Do a few 24 hour races, and it is bound to happen. Folks who have not tried one yet are going to ask you why you do it. After doing these things for the past several years, I have been asked that question so many times I have lost count. So I figured I would lay out a list of the Top 5 to hopefully enlighten those of you who have not yet endeavored to experience one of the most popular current mountain bike crazes.
5. You have unlimited opportunities to totally embarrass yourself in public. Take for example, my nutritional inexperience at one of my earlier endurance events. I was so concerned that I would not take in sufficient fluids that I apparently overdid it. Of course, nature called as usual, right smack dab in the middle of one of my night laps, as far away from a portajohn as possible. So, being the industrious woman that I am, I parked my bike next to a tree off the side of the trail, and scurried off into some relatively thick underbrush in order to relieve my painfully full bladder. Just as I was preparing to pull my tights back up, I heard the familiar masculine voice of one of my friends who was also racing, yelling to me that perhaps I should have turned off the flashing red tail light attached to the hydration pack I was still wearing.
4. And on a similar note, you can look like a total fool and not even care. If you are even aware of it, that is. Again, early in my endurance racing career, I had received in my schwag bag a tube of chamois cream at one of the events. Unfortunately, I failed to read the directions, which clearly indicate that a little goes a long way. Let me just make a long story short here, and say that if you are going to glob that stuff on, wear white shorts instead of black ones, preferably using the same color scheme on your saddle.
3. You can (and if you happen to be racing solo WILL) look like absolute crap and probably not even care, at least by the end of the race. Just one little bit of advice for the ladies here. If you are going to start the race trying to look like a diva, make sure that the eye makeup you choose is water and sweat-proof. I can recall at least a couple of times that I should have just gone ahead and registered as Rocky Raccoon.
2. You get to wear the most ridiculous looking outfits in the world, and have people applaud you for it. If you have ever seen me race, I do not think I need to say anything more.
1. And the number one reason to do a 24 hour race? You get to play in the dirt with your bike and your friends all day and all night! You will pay a good chunk of money to get no sleep, strain your muscles to their limits, snap at your friends who are trying to help you, eat bizarre food products, and wonder why you did this. You will complain in the wee hours of the morning that you are never going to put yourself through this again. But 15 minutes after the end of the race, you will already be planning for the next one. It is a vicious cycle. It is an addiction. "Hello. My name is Tammy, and I am a 24 hour race addict." "Hello, Tammy."
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
WINTERGREEN
With my ever advancing age of over 40 now, I frequently think maybe it's time to stop downhill racing, which is actually just a euphemism for throwing myself down the side of a mountain on a bicycle; to give up sweltering in the hot sun wrapped in layers of body armor and a motocross helmet, waiting at a start line that I swear is only 5 feet away from the sun itself for the countdown letting me know that it's time once again to taunt death by hurtling myself and my bike through rocks and roots, wedging between tight trees down some several hundred or more feet of trail, just to see how fast I can do it. Yes, sometimes I think it's time to give that up.
Then, I'll go to a race like the Timber Rattler at Wintergreen, Virginia this past weekend. This event was truly an experiment in just how much fun downhill racing can be, for people of all ages and all ability levels. There were three separate downhill trails for the three basic categories - Beginner, Sport and Expert - so that everyone could be tested at the appropriate level for their respective skills. Each trail had varying amounts of rock gardens, steep chutes, twisty hairpin turns, jumps, drops, logs, etc., with each carefully gauged to fit the skill level of the riders for which it was designed. The builders took painstaking care to ensure a fair playing field for each race category's course. Even Mother Nature chimed in, giving us such beautiful clear blue skies that it almost looked painted that way. Few races I have attended have run as smoothly as this one - registration was a breeze, the ski timing equipment was precise, course marshals very helpful, spectators vociferously cheering on every single rider all along the courses, even ice-cold water provided both up top and at the bottom of the mountain for exhausted racers. And of course, the downhillers themselves, as usual, were nothing short of totally supportive of one another. I've often thought that going to a downhill race is more of a festival than a race. It's a time to meet up with friends that perhaps live too far away to visit otherwise, to share some friendly competition, and to learn from one another. I view the folks I race with more as family than competitors, and that was certainly true at Wintergreen this past weekend. The Timber Rattler definitely had a festive atmosphere going, all the way down to the final awards ceremony, which actually included a raffle based on race number plates, wherein everyone had an equal chance at going home with something cool. As a race venue, Wintergreen has it all - beautiful cross-country trails, a magnitude of downhill trails that boggles the mind, including a 7 mile downhill run that ends at the very bottom of the mountain, where you will be chauffeured back up top by the shuttle. But the best thing about this past weekend's race, for me anyway, were the memories I brought home of the first (annual, I hope) Timber Rattler downhill race at Wintergreen.
Then, I'll go to a race like the Timber Rattler at Wintergreen, Virginia this past weekend. This event was truly an experiment in just how much fun downhill racing can be, for people of all ages and all ability levels. There were three separate downhill trails for the three basic categories - Beginner, Sport and Expert - so that everyone could be tested at the appropriate level for their respective skills. Each trail had varying amounts of rock gardens, steep chutes, twisty hairpin turns, jumps, drops, logs, etc., with each carefully gauged to fit the skill level of the riders for which it was designed. The builders took painstaking care to ensure a fair playing field for each race category's course. Even Mother Nature chimed in, giving us such beautiful clear blue skies that it almost looked painted that way. Few races I have attended have run as smoothly as this one - registration was a breeze, the ski timing equipment was precise, course marshals very helpful, spectators vociferously cheering on every single rider all along the courses, even ice-cold water provided both up top and at the bottom of the mountain for exhausted racers. And of course, the downhillers themselves, as usual, were nothing short of totally supportive of one another. I've often thought that going to a downhill race is more of a festival than a race. It's a time to meet up with friends that perhaps live too far away to visit otherwise, to share some friendly competition, and to learn from one another. I view the folks I race with more as family than competitors, and that was certainly true at Wintergreen this past weekend. The Timber Rattler definitely had a festive atmosphere going, all the way down to the final awards ceremony, which actually included a raffle based on race number plates, wherein everyone had an equal chance at going home with something cool. As a race venue, Wintergreen has it all - beautiful cross-country trails, a magnitude of downhill trails that boggles the mind, including a 7 mile downhill run that ends at the very bottom of the mountain, where you will be chauffeured back up top by the shuttle. But the best thing about this past weekend's race, for me anyway, were the memories I brought home of the first (annual, I hope) Timber Rattler downhill race at Wintergreen.
THE GIFT
I was frustrated. Once again I had been more or less dropped during a mountain bike ride. Somehow, despite my technical ineptness I had managed to almost catch up to a fast group of skilled riders on a very difficult mountain bike trail, one which I rarely even attempt due to its level of technical difficulty and its high propensity for separating me from both my bike and my confidence. I was barely hanging on and just able to keep a glimpse of the riders ahead of me, but still out there. I had gone on this ride at my husband’s urging, as he had just purchased a new camera and wanted us to practice using it by photographing some of the riders this particular evening. As I rounded an exceptionally rocky twisty corner, I felt my rear tire slip, and suddenly I was stopped dead in my tracks by an unseen root right in the apex of the turn. While straightening my handlebars, my attention was drawn to a subtle glimmer on the trail. At first I thought someone had perhaps dropped a large piece of jewelry – I suppose it didn’t occur to me that most people don’t actually wear large pieces of jewelry when they ride. On closer inspection I realized it was a rock, but not just any old rock.
Now, it’s worth mentioning at this point that I have been going through a very rough time with my riding for the past several months, feeling quite discouraged and disappointed with what I perceived as a lack of improvement, despite riding nearly every day. Through all this, though, one person has been by my side, encouraging, supporting, and riding back with me to keep me company as well as to try and help me with technical sections where I was having difficulty. That person is my husband and best friend in the entire world. Although I thought he had ridden on ahead to stay up with the faster folks, it turns out that he actually had ridden ahead in order to take pictures of me riding, being very careful to photograph me in sections of trail where I felt comfortable and confident and looked like I knew what I was doing. He told me later he wanted me to see that my riding skills were better than I realized, and he wanted me to have those pictures as proof.
As I reached down to pick up this rock which had so inexplicably attracted my attention, I noticed something quite extraordinary about it. With a smile making its way across my face, upon taking the rock into my palm I realized that it was in the unmistakable shape of a perfect heart.
Now, it’s worth mentioning at this point that I have been going through a very rough time with my riding for the past several months, feeling quite discouraged and disappointed with what I perceived as a lack of improvement, despite riding nearly every day. Through all this, though, one person has been by my side, encouraging, supporting, and riding back with me to keep me company as well as to try and help me with technical sections where I was having difficulty. That person is my husband and best friend in the entire world. Although I thought he had ridden on ahead to stay up with the faster folks, it turns out that he actually had ridden ahead in order to take pictures of me riding, being very careful to photograph me in sections of trail where I felt comfortable and confident and looked like I knew what I was doing. He told me later he wanted me to see that my riding skills were better than I realized, and he wanted me to have those pictures as proof.
As I reached down to pick up this rock which had so inexplicably attracted my attention, I noticed something quite extraordinary about it. With a smile making its way across my face, upon taking the rock into my palm I realized that it was in the unmistakable shape of a perfect heart.
NOT JUST FOR TOMBOYS
"You carry lipstick in your Camelbak?" My (male) friend was incredulous when he caught me putting my flavored and tinted lip balm into my hydration pack before heading out onto the trail, and that got me started wondering. Perhaps that's why so many women are hesitant to take up mountain biking. No, not because of the lipstick. Because there is no stigma to being a tomboy who mountain bikes, but there does seem to be a misconception that to succeed in the sport, one has to surrender her femininity. Fortunately, though, that's all it is, a misconception. There are so many "girly-girls" who ride, and ride hard. Ever hear of Paula Pezzo, on her pink Gary Fisher, with her pink helmet, wearing mascara and lipstick, winning the Olympic Gold in her metalflake shorts? Or what about Jamie Little - yes, that gorgeous woman with the ESPN microphone interviewing all the motocross stars? That's right, she's a top-notch downhiller. I saw her at Nationals at Snowshoe last year, wearing all white motocross pants and jersey, winning her class with freshly applied lipstick and red nail polish. Or Anka Martin and April Lawyer, who look and sound more like fashion models than downhillers, but boldly take on the toughest courses fearlessly and with more guts and determination than many men. And then there is my own personal mountain biking heroine, Jacquie Phelan, who has won more titles than I could ever list on this page including numerous NORBA National Championships, who always raced wearing pearls and usually in a frilly white blouse. These women, and many others, have accomplished incredible feats of athleticism in the biking world, and yet have retained all that makes them women, proudly sporting their femininity. As one hard-riding young lady put it, "We're coming to the bike trail, and we're bringing our skirts with us." They make me proud, not only to be a mountain biker, but to be a woman mountain biker. So yes, I do carry lipstick in my Camelbak, which I strap happily onto the shoulders of my flower print jersey atop my pastel green skort, and ride.
TAKING THE LEAP
Nancy Reagan has been quoted as saying “A woman is like a tea bag -- only in hot water do you realize how strong she is.” Never was this truer in my own situation than back in June of 2004 when I decided, on a whim really, to participate in the National Off-road Bicycle Association (NORBA) Nationals inaugural Marathon mountain bike series. NORBA had decided this season to institute a Marathon bike race in their annual mountain bike series consisting of multiple events in various cities across the United States, to go along with the traditional fare of Cross Country, Downhill and Mountain Cross. Racers participating in the individual events would be vying for a year-end series award in addition to the medals offered at each specific venue. As an endurance bike racer for the past several years, I figured I would give the new Marathon a shot – I mean, after doing multiple solo 24 hour events, how tough could it be, right? Apparently I had forgotten how brutal and unforgiving the terrain of West Virginia can be, particularly during the infamous rainy season which is June in that region. Snowshoe Mountain is littered with loose slippery rocks, and there are large tree roots spiderwebbed all across the singletrack. The sections of the course consisting of doubletrack are severely steep and seemingly endless, reaching up to what appears to be infinity. However, I firmly believe, as Helen Keller once said, “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing”, and so I signed up and decided to take the plunge.
Naturally, on arriving at the start line for the Marathon in the early morning hours on that early June Thursday morning, the skies were dark and threatening, and it had in fact been raining the entire week previously. There was only one other woman in my age group of 40+, and a total of only about 41 entrants altogether, roughly half of which were pros. On the start, I took my time and headed into the trail very close to the back of the pack. The course was immediately slick and treacherous, and I’m not a very technical rider anyway, so things were looking grim from the beginning. I loosened up a bit once I reached the doubletrack climb and settled into a nice rhythm. Unfortunately that was soon to change. After a couple of miles of climbing, the trail headed into the woods, where I was faced with mile after mile of slippery, rooty, rocky singletrack which I found virtually unrideable. So I dismounted, heaved my bike onto my shoulder and ran. A lot. I ran for what seemed like an eternity, and to make things worse, there were course markers indicating which way the trail actually went only very sporadically, so there were many times when I wasn’t even sure I was going the right way, until I would happen across a marker which fortunately indicated that I was traveling in the right direction. It seemed that the only sections of trail I could ride were the steep, exhausting, gravel-strewn fireroad climbs. I was discouraged, disappointed and disillusioned, wondering what on earth had possessed me to attempt something like this. Shortly after that, I was passed by a couple of cross country riders who were preriding for their race later in the weekend. With their shouts of encouragement reawakening my spirit, I pressed on. That is, until I came to a 25 foot wide creek criss-crossing the trail. I stopped, and noticed a course marshal sitting on the opposite bank, reading a book. I yelled across to ask if I was in the right place, to which he responded “Yep.” I asked if anyone had managed to ride across this body of water. “Nope – not even the lead motorcycle – everybody has had to walk it.” So I once again gathered up my bike and stepped into the water, which rapidly rose up to my hips! There were slick loose rocks in the bottom, and tiny fish snapping at my ankles and shins as I waded through. I struggled up through the deep sand on the opposite bank, then remounted and headed down the gravel road to the next creek crossing. This creek was shallower, so I rode slowly through. By this time, I was so tired that I tried to just stay on my bike and crawl very slowly through the singletrack where I could, and rode painfully slowly up the climbs. As I wound around the trail, I noticed a course marshal sitting on a ledge up above the trail, shouting encouragement to me, and asking if I needed any food or water. I had plenty, but asked how far in last place I was. He told me that nearly half the entrants (including half the pros!) had already resigned from the race, and taken a DNF (race term for “Did Not Finish”), so I was already in the top half by still hanging in there! At this point, I had been on the course for probably 5 hours, it was starting to rain, and I was exhausted. But I was determined to see this thing to the bitter end, so I pressed on.
I couldn’t believe how treacherous this trail became. There was one section in particular which struck sheer terror into my heart. After riding an off-camber ledge for a couple of miles, the trail suddenly dropped down into a giant hole, with a drop off to the left that looked like it fell into the gaping maw of hell itself. The only way through was to toss my bike up over an uprooted tree on the trail, and then grab the limbs and climb up. I was barely able to do this, being rather short, but somehow I managed to get both my bike and my body up and over this tree and continue on.
Upon rounding the next corner, I realized that I was probably still over 2 hours from the finish line, as I was just now passing the Silver Creek Lodge which is close to the bottom of Snowshoe Mountain, with the finish line at the very peak. I wanted to cry, but didn’t even have the energy to do that. I alternated between riding and pushing my bike until I got to the last section of singletrack. At this point, the course marshals told me I only had about one more mile to go. Liars! By my computer, the trail snaking its way up to the crest of the mountain was over 4 miles – a rocky, rooty, muddy, slimy, wet 4 miles – but I rode it. I rode every last inch of it. I had finally crossed out onto the last fireroad, but didn’t know how close I was to the finish, when a woman rode by me. She encouraged me to keep going, and told me I only had to round one last corner to finish, so as painful as it was, I kept pedaling. Then I saw it – the finish line. And I also saw the timing clock. It said 7 hours and 25 minutes, so I hurriedly set a mini goal for myself – to beat 7 and a half hours. I dug deep and found my will again. I stood up and pedaled as hard as I ever have, to cross the finish line at 7 hours and 29 minutes.
I was thrilled to have finished, but sad because I suspected I had finished last, as slowly as I had been muddling through the course. I asked the NORBA official when the results would be posted, and he told me that I had won for my age group! Amazingly, this race win put in me in first place for the series. I anxiously awaited the results for each successive Marathon series event, always assuming that my temporary title would be lost. However, as it turned out, this win at one of the most difficult venues I have ever raced was sufficient to give me the Overall Marathon Series Title for 2004 for the Women 40+ category. As inspirational author, Kobi Yamada, said “Sometimes you just have to take the leap, and build your wings on the way down.”
Naturally, on arriving at the start line for the Marathon in the early morning hours on that early June Thursday morning, the skies were dark and threatening, and it had in fact been raining the entire week previously. There was only one other woman in my age group of 40+, and a total of only about 41 entrants altogether, roughly half of which were pros. On the start, I took my time and headed into the trail very close to the back of the pack. The course was immediately slick and treacherous, and I’m not a very technical rider anyway, so things were looking grim from the beginning. I loosened up a bit once I reached the doubletrack climb and settled into a nice rhythm. Unfortunately that was soon to change. After a couple of miles of climbing, the trail headed into the woods, where I was faced with mile after mile of slippery, rooty, rocky singletrack which I found virtually unrideable. So I dismounted, heaved my bike onto my shoulder and ran. A lot. I ran for what seemed like an eternity, and to make things worse, there were course markers indicating which way the trail actually went only very sporadically, so there were many times when I wasn’t even sure I was going the right way, until I would happen across a marker which fortunately indicated that I was traveling in the right direction. It seemed that the only sections of trail I could ride were the steep, exhausting, gravel-strewn fireroad climbs. I was discouraged, disappointed and disillusioned, wondering what on earth had possessed me to attempt something like this. Shortly after that, I was passed by a couple of cross country riders who were preriding for their race later in the weekend. With their shouts of encouragement reawakening my spirit, I pressed on. That is, until I came to a 25 foot wide creek criss-crossing the trail. I stopped, and noticed a course marshal sitting on the opposite bank, reading a book. I yelled across to ask if I was in the right place, to which he responded “Yep.” I asked if anyone had managed to ride across this body of water. “Nope – not even the lead motorcycle – everybody has had to walk it.” So I once again gathered up my bike and stepped into the water, which rapidly rose up to my hips! There were slick loose rocks in the bottom, and tiny fish snapping at my ankles and shins as I waded through. I struggled up through the deep sand on the opposite bank, then remounted and headed down the gravel road to the next creek crossing. This creek was shallower, so I rode slowly through. By this time, I was so tired that I tried to just stay on my bike and crawl very slowly through the singletrack where I could, and rode painfully slowly up the climbs. As I wound around the trail, I noticed a course marshal sitting on a ledge up above the trail, shouting encouragement to me, and asking if I needed any food or water. I had plenty, but asked how far in last place I was. He told me that nearly half the entrants (including half the pros!) had already resigned from the race, and taken a DNF (race term for “Did Not Finish”), so I was already in the top half by still hanging in there! At this point, I had been on the course for probably 5 hours, it was starting to rain, and I was exhausted. But I was determined to see this thing to the bitter end, so I pressed on.
I couldn’t believe how treacherous this trail became. There was one section in particular which struck sheer terror into my heart. After riding an off-camber ledge for a couple of miles, the trail suddenly dropped down into a giant hole, with a drop off to the left that looked like it fell into the gaping maw of hell itself. The only way through was to toss my bike up over an uprooted tree on the trail, and then grab the limbs and climb up. I was barely able to do this, being rather short, but somehow I managed to get both my bike and my body up and over this tree and continue on.
Upon rounding the next corner, I realized that I was probably still over 2 hours from the finish line, as I was just now passing the Silver Creek Lodge which is close to the bottom of Snowshoe Mountain, with the finish line at the very peak. I wanted to cry, but didn’t even have the energy to do that. I alternated between riding and pushing my bike until I got to the last section of singletrack. At this point, the course marshals told me I only had about one more mile to go. Liars! By my computer, the trail snaking its way up to the crest of the mountain was over 4 miles – a rocky, rooty, muddy, slimy, wet 4 miles – but I rode it. I rode every last inch of it. I had finally crossed out onto the last fireroad, but didn’t know how close I was to the finish, when a woman rode by me. She encouraged me to keep going, and told me I only had to round one last corner to finish, so as painful as it was, I kept pedaling. Then I saw it – the finish line. And I also saw the timing clock. It said 7 hours and 25 minutes, so I hurriedly set a mini goal for myself – to beat 7 and a half hours. I dug deep and found my will again. I stood up and pedaled as hard as I ever have, to cross the finish line at 7 hours and 29 minutes.
I was thrilled to have finished, but sad because I suspected I had finished last, as slowly as I had been muddling through the course. I asked the NORBA official when the results would be posted, and he told me that I had won for my age group! Amazingly, this race win put in me in first place for the series. I anxiously awaited the results for each successive Marathon series event, always assuming that my temporary title would be lost. However, as it turned out, this win at one of the most difficult venues I have ever raced was sufficient to give me the Overall Marathon Series Title for 2004 for the Women 40+ category. As inspirational author, Kobi Yamada, said “Sometimes you just have to take the leap, and build your wings on the way down.”
SPIRIT OF MOUNTAIN BIKING
In April of 1995, when I rode my very first bicycle, I had no idea that 7 years later I would be chronicling my retirement from solo 24 hour endurance racing at the 24 Hours of Adrenalin in Conyers, Georgia. I also never dreamed that my paltry attempts at mountain bike competition would change my life in so many ways. In 2000, I entered my first 24 hour solo race - also at the 24 Hours of Adrenalin in Conyers. I was very afraid and intimidated, so to counter that, I donned full leopardskin apparel and rode a leopardskin painted bike, much the same way my own mother used to camouflage her insecurities by outward flamboyance (she had a VW beetle painted up like a ladybug, so I come by it honestly)! Completing that event was a life-altering experience for someone like me who is not by nature a competitive or even very athletic person, so I wrote a story about it and sent it to TriLife, the race promoters. Little did I know what an impact that simple action was going to have.
During the following two years, I competed in many mountain bike events, including cross-country, solo endurance, and downhill racing. I never really developed the competitive drive that winners have, so placed last most of the time. I had joined a team and obtained sponsors, and tried very hard to make it as a mountain bike racer, but in so doing, began to lose the joy of simply riding. I felt the pressures of not winning weighing heavily upon my team jersey-clad shoulders, and felt somewhat naked and exposed without my comforting outrageous animal print attire. I began to get very discouraged, only finding happiness in my riding when I either went out for recreational rides in total solitude, or could help teach beginners. Oddly enough, despite the fact that my own riding skills are minimal at best, I was able to teach others to do things that I myself could not - to the point that within weeks those same beginners could successfully compete at races and consistently place well above me. This, while very rewarding in some ways, was frustrating in others. Yet, I continued on attempting to race, yet never really developing into a real "competitor". I went everywhere and raced a jam-packed season in 2002, including 2 full downhill series (both of which I won overall despite placing last in all but 3 of the total events - sometimes quantity can overcome quality!), and 2 NORBA Nationals in both cross-country and downhill (where again I placed last, although at Vermont I was the sole competitor in my category, so that was a bittersweet "victory"). My final race of this season was to be my retirement from solo 24 hour endurance, and I felt it appropriate to be at the same venue where I first began, the 24 Hours of Adrenalin at Conyers, Georgia.
On my arrival to Conyers, I was still in the discouraged slump where I had spent most of the entire 2002 race season. However, that was all soon to change. For this, my swan song race, I decided to don once again my apparently now famous animal print bike clothes, complete with the helmet covers, ears and all. Before I even got lined up for the LeMans start, a delightful young man from Florida approached me, saying he wanted to meet the lady who inspired him to compete as a solo rider. His name was Jose, and as he had two fractured kneecaps and could not run, we decided to hold hands and walk the entire LeMans start. This was the beginning of the most amazing weekend of my life to this point. After feeling virtually invisible for two solid years (well, except for the fact that I had such an outstanding race record of roughly 95% last place finishes), I was astounded to discover how many people apparently knew who I was. I quickly lost count of how many people approached me, both on and off the course, to tell me how my internet "stories" had inspired them to attempt (and achieve) things they had never thought possible; how they had never thought they could compete in a 24 hour race until they read my 2000 account of this event. I was humbled, inspired, incredulous. I had no idea that simply putting my feelings to "paper" would have touched so many lives. All throughout the day and night, I was encouraged, cheered and supported by spectators and fellow racers calling out to me, not only with "Yay solo" or "Go number 7", but actually yelling my name. It was the most amazing thing I had ever experienced. I began to realize that I was apparently leaving behind a legacy that meant more to me than any race win ever could. The pain of so many last place finishes paled and I felt the sheer joy again of simply being on my bike, surrounded by so many others experiencing that same joy. I was slow, very slow, reduced to walking up nearly all the big climbs on the course after my first couple of laps, but that gave me the opportunity to meet and talk with many wonderful people.
I took the advice of a dear friend and my inspiration, Jacquie Phelan, who had told me earlier "I
hope nothing quashes your love of riding, pure and simple. I have noticed that racing beyond a certain point (different in all people) can slowly or suddenly quash it. Be aware of that glowing ember, let it glow." I paid attention to and cherished everything about riding - the sunlight peaking through the clouds, the soft cooling breeze, the moonlight and the way it threw shadows, the grass glistening with morning dew, the field mice scurrying across the trail, the smell of the dirt, the rustling leaves, the intricate patterns of the rock faces, the trees swaying and creaking, the rivulets of water streaming over the granite, the way the ruts in the trail shape-shifted after each rider crossed through, even the "squish" of the muddy moss. I listened to the sound of my own breathing, my heart beating, felt my muscles work through cramps and fatigue, and marveled at the capabilities of the human body. I was no longer "racing" - I was living, and it was glorious, painful, thrilling, overwhelming. I wanted to laugh, cry, scream - so I did. I giggled, I sang, I wept, I talked to myself and the chipmunk that darted into the woods beside me.
When the clock passed noon on Sunday, I didn't want the ride to stop. I was exhausted, but I had found whatever it was that made me start riding those seven years ago, that "ember" was once again glowing. I owe more than I can ever repay to every single person who has ever cheered for me, encouraged me, supported me, or even just smiled in my direction - you brought me back alive, and refreshed in me "the spirit of mountain biking".
During the following two years, I competed in many mountain bike events, including cross-country, solo endurance, and downhill racing. I never really developed the competitive drive that winners have, so placed last most of the time. I had joined a team and obtained sponsors, and tried very hard to make it as a mountain bike racer, but in so doing, began to lose the joy of simply riding. I felt the pressures of not winning weighing heavily upon my team jersey-clad shoulders, and felt somewhat naked and exposed without my comforting outrageous animal print attire. I began to get very discouraged, only finding happiness in my riding when I either went out for recreational rides in total solitude, or could help teach beginners. Oddly enough, despite the fact that my own riding skills are minimal at best, I was able to teach others to do things that I myself could not - to the point that within weeks those same beginners could successfully compete at races and consistently place well above me. This, while very rewarding in some ways, was frustrating in others. Yet, I continued on attempting to race, yet never really developing into a real "competitor". I went everywhere and raced a jam-packed season in 2002, including 2 full downhill series (both of which I won overall despite placing last in all but 3 of the total events - sometimes quantity can overcome quality!), and 2 NORBA Nationals in both cross-country and downhill (where again I placed last, although at Vermont I was the sole competitor in my category, so that was a bittersweet "victory"). My final race of this season was to be my retirement from solo 24 hour endurance, and I felt it appropriate to be at the same venue where I first began, the 24 Hours of Adrenalin at Conyers, Georgia.
On my arrival to Conyers, I was still in the discouraged slump where I had spent most of the entire 2002 race season. However, that was all soon to change. For this, my swan song race, I decided to don once again my apparently now famous animal print bike clothes, complete with the helmet covers, ears and all. Before I even got lined up for the LeMans start, a delightful young man from Florida approached me, saying he wanted to meet the lady who inspired him to compete as a solo rider. His name was Jose, and as he had two fractured kneecaps and could not run, we decided to hold hands and walk the entire LeMans start. This was the beginning of the most amazing weekend of my life to this point. After feeling virtually invisible for two solid years (well, except for the fact that I had such an outstanding race record of roughly 95% last place finishes), I was astounded to discover how many people apparently knew who I was. I quickly lost count of how many people approached me, both on and off the course, to tell me how my internet "stories" had inspired them to attempt (and achieve) things they had never thought possible; how they had never thought they could compete in a 24 hour race until they read my 2000 account of this event. I was humbled, inspired, incredulous. I had no idea that simply putting my feelings to "paper" would have touched so many lives. All throughout the day and night, I was encouraged, cheered and supported by spectators and fellow racers calling out to me, not only with "Yay solo" or "Go number 7", but actually yelling my name. It was the most amazing thing I had ever experienced. I began to realize that I was apparently leaving behind a legacy that meant more to me than any race win ever could. The pain of so many last place finishes paled and I felt the sheer joy again of simply being on my bike, surrounded by so many others experiencing that same joy. I was slow, very slow, reduced to walking up nearly all the big climbs on the course after my first couple of laps, but that gave me the opportunity to meet and talk with many wonderful people.
I took the advice of a dear friend and my inspiration, Jacquie Phelan, who had told me earlier "I
hope nothing quashes your love of riding, pure and simple. I have noticed that racing beyond a certain point (different in all people) can slowly or suddenly quash it. Be aware of that glowing ember, let it glow." I paid attention to and cherished everything about riding - the sunlight peaking through the clouds, the soft cooling breeze, the moonlight and the way it threw shadows, the grass glistening with morning dew, the field mice scurrying across the trail, the smell of the dirt, the rustling leaves, the intricate patterns of the rock faces, the trees swaying and creaking, the rivulets of water streaming over the granite, the way the ruts in the trail shape-shifted after each rider crossed through, even the "squish" of the muddy moss. I listened to the sound of my own breathing, my heart beating, felt my muscles work through cramps and fatigue, and marveled at the capabilities of the human body. I was no longer "racing" - I was living, and it was glorious, painful, thrilling, overwhelming. I wanted to laugh, cry, scream - so I did. I giggled, I sang, I wept, I talked to myself and the chipmunk that darted into the woods beside me.
When the clock passed noon on Sunday, I didn't want the ride to stop. I was exhausted, but I had found whatever it was that made me start riding those seven years ago, that "ember" was once again glowing. I owe more than I can ever repay to every single person who has ever cheered for me, encouraged me, supported me, or even just smiled in my direction - you brought me back alive, and refreshed in me "the spirit of mountain biking".
THE ONE THAT STARTED IT ALL
Tears welled in my eyes as I neared the second checkpoint signaling two more miles to go on my ninth and final lap at the 24 Hours of Adrenalin mountain bike race in Conyers, Georgia. It was around noon on Sunday, September 17, 2000, and 24 hours earlier I had begun this race as one of only two solo women riders. Although I realized fully at this point that I would not win this race since my competitor already had one more lap than me, my tears had nothing to do with sorrow. You see, five and a half years ago, on April 9, 1995, I rode my very first bicycle. I was 33 years old, and had always been a horsewoman. However, after losing my horse to a broken leg, my then boyfriend (now husband) convinced me to try biking as a new alternative to a sport that had dominated my entire life to that point. I was afraid at first - a middle aged woman learning to ride a bike? But with his patience and my determination, I was able to figure out the brakes, gears, etc. Now, five years later, here I was, not only competing in, but finishing the ominous solo category of a 24 hour endurance bike race. I had always seen the Ironman Triathlon documentaries on television, and watched with utter amazement as grown men and women fell to their knees and sobbed after completing the race, even though they were near last place in their categories. Today, however, I understood completely what they felt, despite the fact that I am speechless to explain it to someone else. I did somehow manage to clear my vision sufficiently to cross the finish line and even get to my pit area before collapsing into my husband/support crew/mechanic/best friend's arms, sobbing like a child.
I'm not really sure what prompted me to even want to do this race. Although I had shown horses for many years, I never considered myself to be a very competitive person, and being such a novice in the bike world, not to mention fearful of nearly every obstacle one finds on the trail, bike racing in general is a terrifying prospect for me. I did race some, though, and surprisingly placed fairly well on many occasions. In the horse world, women are quite numerous, so competition is very tough. What I found in biking, especially mountain biking, though, is that there really aren't that many women my age out there at all, much less racing. Maybe it's because mountain bikes as a whole are a relatively new concept compared to, say, horses or even road bikes, and when women my age were kids, there simply weren't any mountain bikes. What this translates into is that the field for my category is just not that big, so placing in a race is pretty easy much of the time. Still, being the perfectionist that I am, I always gave everything I had at every race, even if I was the only competitor or only one of a few.
Then in 1998, my husband joined a team and competed in the 24 Hours of Canaan. The weather was miserable, cold and wet, but we went anyway, and I provided support for him. Despite the poor conditions, the idea of such an endurance event intrigued me. I shied away from the team idea, though, fearing that no matter who was on it, I would be the weakest link. It may be a female thing, or just something in my own mind, but being the "slow one" and/or getting in the way is one of the biggest fears I face in my riding, so I always avoided joining any groups who might want to do one of those races.
However, in November of 1998, I finally got a chance to try my hand at an endurance event, without the fear of causing others to fail. A local promoter was putting on 12 hour mountain bike races, and the course was only about an hour and a half away from my home. My husband, Steve, formed a team while I decided to go it alone, and race the solo category and provide my own support. I fully expected to just get a couple of laps completed on the 4.3 mile technical course, but ended up surprising myself and everyone else who knew me by completing ten laps. I continued to participate in these races, despite having to compete with the men (no other women ever signed up, and the promoter would not make a separate category for just one rider), mainly because they were the only races of this type near my home that I knew about. To my amazement, I continued to do well, placing exactly in the middle of the men each time. I competed in this series of races a total of five times.
Then, in June of this year, I heard about the 24 Hours of Adrenalin series. According to their website, they chose courses that were designed more for the average rider than the brutal courses that attempt to chew you up and spit you out. "I wonder if I could do this", I thought, and just thinking it made me decide to sign up. Of course, as soon as the credit card charge went through, I became horrified - what had I just done? Here I am, nearly 40 years old, ten pounds heavier than I should be, with no knowledge of race training, and I'm going to try to ride a 24 hour race?
So I went to work. I bought some books on training, learned how to use my heart rate monitor, dug out my free weights, and wrote out as good a training schedule as an amateur going it alone could do. For the most part, I stuck with it. However, the weather became quite uncooperative, raining unbelievably more than usual for the summer months, which meant I had to rely more on my road bike. So road bike I did. I worked on sprinting, something called cruise intervals, and just putting miles on the saddle. I rode my mountain bike when I could, and worked on my free weights sporadically - something I'm going to work harder on this coming season - and kept my fingers crossed that this would be enough during the three short months I had to get ready for the "big race".
It seemed like no time at all before Steve, our two dogs and I arrived at the Georgia International Horse Park on Friday afternoon before the race. Luckily, the weather was perfect, highs in the 70s and lows in the 50s, the entire weekend. Steve prerode the course for me, realizing that I would see it plenty enough over the approaching 24 hours. According to him, it was difficult with many short steep climbs, but doable enough.
Finally, it was Saturday morning. I, along with the other solo woman and the 12 solo men as well as the team captains, attended the mandatory captain's meeting, then went back to the campsite to dress for the first lap. I have always loved leopardskin print, even as a child, so to make light of not feeling like I was a very good rider, I had my bike painted leopardskin to match the Shebeest clothing that I wore during most of my earlier races. Somehow making biking fun made it seem less scary and competitive to me, and let me relax and just have fun. So anyway, when we were called to the start line to begin the Lemans start, I was in full attire with a leopard jersey, helmet cover complete with bow ears, and black tights with leopard print down the sides of the legs. After running what seemed like 100 miles to my non-running self, I finally arrived at the bike rack, where I jumped on my leopardskin painted bike and rode off on my first lap.
While technical is probably not what most of the better riders out there would call this course, it most certainly was to an intermediate rider like myself. My first lap, I worked out many fear issues about the dropoffs, steep downhills and lung-busting climbs. I quickly managed to master the downhills and dropoffs, thanks to my diminutive (I'm 5'2") full-suspension Titus bikes (at my age, four and five inches of travel is a necessity, not a luxury), but decided to simply walk most of the hills, as I soon discovered I had not developed the strength I needed to climb these efficiently, especially not for a 24 hour period repeatedly. After I passed our campsite, I found out that I hadn't seen the difficult section yet! Steep downhill switchbacks, incredible huge granite slickrock, creek crossings and even the obligatory log, as well as even more steep climbs awaited me on the second half of the 7 or 8 mile course. I managed to conquer most of these as well, although once again walked the really scary switchbacks and the uphills.
At last I crossed the finish for the first time, after what seemed like an eternity. Kerry, the other solo female, for the most part led our category, and I realized the first time she passed me on one of the climbs that she was far stronger than I was. But I was determined to not let myself get defeated mentally, especially not this early in the race. Besides, I had so many fabulous outfits to wear! So after each lap, I changed clothes. I wore leopardskin, snowcat, velvet, velour, and hologram patterns, changing constantly throughout the race. I know it took some extra time, but I also knew that the course, and Kerry, were tougher than I expected, and if I couldn't be remembered for winning, then I would be remembered for my appearance. I was feeling very good about the race, and thinking I might even be able to catch Kerry, as she was frequently on the same lap as I was. Then dusk arrived.
Steve had strapped my lights onto my second bike for me, and I headed out into the night. Suddenly the course was very different. I found myself walking even the few and far between flat stretches, missing lines, washing out in ruts. I knew I needed rest, so stopped after my sixth lap for a quick nap, which turned into an hour and a half. Shortly after midnight, I headed back out again, and learned that I was definitely not rested enough; I was cold, tired, disoriented on the trail, and having a hard time riding at all. So I stopped again at the campsite for another quick rest, this one turning into four and a half hours.
As daybreak spread across the sky, I leaped off the sleeping bag. What time was it? 6:45??? No, it can't be that late! I threw on some clothes and raced out to my bike, hurrying out onto the course without stopping to eat this time. As I sprinted through the finish line yet again and ran back to the camper for the next change of clothes, I realized that in my earlier dressing frenzy, I had put on the wrong tights, the ones with no chamois; well, at least that explained why the course felt so much rougher. Luckily, I had bought a new saddle right before the race, and I must admit the Terry Butterfly certainly did its job. At this point, I was told that as of the 2:00 a.m. posting, I was in the lead for the solo women! I was pumped, ready to ride, and so went out for what would later turn out to be my final lap. I was hanging tough, feeling good about things, and then learned that Kerry had gotten out onto the course before me, and was now a lap ahead of me. This news came at around 10:30 a.m., and I knew then I was not going to win. I think this must have been the lowest point for me. All the negative voices in my head began their usual ruckus - whatever made you think you could do this, you're too old, too fat, too weak, too scared, etc. - and then I realized why I was here competing in this race right now. It was for everyone who has ever been told "you can't do that", "it's too difficult", "you'll fail and look stupid", the list goes on and on. So I sucked it up, and walked up that last tough climb, I think in Georgia they call it "Olympic Hill", proudly, knowing that no, I wasn't going to win this race, but that I wasn't going to lose, either. I was going to finish it. And not only that, but I was going to finish it in style. Yes, I weigh more than I should, and no, a chubby woman maybe shouldn't wear leopard print or snowcat and silver, yes shiny, sparkly silver, short-shorts to finish a race, but that's exactly what I did. I did it because I could, and because I had earned it. This race was the hardest thing I've ever done, but I did it, and if you're wondering if maybe you could do it too, the answer is "Yes, you can".
I felt so much support and encouragement during this race, both from the other competitors and the support people (including the Trilife staff), and even though I wanted it to be over so badly early Sunday morning, that finish line reading 24:13:19 was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen at that moment, and I'm already considering doing it again next year. Maybe I'll see you out there, too!
I'm not really sure what prompted me to even want to do this race. Although I had shown horses for many years, I never considered myself to be a very competitive person, and being such a novice in the bike world, not to mention fearful of nearly every obstacle one finds on the trail, bike racing in general is a terrifying prospect for me. I did race some, though, and surprisingly placed fairly well on many occasions. In the horse world, women are quite numerous, so competition is very tough. What I found in biking, especially mountain biking, though, is that there really aren't that many women my age out there at all, much less racing. Maybe it's because mountain bikes as a whole are a relatively new concept compared to, say, horses or even road bikes, and when women my age were kids, there simply weren't any mountain bikes. What this translates into is that the field for my category is just not that big, so placing in a race is pretty easy much of the time. Still, being the perfectionist that I am, I always gave everything I had at every race, even if I was the only competitor or only one of a few.
Then in 1998, my husband joined a team and competed in the 24 Hours of Canaan. The weather was miserable, cold and wet, but we went anyway, and I provided support for him. Despite the poor conditions, the idea of such an endurance event intrigued me. I shied away from the team idea, though, fearing that no matter who was on it, I would be the weakest link. It may be a female thing, or just something in my own mind, but being the "slow one" and/or getting in the way is one of the biggest fears I face in my riding, so I always avoided joining any groups who might want to do one of those races.
However, in November of 1998, I finally got a chance to try my hand at an endurance event, without the fear of causing others to fail. A local promoter was putting on 12 hour mountain bike races, and the course was only about an hour and a half away from my home. My husband, Steve, formed a team while I decided to go it alone, and race the solo category and provide my own support. I fully expected to just get a couple of laps completed on the 4.3 mile technical course, but ended up surprising myself and everyone else who knew me by completing ten laps. I continued to participate in these races, despite having to compete with the men (no other women ever signed up, and the promoter would not make a separate category for just one rider), mainly because they were the only races of this type near my home that I knew about. To my amazement, I continued to do well, placing exactly in the middle of the men each time. I competed in this series of races a total of five times.
Then, in June of this year, I heard about the 24 Hours of Adrenalin series. According to their website, they chose courses that were designed more for the average rider than the brutal courses that attempt to chew you up and spit you out. "I wonder if I could do this", I thought, and just thinking it made me decide to sign up. Of course, as soon as the credit card charge went through, I became horrified - what had I just done? Here I am, nearly 40 years old, ten pounds heavier than I should be, with no knowledge of race training, and I'm going to try to ride a 24 hour race?
So I went to work. I bought some books on training, learned how to use my heart rate monitor, dug out my free weights, and wrote out as good a training schedule as an amateur going it alone could do. For the most part, I stuck with it. However, the weather became quite uncooperative, raining unbelievably more than usual for the summer months, which meant I had to rely more on my road bike. So road bike I did. I worked on sprinting, something called cruise intervals, and just putting miles on the saddle. I rode my mountain bike when I could, and worked on my free weights sporadically - something I'm going to work harder on this coming season - and kept my fingers crossed that this would be enough during the three short months I had to get ready for the "big race".
It seemed like no time at all before Steve, our two dogs and I arrived at the Georgia International Horse Park on Friday afternoon before the race. Luckily, the weather was perfect, highs in the 70s and lows in the 50s, the entire weekend. Steve prerode the course for me, realizing that I would see it plenty enough over the approaching 24 hours. According to him, it was difficult with many short steep climbs, but doable enough.
Finally, it was Saturday morning. I, along with the other solo woman and the 12 solo men as well as the team captains, attended the mandatory captain's meeting, then went back to the campsite to dress for the first lap. I have always loved leopardskin print, even as a child, so to make light of not feeling like I was a very good rider, I had my bike painted leopardskin to match the Shebeest clothing that I wore during most of my earlier races. Somehow making biking fun made it seem less scary and competitive to me, and let me relax and just have fun. So anyway, when we were called to the start line to begin the Lemans start, I was in full attire with a leopard jersey, helmet cover complete with bow ears, and black tights with leopard print down the sides of the legs. After running what seemed like 100 miles to my non-running self, I finally arrived at the bike rack, where I jumped on my leopardskin painted bike and rode off on my first lap.
While technical is probably not what most of the better riders out there would call this course, it most certainly was to an intermediate rider like myself. My first lap, I worked out many fear issues about the dropoffs, steep downhills and lung-busting climbs. I quickly managed to master the downhills and dropoffs, thanks to my diminutive (I'm 5'2") full-suspension Titus bikes (at my age, four and five inches of travel is a necessity, not a luxury), but decided to simply walk most of the hills, as I soon discovered I had not developed the strength I needed to climb these efficiently, especially not for a 24 hour period repeatedly. After I passed our campsite, I found out that I hadn't seen the difficult section yet! Steep downhill switchbacks, incredible huge granite slickrock, creek crossings and even the obligatory log, as well as even more steep climbs awaited me on the second half of the 7 or 8 mile course. I managed to conquer most of these as well, although once again walked the really scary switchbacks and the uphills.
At last I crossed the finish for the first time, after what seemed like an eternity. Kerry, the other solo female, for the most part led our category, and I realized the first time she passed me on one of the climbs that she was far stronger than I was. But I was determined to not let myself get defeated mentally, especially not this early in the race. Besides, I had so many fabulous outfits to wear! So after each lap, I changed clothes. I wore leopardskin, snowcat, velvet, velour, and hologram patterns, changing constantly throughout the race. I know it took some extra time, but I also knew that the course, and Kerry, were tougher than I expected, and if I couldn't be remembered for winning, then I would be remembered for my appearance. I was feeling very good about the race, and thinking I might even be able to catch Kerry, as she was frequently on the same lap as I was. Then dusk arrived.
Steve had strapped my lights onto my second bike for me, and I headed out into the night. Suddenly the course was very different. I found myself walking even the few and far between flat stretches, missing lines, washing out in ruts. I knew I needed rest, so stopped after my sixth lap for a quick nap, which turned into an hour and a half. Shortly after midnight, I headed back out again, and learned that I was definitely not rested enough; I was cold, tired, disoriented on the trail, and having a hard time riding at all. So I stopped again at the campsite for another quick rest, this one turning into four and a half hours.
As daybreak spread across the sky, I leaped off the sleeping bag. What time was it? 6:45??? No, it can't be that late! I threw on some clothes and raced out to my bike, hurrying out onto the course without stopping to eat this time. As I sprinted through the finish line yet again and ran back to the camper for the next change of clothes, I realized that in my earlier dressing frenzy, I had put on the wrong tights, the ones with no chamois; well, at least that explained why the course felt so much rougher. Luckily, I had bought a new saddle right before the race, and I must admit the Terry Butterfly certainly did its job. At this point, I was told that as of the 2:00 a.m. posting, I was in the lead for the solo women! I was pumped, ready to ride, and so went out for what would later turn out to be my final lap. I was hanging tough, feeling good about things, and then learned that Kerry had gotten out onto the course before me, and was now a lap ahead of me. This news came at around 10:30 a.m., and I knew then I was not going to win. I think this must have been the lowest point for me. All the negative voices in my head began their usual ruckus - whatever made you think you could do this, you're too old, too fat, too weak, too scared, etc. - and then I realized why I was here competing in this race right now. It was for everyone who has ever been told "you can't do that", "it's too difficult", "you'll fail and look stupid", the list goes on and on. So I sucked it up, and walked up that last tough climb, I think in Georgia they call it "Olympic Hill", proudly, knowing that no, I wasn't going to win this race, but that I wasn't going to lose, either. I was going to finish it. And not only that, but I was going to finish it in style. Yes, I weigh more than I should, and no, a chubby woman maybe shouldn't wear leopard print or snowcat and silver, yes shiny, sparkly silver, short-shorts to finish a race, but that's exactly what I did. I did it because I could, and because I had earned it. This race was the hardest thing I've ever done, but I did it, and if you're wondering if maybe you could do it too, the answer is "Yes, you can".
I felt so much support and encouragement during this race, both from the other competitors and the support people (including the Trilife staff), and even though I wanted it to be over so badly early Sunday morning, that finish line reading 24:13:19 was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen at that moment, and I'm already considering doing it again next year. Maybe I'll see you out there, too!
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