head up the road to our next stop. I was consciously trying to forget the pass. Sarah and I still had work to do, and Leonard had a lot of pedal strokes between him and the finish line.

The sun came out on Saturday morning, and with every mile we put behind us, I was happy to be farther away from darkness and fog.

Just before 6 that evening, after an amazing ride, Leonard finished his third straight Fireweed 400. It took 29 hours, 56 minutes and 10 seconds.

Tired

Another year of crewing/racing in the
Fireweed 400 solo division is in the bag.

I'll be writing about it when my fine motor skills
come back enough for me to type.

Fireweed Dominance

Leonard "Steel is Real" Fancher flips a Fireweed finger.

Damn, I have to say something nice about this guy. It pains me, but he earned it. My friend Leonard Fancher, who I crewed for in last year's Fireweed 400, returned to the race this year and not only placed third in the solo division, but finished in 28 hours, 12 minutes, which is about 3 hours faster than last year's time.

Leave it to Leonard to make sure the crew got back in time for plenty of sleep in the year I wasn't available to help. Nice work, Fancher! I'd be pretty pissed right now if you hadn't made time for a new entry in the Fabulous Finger Gallery.

Leonard's strong finish (on his trusty steel Waterford, no less) secured the top three spots for Backcountry Bicycles, with Erik Christensen finishing first, and Kristin Wolf taking second. And that's not second in the women's division, that's just flat-out second place with no asterisks or qualifiers.

That also made it a happy day for Janice at Tower Coaching, who trained all three racers.

Erik, Kristin and Leonard, you're all crazy. But amazing. Congratulations.

Fireweed 400

Team Fancher at 30:54:02

Congratulations to all finishers of this weekend's Fireweed 400. My respect for the mental and physical hardness of such people could only grow from experiencing the race for my first time as a crew member.

Congratulations to Leonard Fancher, who overcame a difficult first day and rallied to actually gain speed over the final 200 miles and finish in 30 hours, 54 minutes, 2 seconds. Our team rolled out of the Valdez checkpoint at 4:20 a.m. full of worry about our ability to finish—but only because we had no way of knowing that Leonard would find new life on a rainy morning, and uncork a hell of a ride. Congrats, too, to my other friends among the elite group of survivors: Tony Berberich, Erik Christensen and "Broken Toe Joe" Pollock.

Thanks to Janice for her phone-and-text coaching consultations during the race, and to all the other crewing friends who made me smile when we saw each other on the road: Julie, Jill, Sean and, of course, Sarah, my partner on Team Fancher. With no bike-race experience of any kind, Sarah endured 39 sleepless hours with boundless energy and humor, and found ways to contribute that I had never imagined.

If Sarah's still available after she graduates from college next summer, I know a couple of racers who would be happy to put her to work.

Fireweed: The Good and the Tragic

Team Muschi Schmerzen had a great day in this year’s Fireweed race. With all four members returning from last year’s race, we actually bothered to read the rules and give strategy some thought, so we shaved about half an hour off our previous time in the mixed four-person relay division of the 200-mile event, and placed 5th among 44 teams.

The weather was good, we had no serious mechanicals, and our driver—my wife, Jacque—always managed to get us to the next exchange on time while dodging sluggish RVs and indecisive team drivers. My cool teammates even staggered their rides to set me up for the final stretch up to Thompson Pass, and the long descent down the other side. If it hadn’t been for that damned headwind, I might have been able to cook up some real downhill speed like Huber did last year.

Spending nearly 10 hours jumping in and out of a car, shuffling a rack full of bikes, and hammering through multiple five- to 10-mile relay legs has a way of creating all sorts of laughs, confusion and general mayhem I’ll remember all year. And that’s a very good thing. So thank you H, Monkee, Huber and Jacque.

Unfortunately, when I checked my voicemail after arriving in Valdez, we learned that the 100-mile race—which had started a few hours after we left Sheep Mountain Lodge—had been marred by a bad crash. Robert Johnson was descending from Eureka Summit when he fell, went under a guardrail and struck his head on a steel post. He was pronounced dead several hours later after a medevac flight to Anchorage.

A friend who rode up on the scene said that several riders went down, so a number of things could have happened. News reports so far have been pretty thin, probably because organizers are referring all media questions to the state troopers, who don’t seem to know much. The rest of us are left to wonder what went wrong. From what I remember, that stretch of the course was among the better sections of pavement, so the troopers’ “no apparent reason” story doesn’t exactly sound like the result of a thorough investigation.

Given that it occurred on an open highway during the state’s highest-profile bike race, the cause should be determined. Hopefully, everyone involved will figure out what happened, and then openly share the information. Because maybe it’s just me, but right now, it feels like race organizers are covering their asses with silence, and troopers sound only marginally interested in why a cyclist died.

I never met Robert Johnson, but I think he deserves better.

One side of ribs, no sauce

Back from the Fireweed and still
sorting out all the events in my mind.

Gotta say one thing about the Alaska boonies, though.
It's a great place to find a 100% natural bike rack.

Where's the fire?

"Where's the fire?" is the wrong question for a cop to ask if you get pulled over for speeding in Anchorage this week. The real question is, "Where isn't there fire?"

Wildfire season is in full swing, and the city's blanketed with smoke so thick we can't see the Chugach Range on the east side of town. The smell of smoke was so strong this afternoon that I half expected to see ash raining down.

And what could be better to do in a cloud of smoke than to hold a bike race and make everyone breathe hard? It's Fireweed time, bitchez. I've got fresh lube on the chain, a bucket of food ready for the team car, and a whole pile of shit I'm sure I'm forgetting to do before heading up to Sheep Mountain for the start.

I just hope I remember to pack the Chamois Butt'r, and that the folks in Valdez ice down the beer.

Calm before the storm

My nephew Ry wheelies down the railroad ramp
in Laramie, while his wife, Gretchen (below),
rides her beer-equipped townie.

After a week in Wyoming and Colorado, where I alternated between bustin’ a helmet and gasping for air at 8,000 feet, I’m home with just enough time to prepare for this weekend’s Fireweed 200 relay to Valdez.

Should be fun. The weather forecast is a good one, and my teammates tell me I’ve been selected to ride the descent down Thompson Pass—not because I’m an especially skilled descender, but because they want no part of rolling down a mountain at more than 50 mph. In other words, I’m considered expendable.

It’s as big an honor as being the FNG made to walk point in a combat zone. Yeah, I’m feelin’ the love.

Keep your eyes open, Charlie. Team Muschi Schmerzen is goin’ on patrol.

Lew's 400

You’re looking at one certifiable bad-ass of a senior citizen.

While guys like me were busy patting ourselves on the back for riding reasonably well in the shorter, easier Fireweed races last weekend, Lew Meyer was finishing the 400-mile solo race—which is gaining a reputation as one of the more grueling endurance road races in the world—in a little more than 29 hours.

Meyer is 73 years old.

His support crew included his grandson.

Unlike most of the younger competitors in his event, Meyer had the energy to show up at the awards ceremony in Anchorage on Monday night. When he walked up front to collect his coffee-mug trophy, the applause grew into the night’s only standing ovation—a well-deserved one.

Fifteen racers signed up for the 400-mile race, and this guy was one of only five who finished. I'd say he kicked some ass.

(Updated to reflect number of entrants.)

Back from the 2008 Fireweed

Despite having this tongue-wagging* lardass cross the finish line on its behalf, Team Uranus Titans finished Saturday's Fireweed 200 in 10 hours, 14 minutes, 12 seconds. That was good enough for 8th place among 37 teams in the 4-person mixed relay division—not a bad result for a squad that would have been happy with middle of the pack.

A couple of team members suggested that maybe our strong performance was a sign that we should get serious enough to actually train, read the rules, and all that stuff for next year's race.

Yeah, that'll happen.

From the decent weather, to the beautiful scenery, to the mutant squirrel, to the vicious headwinds, to Ken's 54-mph descent of Thompson Pass, to all the laughs and sweat along the way, it was a great race. So thanks to Heather, Ken, Brian, and our wonderful support drivers, Julie and Ken Sr. (And a special thanks to Heather for traveling 200 miles with me and not flipping me off even once ... that I'm aware of.)

Officially, the whole thing ended Saturday evening in Valdez. But really, it'll end over the next few days when we all empty our cars and figure out who has each other's stuff.

* My wife was kind enough to remember that, in his prime, Michael Jordan often made a similar face while driving the lane and launching into the air for a great slam dunk.

Recovering

The Fireweed 100 is still a blur of memories passing through my mind.

The pain of riding alone most of the race after fooling myself into believing I could catch that small group ahead of me.

The pleasure of the brief spells when I found other back-of-the-pack riders to work with for a few miles, and the mixed feelings when I left them behind.

The cold rain, and hands numb from rough roads and wind chill. The words "chamber of Hell" repeatedly going through my mind during the climb to Eureka Summit in the fog of road spray from RVs and pickups passing 5 feet from my shoulder at 55 mph.

The guy who stood in the rain by a highway in the middle of nowhere playing bagpipes for every rider, no matter how isolated and alone they were as they suffered in No Man's Land.

The woman who stood in the rain at Mile 76 just to hold my bike while I gulped food and Cytomax, and dashed into the Rent-A-Can. All the real racers were already back at their cars changing into dry clothes, but she held that bike ready for me as if it was the most important thing she had to do all day.

Racers earn free water bottles and T-shirts.

Volunteers deserve medals.

Gentlemen, start your ... tire pumps

We’re down to four days before this year’s Fireweed. My friend Maura and I are signed up for the 100-mile race, and I’ve done all of two rides this year in the 60- to 65-mile range.

The forecast calls for partly cloudy skies and an 85% chance of pain.

Maura asked me during Sunday night’s ride if I had a plan for the race. I said yeah, I’ve got a plan: a big breakfast, a fistful of ibuprofen, and a steady pace. The people who own heart monitors can have a race. I’ll be doing the Fireweed 100 tour.

So I guess I’m “tapering,” as the serious trainers call it. Taking it easy. Thinking about cleaning my bike, or at least the drive train. Trying to figure out if it’s best to go up to the start at Sheep Mountain Lodge and camp out Friday night, or haul my ass out of bed to drive up at 6 a.m. with friends.

Right now, a tent and a couple of Friday-night beers sound pretty good. Maybe I should find that four-person team I’ve been hearing about.

I have it on good authority that the 50-mile event will be run by a team on a four-wheeled quad bike—two riders in front, two in the back. And from what I hear, they’re trying to figure out how to mount a keg on that sucker.

If those dudes need any zip ties or duct tape, I’m willing to share if they are.