Going downhill fast

I’m putting 2012 down as the Year of Intense Descents.

First, there was the fog-shrouded puckerfest on Thompson Pass during the Fireweed 400. In October came the Furnace Creek 508, another bit of ultra-distance craziness for which I somehow got talked into being Leonard’s crew chief. 

The 508 is one of the world’s toughest ultra-distance bike races because it has more than 35,000 feet of elevation gain, crosses 10 mountain passes, and runs through the Mojave Desert and Death Valley on its way from the start line north of Los Angeles to the finish line in Twentynine Palms, Calif. 

It’s 508 miles long, with a cutoff time of 48 hours. 

Leonard at Valley Wells, before shit got real.

The best thing I can say about ultras is that they give you focus. Real life mostly disappears as crew members become consumed with taking care of their rider and meeting critical needs like eating, finding gasoline and ice, or finding the necessary facilities when the racer or a crew member badly needs to drop a load.

For me, the real world completely disappeared at night. Soon after we met up in California, Leonard requested that I do all nighttime driving of the crew van. I’ve followed him down quite a few descents both on bikes and in cars, so I generally know what he’s about to do, and why he’s going to do it. 

Because I haven’t run over him yet, he seemed to feel reasonably confident that I could stay close and light up the pavement without turning him into a road biscuit.

But there’s a big difference between an autumn night in the 508 and a summer night in Alaska’s Fireweed 400. California gets really dark. And it stays that way for hours and hours. That makes for a very long shift of driving within a few feet of your racer’s wheel. But night is no piece of cake for the rest of the crew, either. Especially first-timers.

We were probably two-thirds of the way down a long mountain pass during the first overnight run when Randy, who was sitting in the passenger seat and had met me only 48 hours earlier, said the first words that had been spoken since we crossed the summit. I was keeping the van’s bumper about 12 feet from Leonard’s wheel, at speeds reaching 40 mph.

“You think you should back off a little bit?” Randy quietly asked.

“Nope,” I replied. “This is good.”

The van got quiet again, and stayed that way until the descent was over. 

Sometime about 24 hours later, I still hadn’t slept and was following Leonard as he dropped down a gentle, miles-long descent toward the last checkpoint town before the finish in Twentynine Palms. I slowly swerved from side to side in the highway lane, touching the shoulder on the right, then drifting left and putting the tires on the center line. 

I knew it must look strange, and the concentration required wasn’t as intense as the previous night, so I explained to Randy that I was trying to keep Leonard from riding into his own shadow, and trying to help him see the smoothest, safest line on a stretch of sketchy pavement. 

The race started at 6 a.m. Saturday. Sometime about 2 a.m. Monday, we rolled into the hotel parking lot that was the finish line. Once we got Leonard settled in his room, Randy and I shared one last surreal drive together: to an all-night drive-through selling big, shitty burritos.

They tasted incredibly good. They were like dessert after a main course of insanity.

Racing ... to finish my beer

Congratulations to all the racers who survived
this weekend's 24-hour race at Kincaid Park
by dodging moose and enduring Saturday's heat.

Especially the crazy solo riders,
like my man Tony here.

And congratulations to everyone who had the good sense
to drink beer and watch from the sidelines, like I did.

Laziness rocks.

Fancher's Furnace

Leonard pedals through Death Valley.
(Photos courtesy of Mike Morganson)

A 508-mile bike ride is beyond my comprehension. That’s why this post will be short. I can’t write much about what I don’t understand. (Although some readers of this blog would say I do so on a regular basis.)

But congratulations to Leonard Fancher. The dude just finished the Furnace Creek 508 in 40 hours, 59 minutes, 29 seconds. I mean, seriously. Holy shitballs. That’s a freakishly demented, long distance, and the race came about three months after Leonard took third in the Fireweed 400.

Good job, Leonard. And congrats to Leonard’s dad and Mike Morganson for serving as his crew. I learned last year that the job of crewing is a tough one, but a rider can’t go that far without solid support. All three of you earned some cold beer and deep sleep for the next few nights.

I’m curious to hear what kind of twisted idea Leonard will come up with for his race schedule next year.

Ass-kickin' her way to the podium

Petra "The Apple" Davis in Sun Valley.
(Photo courtesy of Darcy "The Tree" Davis)

I was about to sit down and post another photo to the Fabulous Finger Gallery, but tonight Bicycles & Icicles will briefly suspend one-finger salutes to give a full salute to homegirl Petra Davis, who took third place in the Super D at this week's USA National Cycling Championship in Sun Valley, Idaho.

Her mom, Darcy, said Petra dropped 2,500 vertical feet in about 25 minutes on a six-mile course with a "super sketchy" surface. Gutsy.

But don't assume she's just a ballsy downhiller. She placed seventh in last October's Division II cross-country event at the Collegiate Mountain Bike National Championships in Truckee, Calif., while racing as a freshman for Montana State University-Bozeman. (I'd like to say I don't know where she gets it, but her parents have ripped my legs off on too many rides.)

Good work, Petra.

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.

Fastest Man in the White Mountains

Greg in Hope after
the 2011 Soggy Bottom

Bicycles & Icicles would like to offer a big congratulations to Greg Matyas, owner of Speedway Cycles, who proved—again—that even an old guy with an achy back can be a big-time ass kicker.

Greg won this year's White Mountains 100 with an elapsed time of 10.2 hours. And this came only a few weeks after his third-place finish in the 350-mile Iditarod Trail Invitational.

Congratulations to everyone who finished, including my friends Janice Tower, who took second on the women's bike division; Rachel Steer, who took second in the women's ski division; as well as Brian Garcia and Julie Malingowski for solid finishes. And condolences to Julie, who was derailed by mechanical problems and forced to scratch after a winter of training hard and looking strong.

I guess this means she has to start training for next year.

No. 5

Pete rocks a respectable
beardsicle at the Skwentna
Roadhouse checkpoint.
(Photo from Iditarod
Trail Invitational's Facebook gallery.)

The first three racers have reached McGrath in the Iditarod Trail Invitational. Not surprisingly, Pete Basinger won the 350-mile race for the fifth time.

He was dominant from the midpoint of the race, leaving several checkpoints hours ahead of his chasers. He finished in 3 days, 6 hours and 30 minutes, which was less than an hour off his course record.

You’d think that with a record like that, the Daily News could have found a more current photo of Pete for this morning’s edition, instead of publishing that old standby from his historic Dreadlock Period.

Jeff Oatley turned in a fast ride, and narrowed the gap enough to finish only 25 minutes behind Pete. But damn, how about that rookie who took third place?

OK, calling Greg Matyas a rookie is a little weird but, hey, he was a rookie in the ITI even if he has raced bikes for decades. Greg allegedly told people he’d be “touring,” but 3 days, 12 hours and 20 minutes is a damn fast tour, if you ask me.

I think Greg just scoped out his chances and then hauled ass to secure the top three spots for Fatbacks. Whatever his motivation, it was a hell of a ride for an old dude in his 40s. Congrats, Greg.

Speaking of age, here’s a little nugget that sometimes bounces around my brain this time of year when I’m impressed by Pete winning the Invitational:

Long-distance cyclists commonly peak in their 30s.

Pete is only 29.*

Scary, huh?

*The Daily News says he's 30, but I'm going with 29 based on the age he gave me during an interview a few years ago.

Big gears, little brain

The pre-race flip off.
(Photo by Maura)

Quitting was about the only smart thing I did at last weekend’s 12-hour race. My goal was to ride from noon to midnight and determine how my mind and body would hold up in such an event. But at 7:30 p.m., with my knees throbbing in pain, I rolled up to the timer’s tent and said, “Check me in. I’m think I’m done.”

I spent the rest of the night blaming my creaky, aging knees, but that probably wasn’t fair. My creaky brain played a big role in ending my race early.

Exhibit A: About a half-hour before the start, during a casual conversation with friends, I set a goal of riding eight laps on the 11-mile course. This was a dumb mistake. I wasn’t fully familiar with the terrain, and setting such a goal was in direct conflict with my original plan to simply ride smart and see how far I could go.

Exhibit B: I forgot the meaning of “riding smart.” I always warm up slowly, so I felt good about keeping my first-lap pace in check. Plenty of riders passed me as they warmed up, and I was proud of myself for resisting the temptation to chase. But then I got stupid. After one lap, I started doing math—never a good idea, in my case—and calculating what kind of split times I’d need to rack up eight laps before midnight. I ramped up my pace to turn a faster second lap. Bad move.

I achieved the pace I wanted, but not the one I could sustain for 12 hours. Shortly before 6 p.m., I finished my fourth lap but knew it was time to adjust my goal. During my next lap, the goal became simple—stop doing damage.

As The Grouch later pointed out, the 24 Hours of Matanuska course contains a lot of hills that are very steep, yet short enough to tempt riders into powering over them with gear combinations that are too high. That’s hard on knees, and I pedaled right into the trap. Gearing down would have cost me the eight-lap goal, but so what? If I’d used my head, there’s a good chance my body would have held up for two more laps, which would have put me at a respectable seven.

Ultimately, though, the race answered a bigger question that has lingered in my mind since the depths of last winter: whether I should enter this year’s Soggy Bottom 100. With 7 hours and more than 50 miles behind me, the thought of riding another 50—even with good knees—held zero appeal.

I love doing the rides most mountain bikers call all-day epics. But for me, the line ends somewhere around six hours and 50 miles, depending on the terrain.

After that, it’s burger-and-beer time. And I’m OK with that.

24 Hours

I'll be spending the next few days eating ibuprofen and drying out rain-soaked camping gear as I sort through all the mental detritus of the 24 Hours of Matanuska. Being a guy who abandoned in pain after seven and a half hours, one of the things that’ll stick with me is the tenacity of some really tough racers. There were many, and I got pics of only a few:

Team Davis. With no competition remaining in the race by Sunday morning, they had their victory in the bag, and could have gone home for hot showers and sleep. Instead, they kept going out for laps on a course so slippery that even the best racers were reduced to pushing up the slimy hills. Their husband and dad, Mark, had fought off cramps for hours to rack up 10 laps in the 12-hour solo division Saturday night.

(Photo by Jill V.)

Tony B., who rang up 18 laps in the 24-hour solo division. I watched him roll out in the rain at 7:30 a.m. with a 26-inch wheel that had just been thrown on the back of his 29er as an emergency repair just to keep the thing rolling.

Jenny H. wanted 10 laps in the 12-hour solo division. She got them by cruising by the timer’s tent at 11:30 p.m. and going out for a final two hours of suffering. When she finished seconds after this photo was taken, she couldn’t even drink a beer. That’s what I call giving until it hurts.

The Grouch—and unofficial race mascot—who survived the 12-hour race on a fully rigid bike, but had the good sense to bring a spare, so he could cannibalize a front wheel after destroying the one he started with. (As odd as this blog already was, publishing a picture of a guy who wears a hockey mask and cannibalizes things might be a new level of strangeness.)

Petra proved she's a certifiable badass just by being there. Racing like one was just a bonus.

Kudos to everyone who rode. (Including the drunk dude who did it in flip-flops in the middle of the night.)

Patty's Potter Valley

On Wednesday evening, I grabbed my camera and headed down to Potter Valley Road to watch members of the bike club race up that beast. It's only 1.9 miles from top to bottom, but the road climbs 660 vertical feet over that distance.

I ride it often this time of year in an effort to lose winter flab and get back in shape, so I thought it might be fun to see what it looks like when fast riders climb. (In case you were wondering, it looks a lot better when they do it.)

There were all sorts of riders climbing at a variety of speeds, but the real contenders looked the part. They were lean, well-muscled, decked out in team kits and shaved legs, and riding beautiful bikes. But I didn't know until the next morning—when I read race coverage in the Daily News—that I left too early and missed my chance to shoot photos of the coolest and toughest rider on the hill: a 58-year-old woman who finished last.

Four years ago, Patty Ginsburg was trying to survive lung cancer. The treatments that saved her left a lot of damage, and doctors told the former marathon runner that her lungs would never been the same again. Now she rides to push herself, and to see how much she can do.

Wednesday night, she was pedaling the first road bike she has owned in 30 years, and beat her personal goal of 25 minutes when she finished in 23:19. She was dead last, and very much alive.

It's funny how we always think we're supposed to watch the rider at the front of a race.

It's a shame when we miss the best part because we don't know we should be watching the rider at the back.

The Cutters

Saturday afternoon's Ice Cutter Crit was a rare January event: Bike racing in the sun. Four 2-man teams did 20 laps around Goose Lake, with each racer riding two laps before handing over his boxer shorts and sending his teammate out on the course.
The day was spectacular.
A soft spot meant the racers
really were ice cutters. It deteriorated
into slush, making the cold weather
feel even more zesty and refreshing.
Racers were debriefed after every two laps.
Sometimes in life, we encounter
images that will haunt us for years.
Ice build-up was a problem
that required innovative solutions.
The next time Manny's key doesn't work,
we'll know why.
Tony and Tim K., winners of the maillot lingerie.
Real men wear Spongebob drawers.
(Even if you never know where
those things have been.)

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.

Scenes from Kincaid

I drove out to Kincaid Park for a little while
on Saturday night, and walked
to a few good spots on the 24-hour race course
to take some pictures.Then I got together with friends,
ate too much food, drank a little wine
and slept in a nice warm bed.
This morning I woke up to rain
and remembered telling myself
during last year's race that
there was no way we could have
sunny skies again this year.My recliner feels really good
right now. I hope all the racers
are warm in their damp tents
and safe on the slippery roots.

24 hours of pain

It's time again for the 24 Hours of Kincaid.

Noon Saturday to noon Sunday; nearly 2,600 feet of climbing in every 10.5-mile lap; plenty of moose; maybe a bear or two; and an added challenge this year—plenty of pulverized, powdery trail thanks to the heavy equipment that's pillaging and plundering the park. (But hey, disc golfers need another place to wander around stoned, and the Nordic skiers desperately need another freeway for their enormous trail groomers, so who am I to complain?)

Last year, I rode this beast for the third year in a row while muttering profane vows to not enter this year's race. So, I'll go out Saturday night to check on my fellow Clydesdale and former teammate, Rob, who's racing solo this year. And I'll watch all the pained, strained faces rolling through the checkpoint as I feel really good about going home and sleeping as the sufferfest rolls through the night.

Despite the pain of the race, I love being among my own kind. A small part of me might miss being involved in the whole scene. But I'm pretty damned sure that a couple of glasses of wine and the feel of my pillow will clear up that affliction very quickly.

Go, homeboy!

The Great Divide Race starts Friday,
and if I were puttin' money on this one,
I'd be betting on hometown boy
and Paramount wrench Pete Basinger.

Unfortunately, I'm too cheap
to be much of a gambler, and every time
a co-worker has asked me to join a pool
on the Kentucky Derby, I've said I never bet
on anything faster than me.

That means I couldn't bet on Pete
in about four lifetimes. But I'll
be cheering for him all the way.

Rip it up, Pete, and be safe.

Cold 'n' crusty

You know it's a sure sign of spring when Race Master Carlos retires the term “Frigid Bits” for the season.

That’s right, boys and girls, the spring/summer Crusty Bits series begins this Saturday on the snowy trails of the Anchorage Hillside. The course will follow a modified version of the Four-mile Loop, making laps about 3.5 miles long. Riders will have options of three or six laps. Given the recent trail conditions, you shouldn’t even need studs or fatties. Just roll out your knobbies and go.

Start time is 7 p.m. at the North Bivouac trailhead off Campbell Airstrip Road, but show up about 6:30 to sign up and attend the racers meeting. Bring your number if you have one leftover from a previous race.

There will be a pre-ride of the course Friday night at 6:30, so scoot on out to the trailhead and give it a go.

Uranus is unusual

Really. It says so right there on the sign. And it glows in the dark, thanks to the chem light Carlos put on it.

Saturday night’s Snaux Bro race was held under ideal conditions. The temp was around 18 degrees, the trail was hard and smooth and my flask was full of wine. Well, it was until AKdeluxe saw me sipping from it and then bummed a few hits.

The singletrack sections in the woods around Earthquake Park added some spice. Good thing Carlos warned us about the wooden bridge. What was that, about 10 inches wide? Good thing I was following Manny so I could see when it was time to dismount and walk across the gap.

And thanks to some of the Uranus division riders apparently overshooting the turnaround, I managed to finish in fourth place. Fourth out of eight, I think. Hell, for me and my old winter commuter bike, that’s about as good as it gets.

Gimp with a camera

I did something I'm not used to on Saturday. After injuring my leg during a warm-up lap, I actually exercised the good judgement to scratch from the "Last Man Standing" race at Goose Lake.

I must be getting wiser with age, because a couple of years ago, I would have raced anyway. These days, the prospect of limping for a week is less appealing than riding in a race I have no chance of winning. I had my camera, so I dumped my bike and decided to serve as race photographer.

The sky was clear and the air brisk—somewhere in single digits. As usual, every lap brought racers off the lake and then back onto it by running them over the beach. The beach sand is always the most heinous part of a lap, in my opinion, but mixed with six inches of dry snow it was guaranteed to deal out a dose of misery every time the racers passed through it.

The fixie crowd had to run through that crap like they were in a cyclocross race. Even the guys on regular mountain bikes were fish-tailing through it, and many of them were walking through before the race ended.

By that point, I was sittin' in the snow and shootin' pictures with one hand while I drank a beer with the other.

Pretty good work if you can get it.

Turkeys

I was driving to a meeting tonight when I heard a reporter from NPR say that 31 million Americans will be hitting the highways this holiday weekend. Airports, of course, will be huge mosh pits of stressed-out travelers.

No thanks. Those crowds can have all the highway carnage and TSA madness. I'm staying right here. I ran by Paramount Cycles and picked up all the holiday supplies I need: a couple of rebuild kits for my reliable, neglected Egg Beater pedals, and a brake-bleed kit so that I can start a long list of winter maintenance on my Epic.

Maybe I'll join the weekend race crowd for some silliness called "The Nutcracker." Two laps around the Goose Lake course, followed by a trail ride to the Hilltop Chalet and back, with two more laps around the lake to end the race. That's about 20 miles of riding in the dark, with expected temperatures from zero to 10 degrees.

I just need to make sure there will be a couple of fun guys to hang with in the back, and some liquor in the equation. Otherwise, we might end up looking like our man AkDeluxe here. Come to think of it, the liquor might make us look exactly like that.

I don't care. I'm not taking any chances, and I'm not doing this race on water alone.

Have a safe one everybody. Pour on some extra gravy.

High Frigidity

Gentlemen, start your shivering.

We could use some banked turns, Carlos.
(Photo by Christopher)

It was 4F at the start of Saturday afternoon's Frigid Bits crit. The field included full-suspension mountain bikes, fixies with homemade skinny studs, and the usual assortment of cobbled-together winter/commuter bikes. Just to throw us a curve, Carlos switched directions and made us run the course clockwise instead of the usual counter-clockwise.The fixie crowd, and a couple of other guys.
(Photo by AkBubba)

Twenty five racers started and 21 finished, including Rob G., who didn't show up until the second lap. And no, I don't mean he started slow and found his legs on the second lap, I mean he didn't arrive at the lake until the second lap.

Handsome makes up for slow, right?
(Photo by Christopher)

Somebody won, of course, but I can't remember who it was because I'm never near the finish line when the fast guys get there. I'm always somewhere out on the course working my way through a tight turn while muttering, "Sh-sh-sh-shit! Whew! OK that wasn't too ba ... Doh! Damn it!"

(More photos at Christopher's site.)