Okay, so I set out to start the 2004 bike season by competing solo at the 2nd Annual Monkey Chucker 24 hour race near Greenville. The weather looked good to start – even though they were forecasting thunderstorms Saturday afternoon – and I did my warmup stretches, got well hydrated, dressed, and ready to go. During this time, I had the pleasure of meeting another solo competitor – a young man named Wes who was friends with a long time competitor and friend of mine, Matt. Wes had run support for Matt at this event last year, and had decided to try his hand at solo racing this time around. He and I chatted for a while, and discovered that we both had the same race goal this time – to complete 12 laps, so we wished each other well, and prepared for the start.
The first two laps went off as usual – in other words, with me at the back of the field, just cruising along at my normal grandma slow speed. Being the only woman in a field of 14 solo entries, I wasn’t too terribly concerned about being behind. I figured I would just do my best, and even though I doubted I could ride faster than any of the men, I hoped I could perhaps outlast some of them. By my third lap in the mid afternoon, the sky really seemed to be getting dark. I thought I heard a clap of thunder, then one solitary raindrop kissed my cheek. The next thing I knew, I was being pelted by windswept rain which immediately drenched me, all the way from my snow leopard helmet cover down to my waterproof cycling boots – which I had fortunately changed into after my first lap because they were so much more comfortable than the shoes I had started out in. I still had about three more miles to go on this nine plus mile lap when the thunderstorm started, so by the time I passed the timer’s tent I must have looked like a drowned rat. Danny, the timer, informed me that they had decided to call the race for an hour to let the lightning and thunder pass, so I headed off to the trailer to change into dry clothes and rest a bit. This race was different for me, because this time my husband, Steve, who normally does support for me, was also racing solo. This meant that I would basically be on my own, to do my own support – and I have to admit that that definitely makes things more difficult.
During this rain delay, lunch provided by the very generous trail landowner, showed up. This was voraciously devoured by the racers, including myself, and was a welcome change from the variety of gels and sports drinks I had been sustaining myself on throughout the afternoon.
So anyway, after the hour wait, the skies again cleared and the race resumed. On my fourth lap, I was greeted by a very different trail than the one I had become used to. The normally quick drying, never slippery roots were now rather glassy and unfamiliar as it continued to drizzle on and off so that they continued to stay wet, and the damp sand was clinging tenaciously to every part of my drivetrain. I struggled through the trail, but found that I was slowing down even more than my usual snail’s pace, and began to get a little worried. However, after arriving back at my pit area and changing again into clean dry clothes – which I continued to do after every lap – and grabbing a bite to eat, I headed back out to tackle the slippery roots and logs.
Dusk was falling when I again returned to my pit area, so I quickly attached my lights to my bike and helmet. Normally at home, since I have very poor night vision, I run two lights on high when I ride. This time, however, since Steve would be using his extra lights, and I would have to allow time to recharge my own, I was reduced to using one light at a time, on low. This greatly hampered my ability to navigate the increasingly slippery roots as night fell and dew began to cover the ground.
Also, as evening fell, I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my low to mid back which nearly prevented me from moving my spine at all. Luckily, Wes had an extra hot pack which he very kindly gave me to wear on my back. This is probably what enabled me to even finish the race at all. I was still in a great deal of pain, but the moist heat from the pad soothed the muscle spasms enough for me to at least sit on the bike.
By midnight, I was getting quite frustrated with my inability to see, the pain and numbness in my hands, the back spasms, and the slipperiness of the trail, and had gotten very discouraged at having to walk so much of a course that I can usually ride easily. Steve and Wes accompanied me on a late night lap, but I felt even worse by the fact that they had to wait so much for me while I walked sections that in the daytime I could ride with no trouble at all. I was feeling like everyone was passing me a million times on the same lap!
At this point, Steve apparently got his second wind, and the final devastating blow to me came when I was agonizingly preparing to go out for another wee-hours lap and he came bee-bopping in, excitedly chattering about how great he felt. This is the last thing you want to hear when you are suffering in hell. Even though I love him dearly and he is my soulmate, I could have ripped his throat open at that point….
But, I dragged my weary self out to my bike again and went out once more. On this lap, despite feeling worse than I ever imagined I could and still ride, one of those little things that makes all the difference happened. As I was struggling along the back section of the trail, Carol came up behind me, and told me that she had a new respect for me, as she had only done half as many laps as I had at that point, and was “just dead”. That little compliment, which she probably doesn’t even remember now, breathed new life into me, and I perked up and scurried on down the trail. On arriving back at the pit area at around 3 a.m., I decided to take a break until 4:30 in order to ensure that my next lap would be the “dawn lap” – the lap of rejuvenation and rebirth. It was so wonderful to be out on the trail and see the sun rise – that instant of clicking off the night light has to be the most definitive, authoritative, I CAN DO THIS moment of the entire race.
I continued to ride, taking short breaks as needed to try and rest my hands and back, until roughly 9 a.m. At this point, Wes and I talked about how we sadly realized we probably were not going to achieve our 12 lap goal. He had crashed badly during the night and injured his back as well. We decided at this point to go back out at around 10:30, and just get 1 more lap, which would put us each at 10 laps. Now granted, I seriously doubt I could have forced myself to get back out and do an extra lap, which would have put me ahead of him with 11. But even if I could have – which I doubt I could – I felt it would break a code of honor between us. After all, it was Wes who had enabled me to finish the race at all by giving me the heating pad for my back. So I held true to my word, as did he, and we both headed back out on the trail at 10:30 to finish 1 more lap, each completing 10, with him several minutes in front of me.
All told, I believe I wound up in 10th place overall for the solos. But a big surprise came during the awards ceremony when I was awarded a huge trophy for being the first place solo female (a bittersweet victory since I was also the only solo female). All along, I had been told that no separation would be made based on gender. However, Andrew and Danny, the race promoters, told me later that they felt it was only appropriate to recognize the top female solo, and that they had planned to give this trophy all along, but wanted it to be a surprise – which it definitely was!
But the biggest surprise to me was how it was the little things that kept me going – Wes giving me a heating pad, Carol’s compliment, every rider who passed me and said “good job” or “keep it up”, and the folks in the timing tent with their smiling faces and encouraging words all night long – those things really made the difference for me, and reminded me to never discount or take for granted the smallest things, because no generous act or kind word is ever wasted.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
LEMONS TO LEMONADE
There's an old adage that goes something like "If life gives you lemons, make lemonade". I never really thought about the "lemons" as being plain old words. However, for better or worse, we live in the information age, filled oftentimes with mindless chit-chat, and I think sometimes we forget how available our words are to the entire world, and how much power those words can wield. A few years ago, I never would have imagined how deeply simple words can affect the heart and soul of someone, and how much they can change a life - for better or for worse, and sometimes both.
When I was first starting out riding, there was a lovely and talented young lady here locally who rode with me nearly every day after work. She was always the one who called me to ride and we always seemed to have a great time together - or so I thought - so I assumed she truly wanted to ride with me, even though I was slower and less bold than her. Well, anyway, one day when she had called me and left a message on my answering machine about riding, apparently when she hung up the phone, it did not disconnect, so her conversation with another biking friend of hers wound up accidentally getting recorded. Turns out they began discussing how slow I was and how it was just "torture" to ride with me, and how they had never seen anyone so slow and unskilled as a rider, etc. Well, needless to say, it crushed me. I did speak with her about it right away; she desperately tried to make excuses, and I truly believe it was not her intention to hurt me, but sadly the damage was done - the words were out and there was no taking them back. Having already been rather concerned about being a very timid and slow beginner at a somewhat older age (mid 30s when I started riding), I was totally devastated to hear this from someone I had considered my friend and riding buddy. So, I stopped riding with her; in fact, I stopped riding with anyone. For a solid two years, I rode solo every single time I went out - which was nearly every day, as I was desperate to prove her wrong and to learn to ride well. Then finally I got comfortable enough to ride with hubby. Basically he has been my only real riding partner since then, and of course, has consistently told me that I belittle myself regarding my riding and that "you're better than you think you are". He encouraged and worked with me, even going so far as to provide support for me while I competed as a solo rider at multiple 24 hour events - I was too afraid to compete on a team, fearing that I would be the slow member who would hold the team back; and he even convinced me to try downhill racing. I wasn't terribly successful at that - almost always placing last - but did begin to discover that frequently my bikes would compensate for some of my limitations as a rider.
Despite all of this, I still continued to feel inferior as a cyclist, always being hesitant to join in any group rides, and even fearful of attending clinics because I didn't want to hold anyone else back. And the funny thing is, I never even realized how poorly I viewed myself as a rider until I ran into this same woman not too long ago at a restaurant. We're still friendly to one another, and we chatted briefly about cycling - and suddenly I realized how I minimized my abilities and every single biking accomplishment I have ever achieved during our conversation, and it dawned on me where that seed of self-discouragement had initially begun to grow in me those few years back.
Now I'm not blaming her for my lack of confidence (goodness knows, growing up in a family in the 1960s who firmly believed that women simply should not "do sports" contributed greatly to that); and although I do think that incident set in motion a pattern of negative self-talk that did perhaps hinder my progression as a biker somewhat, in all reality, I believe I owe this woman a word of thanks. Had it not been for overhearing that conversation, I never would have realized how deeply words can affect someone. That, in turn, might not have led to me discovering one of the greatest joys I have experienced in my cycling life, which is teaching beginners how to ride. I believe the despair and hurt that I felt those years ago sparked a desire in me to learn, to rise above that discouraging conversation, and most importantly, to be more aware of my own words and actions around others. Had I not felt the need to prove to myself that she was wrong about me, I may never have tried an endurance race, or a downhill race, or taken beginners out for their first rides - all things that have given me more joy than I could ever have hoped for. I'm grateful that something in my soul "connected" with cycling in such depth as to keep me from giving up on it, and made me keep trying and hanging with it, squeezing the "lemons" I heard on my answering machine those years ago into the sweet "lemonade" that my biking has become of late.
When I was first starting out riding, there was a lovely and talented young lady here locally who rode with me nearly every day after work. She was always the one who called me to ride and we always seemed to have a great time together - or so I thought - so I assumed she truly wanted to ride with me, even though I was slower and less bold than her. Well, anyway, one day when she had called me and left a message on my answering machine about riding, apparently when she hung up the phone, it did not disconnect, so her conversation with another biking friend of hers wound up accidentally getting recorded. Turns out they began discussing how slow I was and how it was just "torture" to ride with me, and how they had never seen anyone so slow and unskilled as a rider, etc. Well, needless to say, it crushed me. I did speak with her about it right away; she desperately tried to make excuses, and I truly believe it was not her intention to hurt me, but sadly the damage was done - the words were out and there was no taking them back. Having already been rather concerned about being a very timid and slow beginner at a somewhat older age (mid 30s when I started riding), I was totally devastated to hear this from someone I had considered my friend and riding buddy. So, I stopped riding with her; in fact, I stopped riding with anyone. For a solid two years, I rode solo every single time I went out - which was nearly every day, as I was desperate to prove her wrong and to learn to ride well. Then finally I got comfortable enough to ride with hubby. Basically he has been my only real riding partner since then, and of course, has consistently told me that I belittle myself regarding my riding and that "you're better than you think you are". He encouraged and worked with me, even going so far as to provide support for me while I competed as a solo rider at multiple 24 hour events - I was too afraid to compete on a team, fearing that I would be the slow member who would hold the team back; and he even convinced me to try downhill racing. I wasn't terribly successful at that - almost always placing last - but did begin to discover that frequently my bikes would compensate for some of my limitations as a rider.
Despite all of this, I still continued to feel inferior as a cyclist, always being hesitant to join in any group rides, and even fearful of attending clinics because I didn't want to hold anyone else back. And the funny thing is, I never even realized how poorly I viewed myself as a rider until I ran into this same woman not too long ago at a restaurant. We're still friendly to one another, and we chatted briefly about cycling - and suddenly I realized how I minimized my abilities and every single biking accomplishment I have ever achieved during our conversation, and it dawned on me where that seed of self-discouragement had initially begun to grow in me those few years back.
Now I'm not blaming her for my lack of confidence (goodness knows, growing up in a family in the 1960s who firmly believed that women simply should not "do sports" contributed greatly to that); and although I do think that incident set in motion a pattern of negative self-talk that did perhaps hinder my progression as a biker somewhat, in all reality, I believe I owe this woman a word of thanks. Had it not been for overhearing that conversation, I never would have realized how deeply words can affect someone. That, in turn, might not have led to me discovering one of the greatest joys I have experienced in my cycling life, which is teaching beginners how to ride. I believe the despair and hurt that I felt those years ago sparked a desire in me to learn, to rise above that discouraging conversation, and most importantly, to be more aware of my own words and actions around others. Had I not felt the need to prove to myself that she was wrong about me, I may never have tried an endurance race, or a downhill race, or taken beginners out for their first rides - all things that have given me more joy than I could ever have hoped for. I'm grateful that something in my soul "connected" with cycling in such depth as to keep me from giving up on it, and made me keep trying and hanging with it, squeezing the "lemons" I heard on my answering machine those years ago into the sweet "lemonade" that my biking has become of late.
JUST DO IT
"How on earth do you do that? Do you just ride straight through for the whole time or what?" Those are questions I get a lot when I tell folks that I compete in 12 and 24 hour endurance mountain bike races. In fact, I was just asked that very thing regarding the Charlotte Jaycees Cowbell 12 Hour Challenge I raced this past Saturday. So, I figured I would answer it in this month's article. Now granted, racing a 12 hour event is a bit different from a 24 hour one, but since the 12 hour is what I just did, I'll focus on that for this particular essay.
I arrived in Charlotte Friday night, and Steve and I set up our tent and pit area (we normally take the travel trailer for the 24 hour events, but for these shorter races, where sleep is not an issue for the support person, the tent is fine). The alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. on Saturday morning, and while Steve went about ensuring my bikes (I always bring a backup, just in case) were ready, I took advantage of the early rising to stretch gently and have a light breakfast of yogurt and water. After chatting with some of the other racers for a bit, I then went ahead and got dressed for the racers' meeting. Shortly thereafter, the race began, and we were off! As I was not familiar with the Catawba trail, having never ridden it before, I took my time and just followed the rest of the racers into the singletrack, but making sure to keep the other solo woman in my sights as much as possible. She eventually got on far enough ahead where I lost sight of her, and I had to settle for simply getting myself through the more technical sections of trail. Sometimes it gets intimidating and worrisome to be behind, even by a few minutes, but after completing 6 solo 24 hour events and with this being my 7th solo 12 hour event, I have learned what my "comfort pace" is (the pace that I know I can sustain all day and all night), and decided to just be content to ride that speed Apparently I've developed a pretty good feel for that pace, as I was told that all my laps were within just a couple of minutes of each other in time. After each lap, I rode over to my pit area, where I had my hydration pack refilled with cold water, and took in either a gel or an energy drink, but made sure not to stop for more than 5-10 minutes, at which time I promptly hit the singletrack again. After my fourth or fifth lap, decided it was time for lunch, which consisted of another yogurt and one-quarter of a sourdough roll, along with half a can of caffeine free soda, and still more gel and another energy drink. This was my longest break at perhaps 15 minutes or so. I managed to do okay like this until near the end of my 8th lap, when I developed intense cramps in both knees, requiring me to actually stop on the trail to gently stretch my legs. Unfortunately, the cramps also reduced me to having to walk a couple of the steeper climbs, as any forceful pedal strokes would intensify the pain and cause excruciating muscle contractions. However, stopping was simply not an option for me, since the other solo woman and I were turning almost identical lap times, and up to this point we had not been more than 14 minutes apart. Besides this, though, I had my heart and mind set on completing 11 laps - 11 is my favorite lucky number, being the number of laps I got at Conyers, Georgia last year at the 24 Hours of Adrenalin when I qualified for the World Solo Championships - which meant that I would need to keep going in order to get in the remaining 3 laps I needed to meet my goal.
As it turned out, apparently I was not the only racer combating muscle cramps and heat-induced fatigue. I ended up riding a lap with one of the solo men who was suffering the same fate, and discovered later on that the other solo woman had basically had to stop for a break that was long enough for me to complete an entire lap before she was able to ride again, thus putting me in the lead for the first time in this race on completion of my 9th lap. Still determined to meet my 11 lap goal, though, I continued to press on, continuing to never stop for more than 5-10 minutes between laps. My competitor did continue to press me, turning out two consecutive laps at the finish of the race, but fortunately I managed to cross the line mere minutes ahead of her (I don't even think she was 30 minutes behind me), thanks to Steve's gentle urging to "just keep moving" throughout the day, for my first ever real win at an endurance race (barring the ones where I was the only solo woman). And I have to tell you, after so many tries, only to fall just short of the top spot on the podium, all of a sudden, learning that I had done it, that I had actually won, made the pain in my knees, the stiff neck, the red clay mud clinging to my body and clothes, the briar cuts on my arms, the soreness in my hands, all of it, so worthwhile. And it had nothing to do really with the prizes or the trophy - it was like all my failed attempts to claim victory finally meant something more than just having tried. It was success; finally, sweet, undeniable success where I had never been able to quite grasp it before. And I'm going to enjoy it while I have it. After all, next weekend is another race, and anything is possible - which goes not only for me, but for my competition as well!
I arrived in Charlotte Friday night, and Steve and I set up our tent and pit area (we normally take the travel trailer for the 24 hour events, but for these shorter races, where sleep is not an issue for the support person, the tent is fine). The alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. on Saturday morning, and while Steve went about ensuring my bikes (I always bring a backup, just in case) were ready, I took advantage of the early rising to stretch gently and have a light breakfast of yogurt and water. After chatting with some of the other racers for a bit, I then went ahead and got dressed for the racers' meeting. Shortly thereafter, the race began, and we were off! As I was not familiar with the Catawba trail, having never ridden it before, I took my time and just followed the rest of the racers into the singletrack, but making sure to keep the other solo woman in my sights as much as possible. She eventually got on far enough ahead where I lost sight of her, and I had to settle for simply getting myself through the more technical sections of trail. Sometimes it gets intimidating and worrisome to be behind, even by a few minutes, but after completing 6 solo 24 hour events and with this being my 7th solo 12 hour event, I have learned what my "comfort pace" is (the pace that I know I can sustain all day and all night), and decided to just be content to ride that speed Apparently I've developed a pretty good feel for that pace, as I was told that all my laps were within just a couple of minutes of each other in time. After each lap, I rode over to my pit area, where I had my hydration pack refilled with cold water, and took in either a gel or an energy drink, but made sure not to stop for more than 5-10 minutes, at which time I promptly hit the singletrack again. After my fourth or fifth lap, decided it was time for lunch, which consisted of another yogurt and one-quarter of a sourdough roll, along with half a can of caffeine free soda, and still more gel and another energy drink. This was my longest break at perhaps 15 minutes or so. I managed to do okay like this until near the end of my 8th lap, when I developed intense cramps in both knees, requiring me to actually stop on the trail to gently stretch my legs. Unfortunately, the cramps also reduced me to having to walk a couple of the steeper climbs, as any forceful pedal strokes would intensify the pain and cause excruciating muscle contractions. However, stopping was simply not an option for me, since the other solo woman and I were turning almost identical lap times, and up to this point we had not been more than 14 minutes apart. Besides this, though, I had my heart and mind set on completing 11 laps - 11 is my favorite lucky number, being the number of laps I got at Conyers, Georgia last year at the 24 Hours of Adrenalin when I qualified for the World Solo Championships - which meant that I would need to keep going in order to get in the remaining 3 laps I needed to meet my goal.
As it turned out, apparently I was not the only racer combating muscle cramps and heat-induced fatigue. I ended up riding a lap with one of the solo men who was suffering the same fate, and discovered later on that the other solo woman had basically had to stop for a break that was long enough for me to complete an entire lap before she was able to ride again, thus putting me in the lead for the first time in this race on completion of my 9th lap. Still determined to meet my 11 lap goal, though, I continued to press on, continuing to never stop for more than 5-10 minutes between laps. My competitor did continue to press me, turning out two consecutive laps at the finish of the race, but fortunately I managed to cross the line mere minutes ahead of her (I don't even think she was 30 minutes behind me), thanks to Steve's gentle urging to "just keep moving" throughout the day, for my first ever real win at an endurance race (barring the ones where I was the only solo woman). And I have to tell you, after so many tries, only to fall just short of the top spot on the podium, all of a sudden, learning that I had done it, that I had actually won, made the pain in my knees, the stiff neck, the red clay mud clinging to my body and clothes, the briar cuts on my arms, the soreness in my hands, all of it, so worthwhile. And it had nothing to do really with the prizes or the trophy - it was like all my failed attempts to claim victory finally meant something more than just having tried. It was success; finally, sweet, undeniable success where I had never been able to quite grasp it before. And I'm going to enjoy it while I have it. After all, next weekend is another race, and anything is possible - which goes not only for me, but for my competition as well!
SOMETIMES FEAR WINS
Someone once told me that everyone who races downhill gets scared, and I believe that is probably true. However, sometimes there comes a point when fear overtakes desire, and confidence is crippled, paralyzed, beaten down and left at the start gate. That unfortunately is where I have now arrived. For the past several years, downhill racing has defined who I am; it has been my passion, fellow competitors my “family”.
Racing filled the tremendous void left in my soul when I lost my horse to a broken leg 8 years ago, thus separating me from the only life I had known for 35 years – that of the horse-show world. And now, my heart is breaking once again, as I find that I can no longer manage the terror that rises up in me when the beeps start at the top of the course, or force myself to let my bike carry me over the rocks and ruts that make up the trail snaking its way down the side of the mountain. I can no longer hold back the tears when I realize that I am afraid, and timidly walking sections of trail that just a couple of years ago I easily rode, or would at least attempt. Suddenly, I feel the weight of my ever advancing age when I notice how much more I have in common with the parents on the sidelines cheering on their daughters who are competing with me in the races, and I can no longer find the joy.
The excitement has been replaced with embarrassment – I am ashamed of my overwhelming fear despite layers of body armor and long travel bikes, ashamed of my inability to conquer that fear and convert it into the adrenaline needed to tackle the courses. I am defeated because I do not understand what is happening or how to correct it. I want desperately to be able to ride well, and I have tried everything I can think of – clinics, private coaching sessions; I take my bike out all the time and try to just enjoy riding, yet the skills continue to elude me. Rather than improving, I find that I am regressing, becoming more and more hesitant as a rider. Worse, the memories of losing so much of my social connection and lifestyle upon the loss of my horse alarms me with respect to the prospect of losing my downhill racing “family” now that I can no longer participate, and may be relegated to the outsider-looking-in status. At this point, I can only console myself in the hopes that during my time as a downhiller maybe I was able to inspire at least one person to stretch their limits and attempt things they never thought possible, and hopefully to achieve those things. If that is true, then perhaps I will not have failed, no matter where this life’s journey may next lead me.
Racing filled the tremendous void left in my soul when I lost my horse to a broken leg 8 years ago, thus separating me from the only life I had known for 35 years – that of the horse-show world. And now, my heart is breaking once again, as I find that I can no longer manage the terror that rises up in me when the beeps start at the top of the course, or force myself to let my bike carry me over the rocks and ruts that make up the trail snaking its way down the side of the mountain. I can no longer hold back the tears when I realize that I am afraid, and timidly walking sections of trail that just a couple of years ago I easily rode, or would at least attempt. Suddenly, I feel the weight of my ever advancing age when I notice how much more I have in common with the parents on the sidelines cheering on their daughters who are competing with me in the races, and I can no longer find the joy.
The excitement has been replaced with embarrassment – I am ashamed of my overwhelming fear despite layers of body armor and long travel bikes, ashamed of my inability to conquer that fear and convert it into the adrenaline needed to tackle the courses. I am defeated because I do not understand what is happening or how to correct it. I want desperately to be able to ride well, and I have tried everything I can think of – clinics, private coaching sessions; I take my bike out all the time and try to just enjoy riding, yet the skills continue to elude me. Rather than improving, I find that I am regressing, becoming more and more hesitant as a rider. Worse, the memories of losing so much of my social connection and lifestyle upon the loss of my horse alarms me with respect to the prospect of losing my downhill racing “family” now that I can no longer participate, and may be relegated to the outsider-looking-in status. At this point, I can only console myself in the hopes that during my time as a downhiller maybe I was able to inspire at least one person to stretch their limits and attempt things they never thought possible, and hopefully to achieve those things. If that is true, then perhaps I will not have failed, no matter where this life’s journey may next lead me.
NAKED BEFORE THE MIRROR
I'll never forget my high school English teacher. Her name was Mrs. Revelle, and I used to hate her for the way she never cut me any slack, always pressing me for perfection with every assignment. Funny how things look differently now that I am an adult. That hatred has been replaced with gratitude for making me work so hard, to realize my potential and use it. I thought about her tonight while I was riding the singlespeed. Curious how similar that bike and Mrs. Revelle are. Each time I ride the singlespeed, with every hill, I curse the lack of gears, forcing myself to stand and strain with every muscle in my body just to reach the crest, always pushing myself for more than I think I can give. And yet, despite the pain, I know with each agonizing pedal stroke, I'm gaining strength, learning to anticipate the trail ahead and carry my momentum; in essence, learning to ride all over again, to become one with my bike. The singlespeed is my best friend and my worst enemy. It liberates me from the drudgery of gears, trying to correctly anticipate a shift, the worries of a drivetrain. There is no chain skip, no mis-shifting, and a beautifully uncluttered bar and frame. But it also strips me totally naked and holds me up before the mirror, exposing my every weakness as a rider, subtly reminding me that despite years of riding, I still have so much to learn. The singlespeed is a tough and demanding teacher, accepting nothing less than my absolute best, lest I have to dismount and humbly walk a hill that I could easily ride with a granny gear. It makes no allowances for weakness, no coddling when I'm tired, and tolerates no whining, whimpering or complaining. After all, it was my choice to go the singlespeed route. Yet, I'm drawn to it like a moth to the flame. When I ride the singlespeed, I am consumed. Riding it requires everything of me - I have no time or energy to worry about my job, responsibilities, the mess we humans have put our planet in, or even whether or not I'm being dropped on the ride. It envelops me, smothers me, drowns me, while at the same time frees me, inspires me, and revives me. It is my hell and my heaven. I can't escape it's siren's call, and I don't want to. When I ride the singlespeed, we are indeed one.
A LIFETIME IN A SINGLE DAY
If you have ever considered the solo category while looking at a 24 hour mountain bike race brochure and thought to yourself, “That looks like fun! But could I do it?” then you have already answered your own question, at least from the mental preparation standpoint. The type of person who considers the “fun” aspect of solo 24 hour racing is already more than halfway to fully appreciating the emotional experience.
As there are already multitudes of training manuals, articles, and even books currently available explaining the mechanics and tactics of physical training for such an event, this article will focus on what I consider an equally important aspect of solo endurance racing - the mental and emotional rollercoaster associated with it. I will leave the physical training plans and programs to coaches and trainers who are much more qualified to handle them, and instead simply give you a bird’s eye view, as it were, of what 24 hour solo racing is like from the mind of a Jane Average Athlete.
I think to fully appreciate solo endurance racing, one must be prepared mentally as well as physically, not only for the challenges associated with it, but also for the sheer joy and enhanced sense of awe at your own capabilities that such an accomplishment brings. Success at solo endurance racing is so much more than simply winning first place. In fact, at my third solo 24 hour race (I have now done 6, with more on the schedule), at the 24 Hours of Snowshoe in West Virginia, I had the tremendous honor of meeting the father of solo endurance bike racing himself, Mr. John Stamstad. He told me that he felt sad for racers who would be satisfied with nothing less than first place. His opinion was that by considering anything less than first place in an endurance event as defeat was to terribly limit your capacity for joy. After all, success is relative, and generally there can only be one first place winner in a category. True, it is commendable to strive for first and we all ultimately do, but you have to remember that a solo 24 hour bike race is an incredible challenge which is an invaluable learning experience and achievement, even just to finish, and you should never diminish that accomplishment simply because someone else happened to have a better day than you at this particular time.
Having also competed in regular cross-country and downhill bike races as well, I can tell you that I have found nothing in the bike racing world that compares with the range of emotions and life experiences of endurance events. I will always remember my first one especially, because even though I jumped into it totally unprepared (other than having completed several 12 hour events, which are quite different) I still found it be a profound experience in far more avenues than just cycling.
I have always been a big television fanatic, and the Ironman Triathlon documentaries amazed me. I could never figure out why those folks who were far behind the elite athletes and came in very close to (and usually including) last place almost always crossed the finish line in joyous tears, collapsing in overwhelming joy and even ecstasy as they crossed the line. I mean, they didn’t win anything, right? However, as I crossed the finish line at my first 24 hour solo race (in last place) I discovered that I, too, was in tears (and NOT from sorrow), and I also collapsed to my knees. In fact, I had to be helped to my campsite by my husband and support crew because I was so overcome with the magnitude of what I had just accomplished that I could not even walk. It was a most profound moment in my life, particularly as someone who had never been a very athletic or competitive person, to realize the restrictive boundaries I had crossed. So many preconceived notions about my abilities had been dispelled in a mere 24 hours.
For anyone considering doing a 24 hour bike race solo, I urge you to value it for all it can bring you, and not consider it just another bike race. It is an experience like no other, and can have a profound impact on your total life, if you let it. I would hope that you would relish every single moment of the event, such as the excitement of the race start, the sunshine in the afternoon, or the cool water droplets on your face should it happen to rain during your event. Take the time to notice the vibrant colors of the sky as the sun drops below the horizon. Listen to the incredible sounds of life exhibited by night creatures when the bulk of humanity is sleeping. Feel the deep darkness, and let the despair of midnight envelop you, knowing that the sun will rise again. Note the ever present spectators who line the course in the depths of night (just for you), and appreciate and thank them for their presence and the cheery light of encouragement they provide to help you through the darkness. Riding a 24 hour race solo gives you an unmatched opportunity to suffer through the chilling depths of night, to be rewarded by warm rejuvenation when the sun once again stretches its brilliant fingers out across the sky to breathe new life into you. The birds once again begin to sing, dewdrops reflect rainbows of color all across the trail, and somehow your feet and back do not seem to hurt as much as they did just a few short hours ago.
Take this opportunity to unlock your inner child and be amazed - at yourself. Consider the strength of your muscles, the capacity of your mind, the wondrous being that you are to have taken this one day and really LIVED, to have stretched your limits and overcome every mental obstacle and to have every negative voice that said you can’t, replying with “yes, I can”. This is not just riding, not just racing; this is truly living, my friend. On this leg of life’s journey, you meet many other solo riders. They become like family to you, as you will have shared something so wonderful, so terribly painful, so powerful and overwhelming that only they can truly understand. Treasure these friendships, as these are people who will laugh with you, cry with you, encourage you when you are afraid, and celebrate your success.
But also be prepared for the misery, the pain, and the solitude that accompanies solo endurance racing. Bask in these things, truly and deeply experience them, knowing that they, like all of life, are temporary. Yes, your feet, back and neck will hurt. Your hands will develop blisters and become sore. You will have periods of feeling totally defeated, but you will survive, and you will be the stronger for having persevered. By allowing yourself to be enveloped by these seemingly negative aspects of endurance racing, you will be opening yourself up to more fully experiencing the joy. You will encounter the full range of human emotion during these 24 hours. There will be times you will want to cry, scream, laugh, or sing; so go ahead and cry, scream, laugh, and sing. I can promise you that you will not be the only one.
Remember, you do not HAVE to ride your bike for 24 hours; you GET to ride your bike for 24 hours. It is a privilege, not a chore. It is the chance to live an entire lifetime in a single day. What an incredible and amazing thing! And when the race is over, relive and relish the experience as often as you like. But do try not to get caught up in whether you won or lost. In a solo 24 hour race, there are no losers. In the immortal words of Manuel Diotte, “Winning is not always finishing first. Sometimes winning is simply finishing.”
As there are already multitudes of training manuals, articles, and even books currently available explaining the mechanics and tactics of physical training for such an event, this article will focus on what I consider an equally important aspect of solo endurance racing - the mental and emotional rollercoaster associated with it. I will leave the physical training plans and programs to coaches and trainers who are much more qualified to handle them, and instead simply give you a bird’s eye view, as it were, of what 24 hour solo racing is like from the mind of a Jane Average Athlete.
I think to fully appreciate solo endurance racing, one must be prepared mentally as well as physically, not only for the challenges associated with it, but also for the sheer joy and enhanced sense of awe at your own capabilities that such an accomplishment brings. Success at solo endurance racing is so much more than simply winning first place. In fact, at my third solo 24 hour race (I have now done 6, with more on the schedule), at the 24 Hours of Snowshoe in West Virginia, I had the tremendous honor of meeting the father of solo endurance bike racing himself, Mr. John Stamstad. He told me that he felt sad for racers who would be satisfied with nothing less than first place. His opinion was that by considering anything less than first place in an endurance event as defeat was to terribly limit your capacity for joy. After all, success is relative, and generally there can only be one first place winner in a category. True, it is commendable to strive for first and we all ultimately do, but you have to remember that a solo 24 hour bike race is an incredible challenge which is an invaluable learning experience and achievement, even just to finish, and you should never diminish that accomplishment simply because someone else happened to have a better day than you at this particular time.
Having also competed in regular cross-country and downhill bike races as well, I can tell you that I have found nothing in the bike racing world that compares with the range of emotions and life experiences of endurance events. I will always remember my first one especially, because even though I jumped into it totally unprepared (other than having completed several 12 hour events, which are quite different) I still found it be a profound experience in far more avenues than just cycling.
I have always been a big television fanatic, and the Ironman Triathlon documentaries amazed me. I could never figure out why those folks who were far behind the elite athletes and came in very close to (and usually including) last place almost always crossed the finish line in joyous tears, collapsing in overwhelming joy and even ecstasy as they crossed the line. I mean, they didn’t win anything, right? However, as I crossed the finish line at my first 24 hour solo race (in last place) I discovered that I, too, was in tears (and NOT from sorrow), and I also collapsed to my knees. In fact, I had to be helped to my campsite by my husband and support crew because I was so overcome with the magnitude of what I had just accomplished that I could not even walk. It was a most profound moment in my life, particularly as someone who had never been a very athletic or competitive person, to realize the restrictive boundaries I had crossed. So many preconceived notions about my abilities had been dispelled in a mere 24 hours.
For anyone considering doing a 24 hour bike race solo, I urge you to value it for all it can bring you, and not consider it just another bike race. It is an experience like no other, and can have a profound impact on your total life, if you let it. I would hope that you would relish every single moment of the event, such as the excitement of the race start, the sunshine in the afternoon, or the cool water droplets on your face should it happen to rain during your event. Take the time to notice the vibrant colors of the sky as the sun drops below the horizon. Listen to the incredible sounds of life exhibited by night creatures when the bulk of humanity is sleeping. Feel the deep darkness, and let the despair of midnight envelop you, knowing that the sun will rise again. Note the ever present spectators who line the course in the depths of night (just for you), and appreciate and thank them for their presence and the cheery light of encouragement they provide to help you through the darkness. Riding a 24 hour race solo gives you an unmatched opportunity to suffer through the chilling depths of night, to be rewarded by warm rejuvenation when the sun once again stretches its brilliant fingers out across the sky to breathe new life into you. The birds once again begin to sing, dewdrops reflect rainbows of color all across the trail, and somehow your feet and back do not seem to hurt as much as they did just a few short hours ago.
Take this opportunity to unlock your inner child and be amazed - at yourself. Consider the strength of your muscles, the capacity of your mind, the wondrous being that you are to have taken this one day and really LIVED, to have stretched your limits and overcome every mental obstacle and to have every negative voice that said you can’t, replying with “yes, I can”. This is not just riding, not just racing; this is truly living, my friend. On this leg of life’s journey, you meet many other solo riders. They become like family to you, as you will have shared something so wonderful, so terribly painful, so powerful and overwhelming that only they can truly understand. Treasure these friendships, as these are people who will laugh with you, cry with you, encourage you when you are afraid, and celebrate your success.
But also be prepared for the misery, the pain, and the solitude that accompanies solo endurance racing. Bask in these things, truly and deeply experience them, knowing that they, like all of life, are temporary. Yes, your feet, back and neck will hurt. Your hands will develop blisters and become sore. You will have periods of feeling totally defeated, but you will survive, and you will be the stronger for having persevered. By allowing yourself to be enveloped by these seemingly negative aspects of endurance racing, you will be opening yourself up to more fully experiencing the joy. You will encounter the full range of human emotion during these 24 hours. There will be times you will want to cry, scream, laugh, or sing; so go ahead and cry, scream, laugh, and sing. I can promise you that you will not be the only one.
Remember, you do not HAVE to ride your bike for 24 hours; you GET to ride your bike for 24 hours. It is a privilege, not a chore. It is the chance to live an entire lifetime in a single day. What an incredible and amazing thing! And when the race is over, relive and relish the experience as often as you like. But do try not to get caught up in whether you won or lost. In a solo 24 hour race, there are no losers. In the immortal words of Manuel Diotte, “Winning is not always finishing first. Sometimes winning is simply finishing.”
If You Can Dream It, You Can Become It
A friend of mine snapped this picture during a bike ride a few weeks ago and it has been an amazing source of inspiration to me. Not only is the photograph itself very nicely done, with the crisp blue sky and the very early spring greenery, but the content of the picture has special meaning to me personally. The hill that I'm descending is actually rather long and steep with the entrance in a sharp turn, and this was the first time I had attempted to ride it sans suspension. Being able to see myself objectively and remembering the uncharacteristic calm confidence I had at this particular moment in time reassures me that "I Can", which for me is a very powerful statement.You cannot see anything that you do not first contemplate as a reality. - Ramtha
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