A month later than 2015, I started my current training season on 3 February following one of the worst flu-bugs I've had in recent years, a total of 9 days with flu symptoms. Another significant challenge at that time was retraining my body to perform at altitude, 5000-7500 ft above sea-level in Fort Collins. The previous four months were all spent at / near sea-level in Hamburg, Germany. After about a month I was feeling much better on familiar roads in Larimer County; within two months I was even better and already looking forward to my spring race calendar. With four races behind me there are many stories to tell ... including another 1st place finish, age 40-49, at the Full Growler in Gunnison, Colorado on 29 May. Stay tuned and I'll provide many more details soon. In the meantime, ride on ... and always remember to have fun! In life, we accumulate experiences ... and as we do, somewhere our mind logs them away. Subsequently, in the between moments, a moment waiting to cross an intersection for example, the mind does something spectacular ... it offers our experiences back to us in short films. Often, they're films that reflect an actual event: our mind takes the snippets that it logged away and smooths the rough edges based on previous experience; but more-or-less these are actual events played back to us on the big screen in our brains (for more on this topic consider picking-up a copy of Daniel Gilbert's Stumbling On Happiness, it's fascinating). Alternatively, the same experiences are played back in a way that we never experienced them. In this format, our experiences are the inspiration for a dream. That's how my goal of reaching 16,000 cycling kilometers (10,000 mi) first arrived, fueled by life, especially months of cycling, directed and produced by my brain; and then, without warning, experienced (debuted) in the form of a day dream on the big screen. Up until the last two weeks, I've honestly tried to suppress this particular day dream. In part, because winter will soon arrive to Hamburg, Germany, where I recently moved (more below). But those efforts, to suppress, were eventually overwhelmed by many repeat screenings. It seems that what the brain wants, it gets, and often it accomplishes this by repeating it's favorite performances. To ride 16,000 kilometers/10,000 miles in 2015 will be my last goal for the year. Let's have a look at where the dream began, well before the screenplay was even considered. After exactly two weeks off the bike, 3 January 2015 arrived and it was time to reinitiate training one month earlier than I ever had before. A few days later, I was living and training on the Big Island of Hawaii from a base camp in the Village of Pahoa (scroll down and you'll find a blog entry about Hawaii). On my birthday later that month, I rode to the top of Mauna Kea Volcano and then descended back to Hilo, a ride I had imagined many times and so already knew that I would name 'Sea to Summit to Sea'. And there were many other rides and adventures in Hawaii, all on the road bike. By the end of the month, I had accumulated 1627 kilometers (1011 mi) of cycling, a big month for an amateur cyclist with just two seasons of training and racing experience behind him. The next month, February, another 1630 km (1013 mi), essentially the same as January but over fewer days. After two more months of mostly base training, March 1679 km (1042 mi) and April 1726 km (1173 mi), I was just 1/4 of the way through the year and already at 6822 km (4239 mi). For comparison, at the same time the year before, by 1 May, I was at 3757 km (2335 mi) for the year. My distance had nearly doubled over the same interval. In May, distance began to decline slightly as intensity increased (speed work, intervals, etc). By June, training settled into more racing, and recovery, and less training., less distance on the bike Still, the kilometers continued to accumulate until eventually, somewhere out on the race course during the Leadville Trail 100, I crossed the 11,200 km (7000 mi) threshold that inspired my mind to, unbeknownst to me, initiate a screenplay and eventually produce a short film that concluded at 1,6000 kilometers (10,000 miles) ... somewhere on Planet Earth ... and likely in Germany. As of 21 September 2015, I've been living in the city of Hamburg, not far from the River Elbe in Eimsbüttel quarter. After parting in March at Denver International Airport, I've finally re-joined my very patient girlfriend. At her home this time, in Deutschland. Without a visa, I'm allowed to stay for 90 days, that puts me back in Colorado in late December ... but stay tuned, there is much that hasn't been decided and I'm not planning to change that for a while. We will see where life takes me until then and I'll keep the world posted on Facebook and here, on my blog page. This morning, it's drizzling in Hamburg and the daily forecast predicts the same or worse until tomorrow afternoon. This likely means that I'll remain at 13,173 kilometers (8233 mi) for the year until Samstag (Saturday) morning when I plan to ride a century or more and possibly the same on the Sonntag (Sunday). Thanks to my roommate, I've been very fortunate to ride with a local cycling team, RG Uni Hamburg, and to-date I've ridden with them four times and about 400 kilometers. I've ridden another roughly 300 kilometers on my own. The process of getting to know the area and where I can cycle is well underway. Nonetheless, 'on my own' is sometimes slow going, stopping to check my eTrex 20 GPS every 5-10 kilometers between villages depending on how comfortable my internal compass is feeling. So far, I've gone the wrong way, the right way, the popular way, the seldom used way, and the never considered way. For the latter, picture two tracks, a large tractor, and deep sand, or nothing but a quiet landscape or a group of confused cows, sheep, or horses. I've tried to be as friendly as possible throughout, even greeting the cows in my elementary German, guten morgen mein schatz! Nothing much disturbs them it seems, even my verbal affection. To ensure my best chance of reaching 16,000 km (10,000 mi) before years-end, I've set a shorter-term goal to reach at least 14,400 km (9000 mi) by the end of October. That's about 51 km (32 mi) per day or 4-5 longish rides each week. Also helpful, the country-side, once I manage to get out of the city (about 30 minutes over streets, side-walks and pedestrian/bike paths), is nearly flat with just a few very modest hills. For example, a ride of over 5 hours last week resulted in only ... 306 meters (1,004 feet) of elevation gain and, according to Strava, some time spent actually below sea-level! Not bad, especially for the off-season when I should probably be resting rather than chasing after a goal that will require me to pedal a distance equivalent to a flight from San Francisco to London and back, a flight from New York to Hawaii and back, a one-way flight from London to Sydney, Australia, or a one-way flight from Los Angeles to Cape Town, South Africa.. If I'm successful then I'll have cycled 40% of the distance around the equator in 2015. When I consider the next few months and whether I'll reach my goal or not, what I'm often wondering is not success or failure, Instead, I wonder what will my mind do with the knowledge that its body cycled so many kilometers? Even my current 13,173 km (8233 mi) has been enough to get that process, that screenplay, into the writing stage. No doubt, by December, my mind will be debuting a full-feature world tour film. If so, I'm going to need a new bike, possibly a new body, and a sponsor!? On the morning of 15 August 2015, I woke at 330 am and began preparations for what I anticipated would be my last race in 2015. I felt then, and still do, that there really wasn't a point to "racing", i.e., to putting-in a competitive all-out effort on race day, after Leadville. The athlete that raced on 24 May in Gunnison made their last appearance for the season at '40 in the Fort' on June 27th. In the month that followed, July, each time I raced my legs offered a little less than the preceding race. My legs were at about 75% on the first climb at the Firecracker 50, not enough to hold the fast guys in my age class, regrettably they dropped me on that climb as quickly as they had in 2013. During the opening 10-mile climb of the Silverrush 50 in Leadville, my legs were perhaps less than 75%, certainly no better, again the fast guys easily left me behind. And then at the Laramie Enduro, on 1 August, despite draining my tank more than ever before, I finished 13 minutes slower than the year before. Down, down, ... down ... my form descended and with it any reasonable hope of achieving my 2015 goals including a top-50 finish in the Leadville Trail 100. A year ago, on 9 August 2015, I finished 75th in the Leadville Trail 100 (LT100) in just under 8 hours and 2 minutes (8:01:54). That day the top-50 finished in under ca. 7 hrs 50 minutes. To finish among them, I would have to shave roughly 12 minutes from my 2014 time,. The form that I had in May could have done it, and possibly more. But the form that I arrived with on the morning of the race was likely going to struggle to finish in under 8 hrs 30 minutes. Nonetheless, for three or four days leading up to Leadville a glimmer of hope combined with a new goal for the race began to have a positive affect on my race outlook. Instead of a top-50 finish I would attempt to finish in under 8 hours, even 7:59:59 would be acceptable! All I needed to do was shave 1 minute 55 seconds over a 104 mile course. Sounds straightforward, but nothing is ever easy, nothing is given, in a century-distance mountain bike race that starts at close to 10000 feet, climbs to nearly 12560 feet and then descends by-way-of many small and a few big climbs back to town - at the intersection of 6th and Harrison Avenue in Leadville, Colorado. From the starting line to Carter Summit, the top of the first big climb, my body went through the usual process of waking-up,. At that time, I was feeling stronger than anticipated, I thought to myself ... okay, you have a chance to reach your sub-8 goal ... keep the pace up and try to recover time on the descents. In hindsight, I was, in fact, 'close' to my time from last year, within 2 minutes,. but I was two minutes behind after less than one hour of racing Not far from Carter Summit, I arrived at the first of the big descents, Powerline, this was an opportunity to recover some lost time. which I managed to do thanks to my full-suspension Niner Jet 9 RDO. Top to bottom, my 2014 time was 11:40; in 2015, 10:53. Nearly 50 seconds to subtract off the deficit I accumulated in the first hour of the race. I made-up a little more time on the road section below Powerline. By Pipeline outbound, the first aid station after Powerline, the Carter Summit deficit had decreased to just 1 minute 4 seconds. My crew, a mix of generous family and friends, shouted encouragement as they handed-up a bottle. Between Pipeline and Twin Lakes my pace was, again, slower than 2014, that added two minutes back to my 1 minute deficit. About ninety minutes later, I reached the thin air at the top of Columbine at 4:11:03 chip time; in 2014 I arrived at 4:08:31. When I reached the summit of Columbine, I knew I was close to my 2014 time, within just a few minutes as I had been back on Carter Summit, and at Pipeline and Twin Lakes outbound. That gave me encouragement to keep pushing. The Jet 9 RDO easily plummeted down the loose jeep trail eventually to the dirt road that descends to the base of the mountain. From the very top of Columbine, at about 12,560 ft, to the very bottom, my average and maximum speeds were 22.8 and 38.5 mph, respectively. Fast enough to shave 27 seconds off my previous best time on this descent. Now inbound, I returned to Twin Lakes with a deficit, from 2014, of just about one minute. Later that day, after the race was over, my crew told me that when I passed Twin Lakes, even Pipeline inbound, they thought I had my goal in the bag. Unfortunately, I was slipping back again as I rode towards Pipeline. On the Columbine climb, I had to push my bike on sections that I had cleaned in 2014 (I cleaned the course that year except for one dab). I was off the bike again on a small, punchy, climb called Brutal Bill on my way back to Pipeline. That push alone added almost a minute to my deficit. Fortuitously, I managed to exit Twin Lakes with a small group (that wasn't the case in 2014, that year I was alone), just two initially but then quickly that group grew to four or five and we stayed together, and worked together, all the way to Pipeline. But despite the benefit of drafting, by Pipeline inbound I was again about two-and-a-half minutes behind last years pace. But I had time to recover, there was still about 30 miles of racing remaining, I could make that much time-up and more. That is unless ... my legs were tapped-out. And they were: when I arrived at the base of the Powerline climb, something I managed to clean in 2014, I was pushing my bike well below where I started pushing in 2013 when I was a racing rookie. And once I was above the worst of the steep climb on Powerline, my pace was a painful, for the mind and body, crawl. I stayed on the bike, but I kept my 1-by-11 drivetrain, with a 32-tooth ring up-front, in or at least very close to it's easiest gear combination ... an easy that was barely easy enough for me to maintain forward progress at times. As this implies, I suffered through it, more than I had the year before, but of course everyone suffers at this stage of the race. It's worth pausing at this point in the story, the base of Powerline, for a side note: Many people criticize the LT100 for not actually being a mountain bike race. I get their issues with the event, the cost, many miles of forest service roads, etc, and agree with many of them. However, to suggest that the race is not legitimate is absurd. In my opinion, anyone that feels confident responding "because I'm a mountain biker" to the question "why don't you compete in the LT100" hasn't arrived at the base of the Powerline Climb with 80 miles in their legs and 25 more to the finish. They're also missing the point of the race, it's not about the pro's and near-pro's that compete in the event (or not) every year ... it's about the regular women and men that line-up for their own reasons, often personal, it's about the value of taking on a challenge as big as the LT100. It's possible that the last place finisher in Leadville will be the biggest winner, it's about them, it's not about how fast Tod Wells is, for example, though we all appreciate Tod's participation and stories he tells about his experience on the race course at the award ceremony! Sometimes mountain bikers lose sight of what the bike has given them, that's what we want to share in Leadville, we need more of that in a society that encourages two week vacations for every 50 weeks of full-time work. Looking up from my saddle as I approached the Powerline climb I felt intimidation, I always have felt this way, the bottom is especially difficult but then the climb just continues up-and-up seemingly forever. On the false flats leading-up to the climb, as the intimidation settles in, I've developed a habit of slowing-up my pace. I think that brief hesitation is my way of paying respect to what I know will be a long battle between the mind and the body Alternatively, or perhaps in addition to, it's a chance for the mind and body to take in a very deep breath. Yet, in 2015, that wasn't enough. As I approached the first of the climbs, I already felt defeated. And for this reason, my race, for the most part, ended at the base of the Powerline Climb. As much as I wanted to climb as I had the year before, or better ideally, overtraining meant that my legs were on borrowed time when the shotgun blasted to signal the start of the race at 6:30 am that morning. My borrowed time ran-out at the base of Powerline, even though my mind wanted to dig deep, as race founder Ken Chlouber encourages all of the LT100 participants to do, the body can't access what the legs have given-up prior to the race and not replenished.. Reflecting on the wisdom of the Four Agreements from Miguel Ruiz, our best will not be the same every day. My best on 15 August was not what it was on 9 August the year before; and dreadfully, it wasn't even better than what I had accomplished my first year of racing in 2013. From the base of Powerline to the finish line., my times on this final section in 2013, 2014, and 2015 were 2:15:24, 2:01:13, and 2:17:21, respectively. As these numbers show, from 2014 to 2015, I added about 16 minutes to the last 25 miles of the race. As much as I wanted to feel good about the race, and certainly the season as a whole, the images, below, taken at the finish-line reveal another reality, one of disappointment. Yet, I did do my best that day. no doubt Miguel Ruiz would be pleased. I will be working on getting there too ... as I consider what my training and racing future might look like in 2016 and beyond. More blogs are coming soon from Andre-Breton-Racing-Dot-Com. Including perspectives from life bound to a recreational (R)-pod, my life in Germany, and some very preliminary thoughts about my racing future. Thank you for dropping in .... and for your support elsewhere including on Facebook. I want to thank Rodney Breton, Diane Breton, and Chris Breton for flying-out from the Boston area, in Massachusetts, at their own expense to crew for me a second or third time in Leadville. Thanks to Kelly Breton as well for loaning me her husband for nearly two weeks! Two friends from Fort Collins took time out of their schedules to help at Lost Canyon, thank you Dirk and Anne! I also want to thank two new friends, that not only bought me dinner the first night I met them but they also, the same evening, enthusiastically said "yes" when I asked them to crew for me at the LT100! Thank you Ron and Karen for sharing your generous positive energy with me and for your assistance at the race. I want to thank a friend that I serendipitously met on the side of the road a few years ago, not awfully far from Leadville, her friendship has been an asset especially as I've struggled with the disappointments of not meeting my racing goals in 2015. Thank you Becky for your help in Leadville and for your encouragement since we met! From the Leadville Race Series, I'm grateful for the kindness and friendship provided by Abby Long. and Josh Collie. Thanks as well to Dave Wiens for inspiration and for always being willing to pause for a conversation with the mortals. I've been very fortunate to have met, and become friends with, a community of cyclists and not only from Colorado because many of the races I've competed in attract racers from all over the country and even abroad. Those relationships have delivered a lot of generous feedback and suggestions, including this recent (part of a) text message from a friend from North Carolina, "... don't load up the legs with low cadence." - Chris Angelich It seems like an insignificant piece of advice but that's misleading. In fact, it is the clue that finally led me to an answer to the following question: where have my legs gone over the last few weeks of racing? Following three blocks of base training from January through March, each four weeks in duration, I was feeling strong and often riding faster in my lower heart rate zones than I ever had before. Most of this work was accomplished on a road bike at high cadence, 85-95 rpms, and low heart rates (i.e., base miles). The next block of four weeks combined base mile training with intervals and other speed work to increase performance in my upper, mainly anaerobic, heart rate zones. Those four weeks concluded at the end of April, and again, I was feeling stronger than ever. heading into May, the beginning of race preparation. At this point, training hours and intensity dropped-off somewhat, especially before scheduled races on 9 May, 12 hrs of Mesa Verde, and the Full Growler, 24 May. The Growler was my first "A race" for the year. The 12 hr event was cancelled before I started, due to weather, but a ride the next day confirmed that I was in my best form to date. And that form clearly held throughout the month given that I was able to deliver a first place age and 14th overall finish at the Growler. A few days after that celebrated finish, I competed in the 20 mile, short-fast, Gowdy Grinder at Curt Gowdy State Park, on 31 May. The following Tuesday, the triplet of near back-to-back races concluded with a short-track burst of high intensity racing (50 minutes) at the New Belgium Short Track Series in Fort Collins, Colorado. Following these races, I was fatigued, of course, but not concerned about it nor should I have been in hindsight, the problems I'll get to below hadn't started yet. My coach and I sensibly settled into recovery for a few days and then moved into the next block of training that would dominate the month of June ... which is where my troubles began and then finally peaked (I hope!) at the Silver Rush 50 on 11 July. The first Saturday in June, 6-6, I rode familiar trails in (mainly) Lory State Park, Horsetooth Mountain Park (HMP), and Bobcat Ridge Natural Area. Despite the name that I gave the ride on Strava, the 'no mercy' part reflected the sections ridden in HMP: bobcat and back via no mercy. HMP is all up, and often technical. That day I rode for 6 hrs 58 minutes only stopping for water. Average elevation was 5842 feet with nearly 10,000 feet (348 meters) of climbing. I felt great that day, accomplished many top 10 finishes and personal records, I had not yet began to feel the effect of the 34 ring integrated into my 1 x 11 Sram XX1 drive train. The following two Saturdays, 6-13 and 6-20, I positioned my mobile r-pod base camp below Mount Shavano not far from Salida, Colorado. The summit, at 14,235-foot (4,339 m), loomed above my campsite in the San Isabel National Forest. I established this camp site in order to have convenient access to the Colorado Trail and a portion of the Salida Big Friggin Loop introduced to me by another one of those friends from the cycling community. For these Saturday scheduled race-pace, race-duration, and race-elevation training rides, the portion of the big loop from Shavano to Cottonwood Creek appeared to be ideal. On 6-13, I was on the bike for close to 7 hrs and 15 minutes, average ride elevation was nearly 10,000 feet with sections well over 11,000 feet. For good reason, I named this ride, simply, 'all up' on Strava. Total elevation gain was a monstrous 11,000+ feet of climbing. Half-way through the ride, at about Princeton Hot Springs, my energy dipped, but no-where-near bonking. I rode on and felt better. The next dip occurred in the last 10 miles on the Colorado Trail heading back to the trailhead (blanks) below Mount Shavano, but this time relief only came when I finished the section and started the descent to camp. It wasn't a bonk, i.e., lack of nutrition/energy, it was fatigue from climbing so many feet/meters and especially with a 34 ring integrated into my drive train. Being stubborn, I nonetheless cleaned (kept me feet in the pedals) most of the climbs that day, even the ones approaching the trailhead. However, there was a cost to that thick headedness, keep reading. On 6-20, feeling even more masochistic than usual it seems, I headed-out on my second Shavano and Cottonwood Creek out-and-back training ride, at race pace. This time I drank more water, I had speculated that dehydration was the reason why my legs seemed to somewhat abandon me on the last few climbs the week before. I felt pretty good out to the Mount Princeton area, and this feeling continued, for the most part, all the way to Cottonwood Creek. Just above Cottonwood Creek I picked a bad line, tried to recover, failed, and found myself in an airborne summersault still attached to the bike before dismounting on impact with the Earth before concluding back-side-down on the trail. I took about a minute to assess the conclusion from the vantage point of looking skyward. Re-establishing a vertical perspective was painful, and it was even worse over the first few tenths of a mile before the complaints quit and the mind refocused. Basically, it was a bad crash! And I only bring it up because a bad crash can negatively impact the remainder of the day. However, in this case, the "crash effect" was swamped by the effect of the 34 ring that I keep mentioning and the terrain which I should remind you of. I returned to Mount Princeton Hot Springs, climbed the valley road, begged some water from a home owner, and then initiated the ascent out of the Princeton area heading in the direction of Shavano. A few miles later I was really struggling and often, as a result, off the bike and pushing up the steep hills. Eventually, I was even pushing up the not-so-steep hills. By those last few miles above the trailhead, the ability of my legs to climb the next hill, and my mind to push those legs despite their complaints, completely gave out ... and I was walking as often as pedaling. In hindsight, I knew the climbing had been steep and otherwise difficult (loose rocks, etc), but I was still thinking food, water, sleep, the normal stuff. But I was off, way off in my assessment. And of course, when the answer to a question eludes you, then you're likely to make the problem worse, as I continued to do. I'm not a specialist in biomechanics, biochemistry, or sports medicine, if I was then I suspect that I would have reconsidered turning my 34 ring at extremely low cadences for many, many minutes, up monstrously steep climbs, weekend after weekend. However, despite my lack of education in these fields, I'm beginning to understand at least the effect ... and why someone would suggest, "... don't load up the legs with low cadence." - Chris Angelich The strain that "load[ing]" up the legs places on the quads and other muscles responsible for turning the crank is amplified as the athlete struggles to put enough power into the bike to maintain rotation. Evidence of a struggle is generally revealed by a cyclists cadence, i.e., how quickly or slowly they're turning over the pedals. If their climbing a steep bitch and barely turning over the pedals, say just 30-40 rotations per minute, then they're overloading the mechanics and chemistry of their legs. For now, I'm going to have to leave the details of why this is a problem to the professionals. However, one detail is absolutely certain at me at this point: repeated overloading of the legs on steep climbs at low cadence will annihilate your legs. This is what I was experiencing on the second ride in two weeks on the Colorado Trail ... but I didn't know it ... and so, sadly, I kept repeating the dose.
On the 27th of June I competed in the brutal '40 in the Fort' mountain bike endurance race. Then the following two Saturdays, the similarly tough, but much higher elevation, Firecracker 50 (Breckenridge, Colorado) and Silver Rush 50 (Leadville, Colorado) races. At the outset of the Firecracker, I was dropped on the first climb, a 6 mile ascent towards Boreas Pass, as badly as I had been in 2013, my rookie racing season. I went on to finish the race only as fast as my finish time in 2014, a year of training hadn't given me any advantage, why? This was repeated, but worse, at the Silver Rush. Dropped on the first climb early by the fast studs in my age class, and at the end of the day I finished slower than 2014! Again, why? See my previous blog for a deep introspection that includes how I was feeling, mentally, after the Silver Rush 50. I now know, with a great deal of confidence, why, and I'm in debt to Chris Angelich and other friends for the insights, the clues, that led to the answer: I repeatedly and severely overloaded my legs at elevation (probably not insignificant) by extensive sessions (many minutes each) of very low, high-load cadence. And I repeated this over three Saturdays before attempting to race three back-to-back endurance-style mountain bike races. In hindsight, I think I drained every remnant of what I had in my legs at '40 in the Fort', that left my fate sealed for the Firecracker and Silver Rush 50's, and that ... is now in the history books. It's interesting to me to reflect on the other clues that led me to this very comforting conclusion, it's always best (comforting) to know the answer to a question. I've been watching the various tours this year, first the "Giro" and now "the tour" as they're popularly known. Even on the biggest climbs, the pros do their best, and often succeed, at maintaining a relatively fast cadence. There must be a benefit if they do it, of course. And while racing, especially in the Growler, but also at the outset of the Laramie Enduro last year, thanks to Steve Stefco, I noticed my pro competitors using a high cadence, higher than my own, on the climbs. I eventually smartened-up and mimicked the guy in front of me at the Growler, no doubt that contributed to my finish time in a positive way. In short, I keep getting reminders of cadence as I ride more, watch, race, etc. And, reminders of a related topic, the "gearing" that one chooses which, as was demonstrated to me by Jeff Kerkove in the name of one of his Strava rides, can change depending on the venue. Gearing is the 'solution to' and the 'underlying problem' reviewed in this blog entry. Enlightened and no longer despairing over poor performances relative to my preparation, I've now become a dedicated gear head! I've had two coaches in my short career as a mountain bike racer, and both began our relationship with the same question: "what are your goals?" As they knew from impressive resume's of experience, goals anticipate the level of commitment to training that will be required of the athlete. For example, they'll define the training start date, how many hours the athlete will build-up to during base-mile. phases, and whether they'll train for short-fast or long-endurance-style races. However, unlike this fairly obvious relationship between goals and training, 'bigger goals = a bigger training load', there are other relationships that are far less obvious but no-less significant. Here are a few that I've come to respect: an athletes goals anticipate the suffering an athlete will experience, physical and mental; they also anticipate what an athletes expectations, achievements, and disappointments might look like throughout the training and racing season.
In 2013, my goals were ambitious for a guy with no previous experience competing on a mountain bike, they were to 'qualify for and race in the Leadville Trail 100'. However, they were also fairly low risk, despite not knowing this at the time. By "low risk", I'm implying a high likelihood of achieving the goals and therefore avoiding the dark-side of competition, the challenges of managing expectations and disappointments, something that has been very significant for me in 2015. In fact, I think it would be fair to conclude that I wasn't even competing in 2013. It wasn't easy training and then qualifying (on my second try) for the Leadville Trail 100. Nonetheless, the commitment required a level of training that was fairly easy to integrate with work and other constraints of a 'normal' (non-training/non-racing) life. Consequently, my goals in 2013 rarely caused any emotional instability, disappointments that had to be processed, put into perspective, and then, as much as is possible for a human mind and all of its caveats, set aside. When I did experience disappointment in 2013, such as following my worst race performance to date, the Firebird 40 in Eagle, Colorado, I moved-on quickly. In contrast, at my lowest points so far in 2015, disappointment has nearly toppled my ambitions. I think it's worth noting, for understanding my evolution as a racer, that my 2013 goals did not anticipate, in my conscious mind, the development of a 'racing habit'. Those 2013 goals, as I initially articulated and understood them, existed in a vacuum. However, when the 2013 season ended, I was feeling very good about not only qualifying and racing in the LT100 but also finishing in under 9 hrs. That favorable conclusion, in contrast to the idea of developing a racing habit, was not only prominent in my conscious mind but also a very positive motivator for elevating my future goals. A moment later, without my knowledge, the vacuum succumbed to that positive motivation and quickly developed into an atmosphere with all of the complexity that one anticipates when attempting to predict the weather. I had no idea what this transition meant, or at least didn't hesitate long enough to figure that out. From this point, naivety protecting me for a while, I set-off on an inevitable collision course with disappointments that would challenge me as much as any endurance mountain bike race has before or after. In hindsight, my goal going into 2014 was safe-ish, as far as disappointments that I might have had to face. That goal was simply to train considerably more than 2013, starting on 3 February rather than April 1, with more intensity and structure 'just to see' what I might be able to accomplish. However, as I now understand too well, wanting to do better is a perilous goal and possibly, depending on the individual, the beginning of a new reality. Fortunately, because it delayed much of the disappointment I've experienced this year, in 2014, I did do much better, in large part because after just a partial season of training and racing in 2013 there was a lot of room for improving my engine as well as my bike handling skills. Uplifted by my successes in 2014, I set-off, in about December, to contemplate my third season of racing and the goals that would complete my evolution from recreational rider 'with a few race-related goals' to a racer with 'very specific race goals' and all the good and bad that accompanies such a transition. For the first time, 2015 goals would include designated A, B, and C races, a hierarchy of importance with "A" races being fewest in number but most important. Complimenting this hierarchy, training would be optimized, laid-out and adjusted as needed over the season, in an attempt to arrive at peak form at each "A" race. Form refers to the combination of fitness and freshness, freshness is the opposite of fatigue. If you arrive "fresh" and with a high level of "fitness" to a race event then you can expect to do very well, assuming luck does not abandon you! Along with a hierarchy of races, I went even farther in 2015 and set-out "A race" time and placement goals. For example, my time goal for the Full Growler in Gunnison, Colorado, on 24 May was 5 hrs 41 minutes (top finisher time in my age class from 2014). A time that I hoped would place me in the top 3 within my 40-49 expert male age and class. Remarkably, I finished a few seconds over 5 hrs and 41 minutes, a fluke but nonetheless an interesting conclusion. So my evolution as a racer goes something like this: 2013, I'm just happy to be in the race; 2014, I want to do better but that success is inevitable given my experience (almost none) as long as luck doesn't completely abandon me (it didn't); 2015, specific times and other quantifiable goals sets me up for inevitable collisions with the disappointments of the competitive athlete with which I had no previous experience. Where am I now ... physically and mentally? I appear to be sliding out of form, out of top fitness, and into a very disappointing conclusion to a season that I've worked harder than I ever imagined I could. A recap of my racing results to date in 2015 will help clarify: (1) May 9, 12 Hrs of Mesa Verde, race cancelled before I started, nonetheless I was feeling very good and I think this was demonstrated when I rode four laps around the course the following day and beat my previous course record by over 4 minutes; (2) May 24, Full Growler, finished 14th overall and 1st in my age class, the bar was set very high, only one place to go from here perhaps?; (3) May 31, Gowdy Grinder, despite a horrible start and a crash, I still managed to place much better than last season, not all was lost just yet; (4) June 2, New Belgium Short Track, another crash but the experience still demonstrated that I had improved considerably at 'short trackin' since 2014; (5) June 27, 40 in the Fort, finished 3rd overall in the open class (very few pros generally compete in this notoriously difficult 40 mile race), my best open class finish to date, however despite the good news my legs barely pushed me over the last few climbs, I was definitely not in the form that I was in Gunnison, and the top finisher beat (destroyed) me by nearly 10 minutes; (6) July 4, Firecracker 50, nothing in my legs on the first climb and easily dropped by the age 40-49 group in the first few miles of the Boreas Pass climb, finished just barely faster than 2014; (7) July 11, Silver Rush 50, again, dropped by the studs in my age class on the first climb and by several minutes, arrived to the half-way point (stumptown) 2 minutes slower than last year, finished the race about 1 minute slower than last year. Of course, there is much to celebrate in this recap. but that's not how we, as people, often function. Not being an exception to this rule, I finished the Silver Rush 50 already amidst a great deal of disappointment. From the finish line I rode directly to my home, my mobile r-pod base camp about a mile from the venue. After about an hour of contemplation, I drove up to 12,000 feet, "high camp", and spent most of another two hours digging deeper. The following day I ate poorly, reflecting over-and-over on the form I seem to have lost and my quickly accumulating poor performances relative to last year and keeping in mind how much I had trained leading up to these races in 2015 (more below). By yesterday morning, I woke with an awful headache and suffered through most of the day, physically and mentally. Without a doubt, yesterday I plummeted to my lowest point despite telling my coach that I was done two days before (July 12). You think that revelation would have come on my worst day. After over 6000 miles (10000 kilometers) of training and racing in 2015, over 2 hrs of cycling a day on average since 3 January, I was finishing very difficult races no faster or even slower than last year! Seasoned racers will no doubt laugh at my conclusions, but they're seasoned, they get it now, and more importantly, they're allocating their energy much more effectively than I am: to a great extent, they walk past the disappointment and immediately refocus on the next challenge. As hard as the last few days have been, I'm recovering and hoping to rally. As a first step, yesterday I told my coach that I would return to training sometime this week. I'm not quite ready to rally just yet, today I anticipate another day off the bike and out of the gym. I've even abandoned my stretching and core routine that I typically perform every morning. In short, I've done nothing productive since Saturday afternoon Looking in from the outside, I really had no idea what I was setting myself up for when I set the goals that I did in 2015, I hadn't considered the perilous nature of goals, I didn't even give much attention to the evolution that I was experiencing from recreational rider to amateur racer. The pace, and life, kept most of it just out of view until the disappointments arrived and I was struggling to sort out the why's and how's. Let me conclude with a response to "are you having fun?" A question a lot of friends have asked me over the last few months When we accomplish a significant goal the payment is proportionally high, just watch the faces of the guys winning stages in the current Tour de France and you'll see what I mean. You'll see that they're having fun when they cross the line. However, you must also recognize that this much fun, this much celebration, comes with a cost, an investment. My goals and investment are certainly modest by the standard of the tour. Nonetheless, when I achieve a goal, like I did in Gunnison on 24 May, fun is awarded in great quantities. The cost, the dark side of competition and something I've attempted to clarify in this blog post, is momentarily forgotten. In the first few seasons of competitive racing, I suspect that racers are most susceptible to mismanaging the disappointments and walking away from something that offers so many benefits. As I continue to evolve as a racer, I hope to hang in there, to not give up, so that I can learn to allocate disappointments to a much less visited space in my brain ... in favor of more fun and more celebration! Much has been happening over the last four months at Andre Breton Racing. Below I want to catch-up anyone that might be following my activities. In particular, I want to introduce my new coach, Fort Collins resident Pat Nash; recollect the highlights from four weeks of training on the Big Island of Hawaii including an all day ascent and descent of Mauna Kea Volcano; rave about my new Jet 9 RDO from Niner Bikes; and lastly, provide a summary of my training to date in 2015. Since January 3rd, I've ridden over 3,600 miles on road, gravel, and single-track, climbed 167,000 feet, and recorded 219 cycling hours from 92 training rides. Judging from the slope of the lines shown in the figure to the right, 2015 is the left-most trend, my base should be stronger than ever going into the next season. Two Great Coaches: I've been asked by a few of my closest friends in cycling why I made the decision, last December, to switch coaches, especially after very successful seasons as an amateur mountain bike endurance racer in 2013 and 2014. During this time, I was racing and training under the coaching expertise of Alex Hagman, an accomplished pro-racer in both the road and mountain bike circuits.. At 44 years old, I'm not expecting to have a long racing career! This will be my second full-time season of racing, whether or not I can train and race to the extent that I am now in 2016 is already questionable because of other commitments. With the future uncertain, my decision to switch from Alex to Pat Nash was simply to give myself the chance to learn from two great coaches and mentors over my short racing career.. Every coach brings a long list of strengths to the table and eventually a student picks-up most of what they can. Of course, learning from Alex would have continued for several more years., but 'several more years' may not be possible for me at least at the pace of training and racing that I've adopted since April 2013. With all of this in mind, I asked Pat Nash to be my coach in December. Moving forward, I will always be grateful for all that Alex taught me, as well as his generosity when it came to loaning me bikes, introducing me to the Fort Collins cycling community, and much more. Without his guidance, my last two seasons would no doubt have been a lot different! Pat Nash is a member of Northern Colorado Grassroots Racing, the same team that I belong to in Fort Collins. He's been racing and coaching for over 40 years, both road and mountain. Some highlights of his coaching career include many success stories at the junior national level. Pat formed his own teams in Fort Collins and had many students over the years before he unofficially retired from elite-level coaching about 10 years ago. Several of these athletes received national and international acclaim while under Pat's tutelage, including state, national, and international championships. A few of the riders even went on to become professionals in road racing. Pat's recognition in the coaching community in Colorado went far enough to land him a one-time offer, with the possibility for extension, to coach the US women's national team (amateur status for Olympic eligibility) in South America. He was also often asked to coach at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs along side of US National Team coaches at several mini-camps. Pat has started to get interested in coaching again, and for that, I'm a lucky fellow. He's not only an expert in endurance training, he's also meticulous in his coaching and passionate about cycling, At 44 yrs old, I feel exceptionally fortunate to have crossed-paths with an elite coach that was willing to take me on. And after 3.5 months of training, I'm already very excited about what I might be able to accomplish during the upcoming 2015 racing season. January 2015: Training on the Big Island I want to thank Dr. John Kummrow from Integrative Physiotherapy for introducing me to Pat late last year. A few weeks and a few conversations later, Pat was already coaching me on the subtleties of staying fit in winter while balancing time to recover from a tough 2014 racing schedule.. I began training this year on 3 January, three days later I was en route to Hawaii for four weeks of training and exploring the big island with my fabulous, amazing, beautiful, and very patient girlfriend, Clarissa :). My former coach, Alex Hagman bailed me out (as he has many times) by loaning me his Aerus Biospeed bike bag when my purchase with a vendor fell through at the last minute. On the right is an image of my Giant TCR Composite 1 just before I started reassembling the bike in Hawaii. Clarissa and I landed in Hilo (aka, "Hilo-town") on January 4th, picked up our rental car, headed to the grocery store and then into the darkness towards the village of Pahoa where we had rented a modest house for a great price. Exhausted, but ready for the next day, we made it to bed about mid-night that first evening. Our base camp on the big island quickly acquired the nickname the 'jungle hut' because of the rain forest that surrounded us on four sides. Yet, inside and out, this modest home in the jungle offered all the modern conveniences plus the sounds of the forest for no extra cost. Among the native ohia lehua trees, native honeycreepers, especially amakihi, were often buzzing among the highest branches and singing as they flew between them. In the evenings, European mongoose, well established on the big island, left tracks on our windshield and joined the chorus of another well established non-native invader on the island, the 'ko-kee' frog (Eleutherodactylus coqui), named for its two note song. Based on cost, comfort, privacy, and jungle highlights, we would definitely recommend our jungle hut if anyone is interested in spending an extended time in Hawaii (send me an email). Pahoa, Hawaii, is located in the district of Puna (where I believe most of the hippies went after the 1960s), just east of Volcanoes National Park. Being fairly remote as far as 'the popular sites' on the island, Puna enjoys far less traffic on it's (very few) main roads relative to other big island destinations such as Hilo-town, and certainly, Kona, but also most of the coastline from Hilo to Captain Cook, a wide swath of the island. This being the case, I was lucky that, thanks to a good friend that lives on the island, Clarissa and I established a base camp in Pahoa. Over the next four weeks, I completed the majority of my training rides always within ca. 30 miles of the jungle hut.. One of the cycling highlights of the Puna District is a road that is still often referred to by the locals as the "red road". This name originates from the red cinders that, for many years, formed the roads surface. The red road runs along a large part of the Puna coast, from very close to the boundary with Volcanoes National Park to the southwest to road-ends close to "HPP" (Hawaiian Paradise Park) to the northeast, a massive housing development between Pahoa and Hilo and often the place where I would turn-back towards the south and Pahoa on long rides. Gradually, about 2/3rds of the red road has been paved. However, many miles of the northern third remain unpaved. Those sections are relatively remote and often rough, it was along one of these stretches that I surprised a wild boar (more below). If riding all the way to Hawaiian Paradise Park, then I strongly suggest planning all you'll need for a self rescue, such as carrying two tubes rather than just one. And be sure to bring plenty of water, I finished all of my rides on the island soaking wet from sweat, a very healthy four week cleansing! With overhanging trees, including plenty of coconuts up high and on the ground, and always within a few meters of the coastline, picture lava rock and crashing waves, the red road is a real treat for a cyclist. You'll find very few lines painted on the surface, few cars, and all told a very easy going pace set by the locals and visitors. Elsewhere in Puna, easy going remains the rule, and here I found many other road biking options. Choosing from among these and expanding them as the days and weeks passed, I easily put together rides, like this one, that were 3-5 hrs without doubling any section (here's another example). There were a few noteworthy incidences with dogs and a wild boar but fortunately none of my blood was shed during any of these encounters. On one of those adventurous days, I startled a boar that was foraging in the tall grass adjacent to the road. The animal charged to within inches of my rear wheel before deciding that he was going to let me live, swerve, and return to the forest. That left me breathless, and eventually laughing-out-loud for several minutes ... In addition to criss-crossing the district of Puna on my bicycle, I was able to sample other parts of the island on a few multi-day, multi-night, explorations far away from the jungle hut. For these trips, I traveled with the bike in the car, partially broken-down and wrapped in a large plastic bag from United Airlines. Plenty of planning was necessary to be sure that each day I met my nutritional needs, on and off the bike, and identified a route that was consistent with my scheduled training for that day. In addition, I had to maintain the bike and be sure I had what I needed to ride, spare tubes, bike kits, etc. Among the places that I discovered on these adventures outside of Puna, my favorites include a coastal route in Captain Cook, the Mountain Road between Waimea and Hawi (pronounced Ha-vi), descending into and ascending out of the Waipio Valley; and ascending and descending Mauna Kea Volcano from Hilo-town. Let me back up to December 2014, as my trip to Hawaii was approaching, I started searching for rides on the big island that people had written about on the internet. Very quickly, I came across two involving significant climbing, or 'just' a climb in one case, and decided life was too short not to attempt both of these. The 'just a climb' was a short, epic, ascent out of the Waipio Valley; the other was a series of consecutive ascents from sea level to the summit of Mauna Kea Volcano, over 13,000 feet of climbing in a single effort. Soon after I discovered the Mauna Kea climb, I started to visualize this ride as a Sea to Summit to Sea challenge and the more I thought about it the more excited I became. It would be an epic challenge for sure, if I even made it to the summit, but what a memory the day would be if I was successful! In the last few days of December, I decided I would make the Mauna Kea 'Sea to Summit to Sea' attempt on my 44th birthday, January 30th. Fast forward back to Hawaii, to January 24, Clarissa and I had slept well the night before in the best B & B we sampled on the island, the Waipio Hostel run by owner/operator Steve McPeek and his excellent team of friends and family.. The hostel is about a mile from the Waipio Valley Overlook where a famous descent, a steep, rough road of chinked together asphalt and concrete, drops into the valley - it's the only way in our out of the valley other than hiking trails. I had plans as big as the big island on this day starting with an out-and-back ride to Hawi via Waimea, a town up-slope of the coast where we were staying, a modest 5-6 miles as the ʻalalā once flew However, the only way to follow the (roughly) straight-line path of the Hawaiian crow to the town of Waimea was by a jeep trail named mud lane. Since arriving on the island, I had been spending a lot of time using Google maps to put together cycling routes, to varying degrees of success, and that's how I first detected a road through the jungle from just east of the Waipio Valley Overlook to Waimea. However, for this road, you really had to zoom-in, a lot (!), to provoke Google to suggest that it was a road ... rather than a digital illusion. That was my first clue, and also the first clue that I quickly disregarded. Shortly after I met Steve, I asked if there was a 'road' from the hostel that went south to Waimea., "that's right" he replied, "the road starts across the street" at which point he waved with his hand and spoke to take a right out of the driveway and then the first left. He also mentioned that a few years ago he was 'still' able to drive the road in a front-wheel-drive passenger car. But apparently, the road had since washed-out in many places, forcing him to take the long, roughly 15 mile paved (sane) route that went east for several miles before it turned west onto the highway to Waimea. In hindsight, Steve never discouraged me from taking the alternative, no doubt, scenic route, but there was a subtle hesitation as he contemplated my road bike and it's skinny little tires, the only bike I brought with me to the island. I ignored that hesitation too. Ascent of Mud Lane: Waimea to Hawi Out & Back At about 8 am, I took a right out of the driveway and then the first left, a street sign confirmed Steve's directions, 'Mud Lane'. At this point, the road was paved, but I'm guessing the grade directly ahead approached 20%.. That was a hell-ya-good-mornin moment! I went from cool to warmed-up all within about 2 minutes after leaving the hostel. At the top of the first ascent, I crossed the main road that dead-ends not far away at the overlook, on the opposite side Mud Lane turned to dirt. Another steep climb, past a few local residences, and then a water tank, before the vegetation leaned over the road, from lack of use, and the water damage began to become apparent. A few more minutes of pedaling brought me to a well-used Toyota pick-up with two dogs in the back and a sleeper in the drivers seat. Barking dogs quickly awoke the sleeper, no doubt startled by the appearance of a kitted-up road cyclist on Mud Lane, he nonetheless kindly waved me past his barking dogs and wished me well. I passed-over an old concrete bridge, below a small creek was patiently accepting its gravity assist to the sea, on the other side the road transformed to exposed bedrock mixed with deep gulleys and loose gravel. Also, the grade was steep, easily 10-15%. Inevitably, I was unable to clean this section on the Giant even with 4000s Continental Tires, exceptionally sticky and tough. But honestly, any sane roadie at this point would have been miles down the (longer) paved route with Mud Lane nearly forgotten. But that isn't the way a mountain biker operates, the rougher the road became the deeper I stubbornly dug in, and soon I was hiking my bike up a road that was more downed tree and overgrown veg than road. At about this moment, I decided that I had, for the second time in a month, completely lost my way in the jungle (see image at the top of this section). Not lost, but definitely on the wrong path, that is unless I was looking for herds of wild pigs which I was not! I later recalled that Steve had in fact mentioned the left turn at the top of the hill that I failed to take on the first pass. But I think, in my defense, my senses were by this time focused on the terrain and the bike (survival) more than directions. After leaving the dogs and the stranger, it was a full-on, moment-to-moment, challenge to stay on the bike or even walk when I wasn't able to clear an obstacle. Here's the 'mud lane climb' segment on Strava, just the first section of a much bigger ride to Hawi and back to the Waipio Overlook. Note the 'mud lane climb' segment (on Strava) does not include the few miles of paved, blissful (!!), road at the top. It took me 32 minutes to ascend the jeep trail section of Mud Lane, including several minutes lost on the pig trail. I averaged just 6.2 mph and climbed 1,064 feet over 2.9 miles, this is some of the evidence of the challenge of making this climb on a road bike. From the top of Mud Lane, smiling and relieved all at the same time, I made a right and soon was pedaling through busy downtown Waimea. From there, following two rights on the other side of town, I was quickly climbing again but this time on a well marked, paved, road on my way to Hawi on what the local's refer to as 'the mountain road'. After the adventure on Mud Lane, I could have used a longer break before tackling a climb of this significance. And on top of that, the climb from Hawi back to Waimea was even more difficult. Nonetheless, with few cars and beautiful scenery, I felt exceptionally fortunate to be in that place, and on my road bike, among the singing birds, green fields and sunshine. Cars and trucks zipped past from time-to-time but otherwise I was alone among the pastures and hills, cleansing my lungs as I made the climbs with the air off the Pacific and spilling down the slopes of the nearby volcanoes and cinder cones. I was in the zone that cyclist imagine when they picture places like the mountain road ... life was long instead of short, not a moment was wasted ... and soon I was back at the top of Mud Lane. Someone less stubborn than me would have taken the paved road back to the Waipio Valley Overlook, where I intended to finish the day by descending and then ascending the valley road. Myself not included, I turned left onto mud lane from Waimea and soon was descending in my drops, with plenty of brakes, over that bedrock I mentioned earlier, mixed with deep ruts and loose stone, and often on steep descending grades.. My arms and shoulders burned from the constant effort to maintain control of the bike on the technical terrain. And unfortunately, part way down, the rain-forest quality of this region of the big island showed itself in the form of a heavy down pour. Within moments I was soaked through, toenails to eyelashes. That made a difficult descent even more of a challenge, but without any other option than up, I rolled, pedaled, pushed, and scrambled my way back to the bottom of mud lane and then rode a short distance, about a mile, to the overlook without experiencing any break in the rain. Moving time from the B & B, where I started my ride at about 8 am, to the overlook was 5 hrs 21 minutes; distance and elevation gain, 67.8 mi and 8,356 feet. A sufficient warm-up no doubt to attempt the first of two climbs that I had been reading about and anticipating for weeks. Waipio Valley Climb: Here's a quote from Wikipedia describing the road into the valley that descends from the Waipio Valley Overlook: "... the valley floor at sea level is almost 2,000 ft (610 m) below the surrounding terrain. A steep road leads down into the valley from a lookout point located on the top of the southern wall of the valley. The road gains 800 vertical feet (243.84 m) in 0.6 miles (0.9 km) at a 25% average grade, with steeper grades in sections. This is a paved public road but it is open only to 4 wheel drive vehicles [and crazy people on bicycles :)]. It is the steepest road of its length in the United States and possibly the world." Despite the own into then out-of the valleyshortness in mileage and time required for this challenge, it's a ride that shouldn't be underestimated (here's some details about Lance Armstrong's climb out of the valley). A legitimate warm-up, for example, is a must before attempting the climb. As I described above, I warmed-up for over five hours, that may have been a little too much! On the steepest sections, tackling grades in excess of 25%, I averaged only 3.1 mph over a half mile.. As I climbed, my legs were more desperate to stop than they had ever been before, this was a pain cave that I had not previously visited. my legs were more desperate to stop than they'd ever been before, this was a pain cave that I had not previously visited. my legs were more desperate to stop than they'd ever been before, this was a pain cave that I had not previously visited. At the peak of my suffering, digging deeper than I knew I could, I was just barely able to turn the crank enough to keep the bike from falling over. Like a scene out of the 1982 film Blade Runner, as I climbed the rain poured down, spilled off my body in dozens of tiny waterfalls, and flowed down the road, past my bike and a few hikers, in fast moving torrents which I tried to avoid but wasn't always successful. rain pour-down, rain ran off my bike and body is drips and streams, and down the road in a fast moving, but shallow, torrent. On the steepest sections,Reaching the summit, just 2.8 miles and 30:42 min:sec after I started, was an achievement that a cyclist might have to experience to really understand. Despite it's short length, the ascent out of the Waipio Valley leaves a lasting impression. For myself, that impression was shared with not another soul! When I arrived back to where I had started, on the rim at the Waipio Valley Overlook, I was greeted by only wind and more rain. Nonetheless, I smiled big enough for a world to notice, and then gently covered the distance back to the Waipio Hostel. About an hour later, after a shower and a meal, I walked back down into the valley and rejoined Clarissa where we spent the night and hiked out the next morning ... it was still raining! For the cyclists, my 2014 Giant TCR Composite 1, the bike I rode all day including the ascent of the Waipio Valley, was pretty-much stock, from the factory. Exceptions were tires, I used Continental Grand Prix 4000s II front and rear, 25 mm. My drive-train, Shimano Ultegra 50-34 chain ring and 11-28 cassette came with the bike. I use pedals and shoes designed for mountain biking, SPD pedals and Shimano SH-XC70 shoes. Ascending and Descending Mauna Kea: Sea to Summit to Sea Totally knackered, but celebrating, I walked with Clarissa the next morning the few miles from the hostel in the valley back up to the Waipio Valley Overlook. Seeing the climb from my running shoes, and snapping a few photos, was a nice way to conclude that challenge. Along the way, Clarissa and I had to hold on to each other as we crossed the swollen river that runs through the middle of the valley. Over the next few hours, we drove through Waimea and then into Hawi by-way-of the mountain road. Based on the satellite weather map, this route seemed to take us through the only available sunshine. And this was fortuitous, because I really wanted Clarissa to see the views from the mountain road that I had seen the day before. The views certainly compete for the prettiest road-side scenery that I encountered on the Big Island. About two days later, as we had a few times before during the month, Clarissa and I returned in the dark to the jungle hut and slept a long deep sleep until morning. No doubt, that first morning back, we sipped Colorado roasted Camp 4 coffee a little longer than usual as one of us swung in the hammock on the back deck and the other sat on a step nearby. By 10 am, late, I was rolling. Then back to the jungle hut a few hours later for lunch and then probably a beach or snorkeling trip with Clarissa in the afternoon. By this time, days were creeping-up on January 30th, the day I was hoping to attempt my ascent of the volcano. Now just a few days out, the weather looked excellent. The attempt would start from Hilo, a few meters above sea level. Clarissa and I decided on a 6:15 am departure from the jungle hut, I assumed it would take only 45 minutes, or less, to drive into Hilo. Unfortunately it took much longer, delayed by the traffic I finally climbed onto the bike at about 8:15 am. But in hindsight, as long as I wasn't planning on stopping more than briefly, an 8 am departure was not so bad. It ensured that, barring any unexpected weather, the temperature at the summit would be in the low to mid 40's by the time I arrived (I was expecting sunshine based on the weather predictions and that's what I got, fortunately). It also ensured that the temperature climbing out of Hilo-town wouldn't be overly hot, it was about 65-70 F when I rolled out of town and onto the first climb. Clarissa and I had planned for her to drive close to me, following from behind, until we were out of town. In part, because this meant she would have to navigate fewer directions on her own - she's German by the way, a resident of Hamburg, where she rides her bicycle everywhere and uses trains to cover the longer distances. Sensibly, she doesn't own a car! So our plan was to keep her close to me until we were on the Saddle Road, a straight shot up to the right turn that would take us to the summit. That was the plan anyway, until we found ourselves on a road that, despite being two-way, becomes one-way in the morning (all four lanes) when parents are dropping their kids off at a local school. Within a few minutes of leaving the downtown water-front area, Clarissa and I were looking at each other, puzzled, as oncoming cars approached us on our side of the road. When it became impossible to continue, I shouted a few words through her open window from a distance and then I headed up the sidewalk! She turned around and that was all I saw of her for about an hour. I thought for sure that something had gone wrong, until she rolled up next to me part way up the Saddle Road, what a relief that was! From Hilo, I started with two 28 ounce Camel-bak water bottles mixed with two scoopes (each) of Hammer perpetuem. In my jersey pockets, about 6 GU gels and a CLIF bar. Strapped to the bike, mountain bike style, I had what I needed to fix a flat. With Clarissa rolling nearby and checking on me from time-to-time, I didn't need to overdo what I had in my pockets, a privilege. I kept the same set-up on the bike as I had for the Waipio Valley ascent (see details above), except that I changed my tires from Continental 4000s II 25 mm to Continental Contact 28 mm. The tire change was in anticipation of the ca. 5 mile gravel section (don't miss this excellent article including images from a professional photographer) above the visitor center on the ascent of Mauna Kea. In hindsight, the 28 millimeters wasn't near enough to really 'ride' that very difficult section for a road bike. Of course, it's possible that it spared me a flat, especially descending the gravel at high speed. But the 4000s are also very tough tires in my experience. If I was to do it again, I would probably put 95 lbs in the 4000s front and rear and let-er-rip. The Conti 4000s tires wouldn't slow me down on the gravel section and they would certainly speed me up on the road sections, the majority of the route which covers 42.5 miles from Hilo to the summit. So, about 85 miles Sea to Summit to Sea. The 'Saddle' Road is named for the area that it rolls over at its highest point: a saddle between the most prominent volcanoes on the island, Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. It's the main highway between Kona and Hilo, or the Kona-side and the Hilo-side as locals often refer to them. About half-way between the "sides", Mauna Kea Access Road heads north and then quickly begins to ascend the volcano. About 6 miles up, you'll encounter a visitor center and the gravel that I mentioned in the last paragraph. At the end of the gravel, the road is again paved and remains so all the way to the summit at 13,796 feet (4,205 m). My plan on the saddle road was to climb at a strong pace but without putting too much of a drain on my tank. In particular, I was concerned about what I would need to climb the last few thousand feet, including the gravel. Nonetheless, I covered the saddle section (about 22 miles) at a reasonable pace, it took me a little over two hours from town. At the top of the saddle, I turned right onto the Mauna Kea Access Road and gave myself permission to have a quick pee! It wasn't a race after all!? By this time, I had burned through my first two bottles and a few gels. Clarissa handed-me-up replacements and I rode on. I was feeling good, a little over 5,000 feet of climbing was already in the bag, 'only' 8700 remaining :). The access road wastes no time in its pursuit of the summit, shortly after making the turn I was looking up at a monster of a climb. It was time to settle-in, to survive, and sometimes to allow myself to be distracted by bird song, sunshine, and scenery. It was a gorgeous day, with little wind and very few cars/trucks passing by. And those that did often had their window down as they approached and the occupants were shouting encouragement! It was great to know that I was among friends and no doubt it added a little bit of power to my lungs and legs on each encounter. The next major section, Saddle Road to the Visitor Center, took me about 57 minutes to cover 6.2 miles. Along the way, 2577 feet of climbing at an average grade of 8%. 'Just' 5700 feet, about a vertical mile, to go. I made my second stop at the Visitor Center where Clarissa was waiting for me. This was a scheduled stop, I laid the bike down and prepared my jersey pockets for what I might need to survive (not be comfortable) if the weather turned to shit on the mountain. The exchange took about 3-4 minutes, a quick kiss for Clarissa and I was on my way again but this time with a fellow I had met riding along the red road. His plan was to ride with me to the summit form the Visitor Center, a very generous offer and one that I was thrilled to accept. We rode the gravel together, though separated at times, I finished that section just behind him. As we rolled back onto the pavement we found a very prominent pile of stuff waiting for us, it had been stashed there by Clarissa. Ahead, we would later learn that she had also stashed food, etc, at the summit. This was exceptional given that our rental car was not up-to-the-task of climbing the steep gravel sections, Clarissa had gone above and beyond as a support crew and hitch-hiked her way to the summit with our supplies. Before I move-on to the pavement above the gravel, where the atmosphere, void of any oxygen, eventually abandons cyclists, let me reflect for a moment on my experience covering the five miles of gravel. Everyone writes that it will be tough, really tough, brutal, you will experience melt down, a few miles of hell, hellish, humbling, unimaginable cruelty, and much more. However, all of us as cyclists read it, respect it, but then transition to an image that is much more 'normal'. Sure, it'll be tough, I will suffer, but ... then you get there and you realize that you're coming apart, especially mentally. I pictured launching my bicycle over the guardrail at one point, sure happy I didn't actually do that. I swore, loud. I came off the bike (spun out) about 6 times and then lost track. I walked three or four times. Once, about a 1/3 of a kilometer. Before I made it half-way, I was bashed, beaten, humbled beyond mercy, I was losing this battle. And I hadn't been arrogant about the section, I just didn't know how tough ... tough could be on a road surface like this, with only a road bike, at high elevation. Few instincts remained intact at this point, but one was 'I could still determine which direction moved me higher onto the mountain' ... so that's where I pointed my body and bike. Forward. Up the mountain. Spinning in granny, spinning out, or walking. And eventually, near the top, my companion on his mountain bike rejoined me, I settled down, reconnected with the moment, and then rolled on to the most beautiful, gentle, loving asphalt I have ever witnessed or ever will witness again I suspect! My advice for climbing the gravel is .... if you're not stubborn, like me, consider using two bikes to make the climb. Use a mountain bike for the dirt, and possibly the pavement above it or use a support vehicle that can move your road bike up the mountain for you. Martin Roff flew from his home in Norway with a cross-bike, a relatively comfortable alternative, to the road bike, a cross-bike would accommodate lots of drive-train and tire options as well. As far as surviving the gravel, regardless of your steed, you must to reach the summit. So prepare as best you can and then ... maintain forward progress, be stubborn and you'll get there. It took me 1 hr and 14 minutes to cover the 4.6 miles of gravel, I gained another 2400 feet on this section at an average grade of 10%. When the gravel sufferfest ended, about 3000 feet of climbing remained, all of this above 10000 feet (3048 m) elevation. Clarissa and her hijacked support vehicle rolled-up to me on the gravel when I was in a bad place, mentally, they quickly drove away! Part way up the pavement, as they were descending, they dared to stop one more time, and this time I was ready, and apologetic honestly! They surprised me the first time around. I stopped for 2-3 minutes to speak with them, I waved them down as I felt like they might just drive past. At that moment, I was at 13,000 feet. A moment before I had been methodically turning my cranks, and breathing, just breathing, slowly. An unanticipated effect of the rarefied air was a feeling of peacefulness despite the suffering in my legs and lungs. I remember being at peace, honestly, it was amazing. I don't remember much of what we spoke about, but I remember that I felt better, a lot better, physically, as I pedaled away from Clarissa and her new friends from the UK. Perhaps it was the realization, processed over the few minutes that I had been able to look around as we spoke, that I was within about 1 mile of the summit. I could see it, just a massive climb remained, one more, the last push ... and I could get there! It's beautiful up on the mountain, so far above the Pacific Ocean where humanity is barely detectable far-down below. For hours now I had been pedaling above the clouds that had steadily gathered on the Hilo-side. Looking down on them, I reflected on books I had read about mountaineering, 'Into thin Air', 'The Climb', and others. At times I forgot about the bicycle that I was propelling, at those moments I was a mountaineer ascending an epic peak and enjoying a privileged top-view of the clouds as I pulled myself higher and higher into the void. I made it to the first turn that I had been looking way-up-at from the jeep, and at that point the road actually descended a few feet before making a hairpin left. Now I really was at the last climb and something strange happened, my mind and body really got excited ... how does flesh know that the end of a brutal test of mental and physical perseverance is about to end? The reason isn't so important, but the effect was thrilling ... my legs found a reserve that I don't know how to access and together we picked-up the pace and a moment later I was riding a circle at the highest point of the road, not actually the true summit but the summit for anyone that wants to ride a bicycle to the 'top' of Mauna Kea (you could hike the last few meters if you wanted to!). Alone on the summit, among more than a dozen world-class deep-space telescopes, the sort of telescopes that probe into our solar system, to Neptune and beyond, into interstellar space and neighboring star systems, and farther. Clouds below, an ocean of blue beyond, massive telescopes, I was alone in a magical place at the end of an ascent that I was grateful beyond words to have been able to attempt. And there I was, standing in a strong atmospheric disturbance, a wind, it was cold but nothing could distract me, for the first few minutes, from taking it all in. Living and experiencing ... thanks to the gift of cycling ... an emotional and physical moment that no material object can ever offer. To know this you must live it, you must cross threshold after threshold of perceived barrier, and propel yourself by any physical means (bike, foot, etc) to far-away, far-out-of-reach destinations such as the summit of Mauna Kea. When you get there, the suffering will be forgotten ... My ascent from the top of the gravel to the summit, a distance of 3.5 miles with 1952 feet of climbing, took one hour. I recall only spending about 5-10 minutes on the summit. It seemed much longer, but eventually I began to feel the cold from the wind and the sweat on my body. It was time to descend, and descend over 13,700 feet in a single drop! As I made the first turn from the summit I was reunited with my friend on his mountain bike. We exchanged plans and high-fives before I continued down the mountain. An instant later I was at the gravel. Initially, I was cautious, but then I let the giant rip ... a moment later, both tires inflated fortunately, I was hugging Clarissa at the Visitor Center. A good friend on the Island, Julia Rowe, and her two sons made the drive to the Visitor Center to join in the celebration! That was emotional, to see them all there. But after about 30 minutes, clouds now thick towards Hilo, I had to finish my descent. With stops, it had taken me 5 hrs 59 minutes and 41 seconds to make the ascent from Hilo to the summit. In less than 2 hours, not including the stop at the Visitor Center, I descended from the summit to Hilo. I think I smiled as much as I otherwise will in my lifetime on that epic descent back to sea level. And I smiled even though I flatted part way down when I smacked a rock ... visibility was a big problem as I descended through the clouds and into heavy rain. As we had at the beginning, Clarissa and I had some trouble reuniting at the end. But eventually, thanks to friends, we found each other. By then running late, I had only enough time to pack the bike, jump into the car, and quickly drive to Julia's for a post-Sea-to-Summit-to-Sea party! When I arrived I was surrounded by aloha ... and mahalo ... and fortunately, was given permission to use the shower! For more details of this climb, or any other ride that I went on in Hawaii, anyone is welcome to contact me. In the meantime, make plans .... and go on your own epic climb into the thin air above 10,000 feet ... and consider posting your story on your own blog. 2015 Training To-date & a Niner Jet 9 RDO Since March, there has been a new whip in my living room, a 2015 Jet 9 RDO from Niner Bikes. In hindsight, all the reluctance I had to ride a full-suspension (aka, "squishy bike") in place of my tried/tested/proven hard-tail has vanished in the last few weeks as I've gotten to know just how capable, all around, this Jet really is. Of course, on descents of 10-20 minutes, the Jet literally shaved 1-2 minutes off my best time compared to the Air 9 RDO. However, that's not a surprise. What is surprising is the pace that I have been able to maintain when I'm on other terrain, namely rolling on flats and dips, and climbing. So far, after about 6-8 rides on the Jet, I'm not experiencing any declines in times on these terrains No doubt, the Air 9 is an epic bike. But if I absolutely need to choose just one then that one will likely be the Jet. In the meantime, I'm hoping to hold onto both bikes and use them both during the upcoming 2015 race season. On January 3rd I began training, a month earlier than 2014, with a new coach, new ambitions and goals. Since that day, I've ridden over 3,600 miles (5764 km) on road and mountain terrain, about 1000 miles a month. Of course, including the Mauna Kea ascent from 30 January, I've accumulated a respectable amount of climbing over those 3600 miles, to-date 167,000 feet (50,901 m). When today is over, training day 106, 93 rides and over 224 cycling hours will be in the bank. But more important than distance, climbing, etc, is the quality of the rides, the quality of the training, it's structure, planning, etc. With Pat Nash, I'm more structured than ever before, each week a totally new challenge, often more than one. My body, if it survives, and presently it's certainly run down (I'm becoming fatigued by design) from all of the work over the last 3.5 months, will be stronger than ever. That seems inevitable, but then again, the universe is a fickle beast. Stay tuned for more from Andre Breton Racing ... and thanks for dropping in. Images from top-left to bottom-right: A reflection of Clarissa and I at a snorkeling area not far from our Jungle Hut; a view from the Waipio Valley Overlook (beach at the end of the valley on the left); a picture taken from the saddle of my Giant TCR Composite 1 as I ascended the mountain road from Hawi to Waimea; (bottom-left) another image of my ascent on the mountain road (Waimea to Hawi); shortly after making the right turn off the Saddle Road and onto the Mauna Kea Access Road; the last four images (second row right, all bottom) were taken close to the summit/or on the summit of Mauna Kea by Clarissa. The image below is also from the summit area, another fantastic image captured by my one-person support team! Bottom two images: Clarissa, my solo support team, on the left! And, on the right, the sign that everyone encounters just above the Mauna Kea Visitor Center where the road turns to gravel/dirt.
Training on the Big Island
Sea to Summit to Sea
A Jet 9 RDO Joins My Family!
A New Coach & Training Plan in 2015 As I approach my mid-40's, I often ask myself how much longer I can continue to deplete my savings to support an intensive training and racing schedule? The answer is probably not much longer. With this in mind, I thought it would be valuable to experience at least two coaching styles in my short racing career. Yet, saying goodbye to Alex Hagman, my coach for the last two years, was still very difficult. His contributions to my success as a racer can't be underestimated. He's been an excellent coach and great friend as well and I'll miss having him close by. Nonetheless, moving forward, I'm excited to be working with Pat Nash in 2015, a local Fort Collins cyclist with an impressive coaching resume ... more about Pat and my on-going training coming soon.
In a rented house a few hundred feet from the starting line, among friends and fellow racers, I slept well the night before. As I drifted into sleep, exhausted from a season of racing and training in preparation for the 2014 Leadville Trail 100 (LT100) that was now so imminent, I reflected on my experiences at the 2013 LT100:
... I remembered my legs burning on the St. Kevin's climb, the first big climb of the day, just a few miles from the starting line; ... I remembered catching and holding pelotons coming and going from Pipeline Aid Station and all the effort that this required; ... I remembered settling-in and climbing Columbine in a long 1 hr 24 minutes to nearly 12,560 feet and descending in 14 1/2 very exciting short minutes back to ca. 10,000 feet; ... I remembered the relentless, cruel, ascent of Powerline inbound, an ascent with a 1/2 dozen false summits; ... and of course, I remembered the awful sound of my rear tire quickly deflating and subsequently being passed by close to 50 riders at about mile 87. But that's not all, I also remembered a strong sense of accomplishment at many points in the race and finishing well inside of the coveted sub-9 hours that's awarded with a "big" LT100 belt buckle by the Leadville Race Series. As I drifted off into sleep, I was anxious of course, but I was also anticipating, with excitement, the opportunity to repeat the LT100. Everyone wants to do "better" when they repeat a race, this is a sensible, foreseeable expectation. But how much better? And what is a sensible goal? A few hours before the start of the Laramie Enduro (see previous blog entry for the full story), a bartender asked me about my race goal. I quickly responded with "under 5-and-a-half hours". I had a lot more time to think about my goal for the 2014 LT100, a whole winter and spring. As with previous goals, including my spontaneous response to the bartender in Laramie, I wanted the goal to push my limits. Training, nutrition, and other choices will make you faster, but I've also learned that mental preparation, including a challenging goal, is a critical part of the formula for improving. Like all 100 mile mountain bike races, the LT100 is a BIG, CHALLENGING, CRUSHING day on a bicycle. For this day, I set my goals consistent with the magnitude of the event: I would attempt to finish the 2014 LT100 in under 7.5 hours, nearly an hour faster than my 8:28:29 finish the previous year. When I first mentioned this goal to my coach (Alex Hagman), sometime in the winter of 2013-14, he paused. Alex has always been a source of inspiration, of can-do, the good stuff that you expect from an excellent coach. To accomplish such a feat after just two seasons of training and four years on a mountain bike (on any bike) would take not only every ounce of "guts, grits, and determination" (Ken Chlouber, Leadville Race Series) that I had on race day, it would also require a very cooperative universe (weather, flats, decisions of other riders, etc). At 6:30 am, on 9 August 2014, close to 2000 mountain bikers were lined-up behind the "gold" corral, which included about 100 elite and pro riders. All of us were anticipating the shotgun blast that signals race-start in the Leadville Race Series. We were not disappointed, and soon we were rushing down 6th avenue at over 30 mph heading towards (for some of us) familiar turns before the hard-right onto dirt that leads to the St. Kevin's climb. Among my goal of finishing in under 7.5 hours, I was hoping to get a better placement approaching this climb. This early in the race, I'm always under-powered as it seems my engine requires about 20-40 minutes to hit peak efficiency. So my expectations were softened somewhat. Nonetheless, I managed to set my first personal records for the day, based on Strava segments, before I reached Carter Summit at the end of the St. Kevin's climb. On the decent from Harrison Avenue to the dirt flying, my average pace was 30.9 mph compared to 29.3 in 2013. And to the base of St. Kevin's from town, my pace increased from 22.5 mph in 2013 to 24.2 mph. Translated into minutes, I shaved just over a minute in the first 5.7 miles of the race despite my waking engine. By the time I rolled back onto the pavement at Carter Summit (top of St. Kevin's), I was 2 1/2 minutes ahead of my time from 2013 and ten-and-a-half miles into the race. I had been looking forward to the fast descent from Carter to the base of the road adjacent to Turquoise Lake. In 2013, my average pace and max speed had been 35.7 and 42.5 mph. In 2014, maybe because I took a moment (at slow speed) to eat a gel, my times in 2014 were slightly less than 2013, 34.4 and 41.6 mph. Alternatively, conditions may have slowed me down, perhaps a head-wind that I don't recall. My descent from Carter Summit was one of the few sections that I did not ride faster in 2014 relative to 2013. In the next series of challenges, I was faster climbing from Turquoise Lake to Sugarloaf (top of Powerline) by 1 min 25 seconds. And on my descent down Powerline, one of the only technical sections of the course, I shaved 1 minute and 11 seconds. But despite these consistently faster times, by the time I reached Pipeline Aid Station my total improvement was only 5 minutes relative to 2013. Pipeline is 28-and-a-half miles into the race, so roughly one third of the journey: that put me at roughly 15-20 minutes ahead of my 2013 finish, far shy of my 7.5 hour goal. As I passed Pipeline (and other aid stations), I checked-in with my Garmin Edge 500. I knew I was moving too slow, but I also knew that many significant obstacles, and the opportunity to make-up time, lay ahead. Not far from Pipeline, inbound to Twin Lakes, I chose a poor line at full speed and nearly had a serious crash. Nonetheless, I managed to regain my confidence, catch most of the riders that zipped past me as I was heading into the woods, and shaved off another minute plus a few seconds going into Twin Lakes. At Twin Lakes, I quickly glanced down at my Garmin Edge 500 between bottle hand-ups with my race crew (Bill Lutes and Joe Bulow at this station). Despite climbing the next section (outbound from Twin Lakes), Columbine, faster than ever before, I managed to shave only 4.5 minutes off of my 2013 ascent time. At the top of Columbine, I was just 12 minutes ahead of my 2013 pace. Without stopping I began my descent from Columbine. This is a heart racing, fun, descent. However, this year my race nearly concluded near the bottom of the descending jeep trail where it transitions to dirt road: I crashed in a pile-up with four other riders. The first rider went down at high speed, each of us managed to miss the rider but came off our bikes. I landed in a bush on trail right, the bike went down on the drive-train side, yet I was able to ride-on after resetting my chain The crash meant I descended Columbine in less time than last year, an unfortunate set-back. After a year of training, I was hoping to shave at least 1 minute off my descent. Nonetheless, I was lucky to be back on the bike and ripping down the mountain on the epic Niner Air-9 RDO. Bill and Joe greeted me at Twin Lakes inbound with shouts of encouragement and pre-mixed Camelbak 28 oz bottles containing water and Hammer Perpetuem to refresh my depleted stock. Without stopping, I rode-on to Pipeline in a head-wind most of the way and without any riders to form a peloton. After the race, I was surprised to see, despite these problems, that I still managed to shave additional time in this section and arrive 18 minutes ahead of 2013 to Pipeline Aid Station. At that pace, a sub-8 hour finish was still well within reach, but 7.5 was starting to drift beyond what was possible. I continued to push. Now lay ahead the dreaded ascent of Powerline inbound. Between Pipeline and the base of Powerline, But before I arrived there, I was again alone, without any riders to form a peloton on the extensive pavement section that leads to the base of the climb. The wind was blowing hard in my face. Missing pelotons at critical inbound stages definitely hurt my finish time. The effort by this point, over 70 miles and close to 10,000 feet of climbing, left me in a semi-hypnotic state when I arrived at the base of the Powerline climb. I recall not caring if anyone passed me, my goal at that moment was only to prepare myself, to settle-in, to survive, the climb ahead. I negotiated the lower sections of Powerline at a pace that allowed me to pass many riders. Then I arrived at the first pitch, a bitch, especially the last punch. Unanticipated, I was able to clean all of it. That really spiked my confidence and I shouted in celebration as I topped the hill and started the descent into the trees ahead and the climb that seems to go on forever that they conceal. Among the lodgepole pines my confidence remained but had to make room for suffering. Everyone suffers in this section, but for me it was somewhat less of a sufferfest in 2014 than it was in 2013 and I managed to shave just under 3 minutes as I ground my way up to Sugarloaf Summit. Reaching that high point, I let the Niner descend, but was careful, even to the point of losing some time, not to smash a tire in this section as I had last year. At a pace that respected the terrain, I rolled-over the rocks where I flatted in 2013, heard no sound, made the right turn onto Hagerman's Road and continued my descent while being careful not to smile too wide and alert the universe of my arrogance! Otherwise concealed, hope ran deep that I had avoided a flat in 2014 ... Descend to Turquoise Lake, take-in the generous encouragement of strangers as the trail turns left onto pavement, and a moment later begin the last serious ascent that finishes at Carter Summit. Last year I climbed this section filled with concern that my partially inflated rear tire wasn't going to hold, the end of my race. This year I climbed with confidence and picked off riders along the way including my coach! Off the couch in 2014 (he finished in under 7 hours in 2011, 6th overall), Alex may even have been waiting for me, and he was for sure helping a downed rider on Columbine. Details aside, it was a thrill for me to see him on a race course, and especially the LT100 because this was the race that brought us together. I shouted-up to him as I approached and he turned and smiled ... a moment later he was encouraging me as he shoved me up hill! It was a special moment between a coach and a student that I'll always remember. Over the top of Carter Summit and then on the descent on St. Kevin's all along thinking, maintain air in your tires!!! That was my mantra as I descended as fast as I dared and then made my way to 'the boulevard'. On the boulevard, I already knew the score, sub-8 if I was very lucky, but for sure no where close to sub-7.5. That goal would have to wait, perhaps in 2015, or beyond. In the meantime, out of about 105 Strava segments along the LT100 course, I was faster in 2014 on 100 of them. That's certainly a legit improvement. And faster includes the boulevard, a 2.4 mile dirt section leading to within 1 mile of the finish line. I put at least another 5-8 riders behind me on this dirt section as I pedaled-hard, often standing-up, trying to cross the finish line in under 8 hours. It's remarkable that we ever arrive, so many hours later, to a finish line in an endurance race that tests the human mind & body as much as the LT100. The course, despite it's simplicity (not technical with few exceptions) is brutal; most of it above 10,000 feet, a high point at nearly 12,560 feet, the Powerline Climb at about mile 75, etc. A quick comparison of my two attempts and training in 2014 provide additional evidence of the challenge: Two Attempts: Without a flat tire, I suspect that I might have finished the 2013 LT100 in 8 hrs 19 minutes (or less). In 2014, I finished in 8:01:54. A modest improvement over an 8 hour effort, just 17 minutes; Preparation: Going into the 2014 LT100 I had two full seasons of racing, rather than just one, behind me. In addition, training in 2014 was two months longer than 2013. In 2014 I started training on 1 February; in 2013, 1 April. Leading up to the LT100 in 2014, I completed 6000 miles of training on two bikes (road, mtn) and climbed over 350,000 feet along the way. Given all of this effort, how is it possible that I fell so short? Maybe I didn't push hard enough, a legit concern and consistent with my personal record on the boulevard which demonstrated that I may have finished with gas in the tank. But there are other reasons, poor luck catching pelotons when I needed them and a crash brought on by another rider. Conditions may also have played a role, everyone seemed to think that the race course was 10-15 minutes slower than 2013 and the top finisher times seemed to support this speculation (Team Topeak-Ergon Sally Bigham's thoughts about the 2014 LT100, she finished 1st among women for the second consecutive year). Making accommodation for all of these possibilities, I roll into Leadville at about 7:45, still in 75th position but much closer to my race goal. Speculation aside, I have plenty to celebrate! In particular, I finished in the top 100, fast enough to qualify for a position in the gold corral in 2015 where I'll line-up among pros and other elite racers. Based on Sally Bigham's race report, pro contenders will likely include 'the Albanator' (Alban Lakata) among other World Champions ... I want to thank my crew, friends and family, that waited patiently all day to hand-up, in a moment, hydration and food: Bill Lutes; Joe Bulow; Chris and Rodney Breton; and my crew chief, Andrew Mackie. It was a very exciting day of racing, and we finished well, 75th overall among a very experienced pack of determined racers. I'm thrilled that I was able to share my top 100 finish with all of you. I also want to thank Northern Colorado Grassroots Racing (NCGR) sponsors for their support including the biggest donors, Peloton Cycles and Equinox Brewing. One of my own sponsors, Integrative Physiotherapy, once again (same in 2013) wrote me a check to cover my entry fee to the LT100 ... absolutely grateful to Kira and John for their donation! My friends on NCGR have encouraged me for months, many thanks to all of them as well! On 26 July, 2014, just a few days ago, I lined-up in the open class for a 7 am start to the 11th annual Laramie Enduro. Close by were well known and accomplished racers, including Josh Tostado (Breckenridge, CO) and Steve Stefco (Fort Collins, CO). When I made the last minute decision to sign up for this race, about two weeks ago, I was thinking that this would be more of a local event with fewer of the elite rockets. My illusions dissolved in the line-up that morning, this would be a race against some of the very best, no different from my recent race experiences including the Firecracker 50.
The Laramie Enduro is a celebrated event on the Front Range of Colorado and Wyoming that draws a large crowd of contenders from the respected mountain biking towns of Laramie, Fort Collins, and Boulder among others. The races reputation (legit) also draws racers from the mountain towns, including Breckenridge, Gunnison, Aspen, and Leadville. Some riders race the event for the first time, others will return again and again, many will have a goal in mind. I resolved my goal the night before when a bar tender in a Laramie brewery by chance asked me, "what time are you hoping to finish the race in?" I responded without thinking, "under 5 hrs 30 minutes." And it was done! Definitely should have thought about that a little longer!? Nonetheless, the bar tender was impressed, he offered to buy me a beer after the race if I returned to the bar after successfully finishing in under five and half hours. With a minimum, average, and maximum elevation of 7559, 8217, and 8856 feet (2304, 2505, 2699 meters), the Laramie Enduro is no doubt a high elevation race. And with 68 miles of single- and double-track to contend with, it's also without question an endurance race. Add to this the diversity of the course - from fast two-track sometimes with sand up-to 2 inches deep, to free-range cattle grazing throughout, to marsh crossings through thick black muck, to temporary bridges over creeks, to exceptionally long climbs on rocky single-track - and an image of the event begins to form in the mind. However, despite its difficulty, there is a reason why riders return year-after-year to the Laramie Enduro: it's epic fun on a mountain bike! Yes, there is the usual suffering to contend with that all racers experience, but the course delivers plenty of motivation to keep going ... and to come back the following year. This somewhat grassroots event starts with a simple shout, "okay go!" And I was off with 80 other riders in the open class at 7 am. A few minutes later waves of sport and other classes were rolling behind us, in total 513 racers were on the course by 7:30 am. The race immediately ascends a steep hill on a dirt road, then turns right at the top of the hill into the forest and onto the single-track. A few miles later we were back on the two-track and descending fast. At the start, I decided that the race was long and hard enough that I didn't have to push too hard for position going into the woods. In hindsight, I think that was sensible. Nonetheless, I placed myself in about the top twenty before the first transition to single-track. After the start, what was most important for me was trying to stay within the lead 20 riders all day. As it turned out, that meant holding myself in fast pelotons over-and-over again in the first 20-30 miles in a strong headwind, which I managed to do. However, at times I had to dig deep to pull myself back to the line. At times, I dropped far enough back that it's surprising that I was able to recover ... I kept going and tried not to think too much. At the 3rd of five aid stations I made my planned stop for water. Five or six riders zipped past as I refreshed my bottles with water and Perpetuem. But that was unavoidable, I didn't sweat it, I enjoyed my visit with the awesome volunteers and was off in less than 2 minutes. For the remainder of the race there would be no stopping. Before aid station four I managed to catch and pass 2 or 3 riders that passed me at aid station 3. Two or three more were behind me by aid five, the last just before I began to climb the dreaded Headquarters Hill. Fortunately, my grassroots race buddy Tommy gave me a heads-up that last year he had finished the climb and descent to the finish on the other side in 36 minutes. I kept this in mind as the hurt came on. By this time it seemed like I was spinning my legs by memory and habit rather than by muscle and strength. And the whole way up I was anticipating, given my slow pace, that I would be overtaken by several riders at any moment. In maybe my third ring from the easiest, I just tried to keep moving. I verbally assaulted the air as I went up, that helped a bit. I'm nearing the top ... then here come more hills ... now the trail starts to roll ... and finally to descend ... last challenge is to not miss a turn! That thought kept me mentally busy over the last couple miles to the finish. I studied the bushes and trees ahead looking for course markers, at times I thought I might have gone off course ... that caused some anxiety until I spotted the next orange flag. Feeling as if I was stumbling down-hill as I had stumbled up-hill on my fully rigid bike, the road leading to the finish line a short 1/4 mile away was a much welcomed sight (fork remote hydraulic shifter housing was torn lose close to mile 35 by unknown means and this locked-out the shock for the remainder of the race). I buried the Niner Air-9 RDO, pedaled hard down hill, and then reluctantly peaked over my shoulder ... no bikes. Nonetheless, I kept the pace up, full speed, I wasn't going to lose my position, whatever it was, so close to the finish line. It's amazing the difference between how you're feeling as you approach the finish line and the calm on the other side. I let the calm settle-in and then slowly wandered over to the area where the other finishers were chillin. Water, then watermelon, then solid food, then a beer! Sometime during the solid food phase of my post-race recovery, the first set of results were posted. I didn't wander over right away, I think I was just feeling good. But wander eventually, I did, and came face-to-face with my best finish to date, 14th out of 513 overall. My goal of staying in the top 20 all day? I must have accomplished that, though perhaps I was 21st or 22nd for a while before I started passing riders between aid stations 3 and 5. And what about that free beer? Official Time: 5:27:22. Hell ya. I didn't return to the bar, probably a good thing! But meeting that goal still felt good ... and so far, three days later, the feel good hasn't let up a bit. The conclusion of the Laramie Enduro leaves me with just one more challenge (that I'm registered for) before I contemplate coasting into the off-season, the Leadville Trail 100 on 9 August. Last year a flat cost me some time, yet I managed a strong rookie-year finish: 8 hrs 28 minutes. This year I'm shooting for under 7.5 hrs ... that'll take everything I've learned, all the strength I have, and some luck! Less than two weeks before the shotgun booms ... As part of my training and preparation for the Leadville Trail 100, my coach encouraged me to race in three back-to-back endurance races: 28 June; 4 July; and 12 July. These events are the notoriously brutal '40 in the Fort' and the high-elevation, lung busting, Firecracker 50 and Silver Rush 50. The first event is nearly all single track. That's unusual, and the effect, at a respectable elevation above sea level (min, avg, max elevation (ft): 5455, 6132, 7090), leaves a mark on all of the competitors. Few return to race in this event a second year and many DNF (did not finish) in their first attempt. The next two events start just under or just over 10,000 feet (3048 m) above sea level and climb from there. The Firecracker 50 climbs for 7.5 miles from the starting line before descending for the first time from a course high point of 11,145 feet (3397 m). And the Silver Rush 50, also known as the Leadville 50, ascends to over 12,000 feet (3657 m) six times along its 50 mile out-and-back course. Despite the combined miles from these three races being modest, just 140 miles spread-out over a few weeks, the climbing at elevation and at race pace is a significant challenge for even the best-trained athletes. Elevation climbed in these events is close to 7300, 6200, and 7600 feet, respectively. A total of 21,100 feet (6431 m) of climbing, much of it above 9600 feet (2926 m). Let me try to put just the total climbing from these events into perspective. For readers from the northeast of the United States, to accumulate 21,100 feet (6431 m) of climbing hikers starting at the base of Mount Washington (White Mountains, New Hampshire) would have to repeat climb to the summit FIVE times. For friends closer to my home in Fort Collins, Colorado, 21,100 feet is equivalent to climbing from the Colorado River at Phantom Ranch in the Grand Canyon to the South Rim on Bright Angel Trail also nearly FIVE times. And of course, racers have to descend what they climb to reach the finish line. Imagine descending sections of trail in the White Mountains or in the Grand Canyon? Five times? The heat of the Grand Canyon and the extreme rocky conditions of the White Mountains aside (neither apply to any of the races that I listed here), you get the idea ... descending thousands of feet of elevation, like climbing, is also a significant challenge on a mountain bike. As of today, two of these races are behind me: 40 in the Fort; and the Firecracker 50. In less than one week, I'll be lined-up for the third and probably the most difficult challenge in the series, the Silver Rush 50 in Leadville, Colorado. The first two races left a very positive mark on my racing history. And since the Firecracker 50 on Friday last week, I've spent some time digging through my race data, and race results from the organizers, for little-bits-of-reasons to celebrate! Especially given all of the intensive training I've completed, sometimes reluctantly, since February 1st. Most prominent in my accomplishments was my 6th place overall finish in the '40 in the Fort'. I raced in the open category in this popular local event, a category consisting of pros and fast experts. My finish in the male open category was the same as overall, 6th place. In third place was a national champ sponsored by Peloton Cycles and Specialized Bikes, he beat me by just 4 minutes. In between were two pro-level racers. In first place was the famous road racer and Fort Collins resident, Pat McCarty. And last in the top five was an up-and-coming local expert, he took second place. Despite the number of racers being small (less than 150) in the '40 in the Fort' relative to events like the Firecracker 50, many entrants are Fort Collins residents, a mountain and road biking community that hosts many fast and accomplished riders. For this reason, doing well in this local 40 is definitely reason to celebrate! As the first place finisher among over-40 entrants, that celebration started with my first walk to the podium. In the image, above, on my left is a fellow Northern Colorado Grassroots Racer and an inspiration for anyone that knows him, Mick McDill. Mick took third place in the over-40 category. It was a great day for me and my grassroots racing team. As of the writing of this post, racers that 'did not finish' (DNFed) have not been added to the list of results provided by the Firecracker 50 race vendor. (mavsports). The race was full to capacity, which means 750 racers were on the course on lap 1. However, that 750 includes one member from many male, female, and coed team duos. Until the DNFers are listed, the best I can say at the moment for an 'overall finish' is that I finished 63rd/750 participants (including teams), top 8%. Among solo finishers (about 400), I placed in the top 50. Within my expert male age 40-44 category I also finished well, another "best" for the history books: 5th/39. Hell ya. And just 4 minutes and a few seconds out of 3rd place among an elite group of expert racers. These finish placings are my best to date in an event the size of the Firecracker 50. Despite the passing of a whole year, the 2013 Firecracker 50 left many impressions which I haven't forgotten. For example, the course includes ripping downhill sections on gnarly forest service roads. But despite being gnarly, there is a clean and obvious line around the obstructions (rock piles) and many water diversion mounds that are perfectly placed for launching a Niner Air-9 RDO mountain bike! It was, no doubt, on these sections that I managed my top speed along the course in 2014, just over 35 mph. Another impression left by the 2013 Firecracker wasn't positive: I was quickly dropped by the main peloton in the first climb of the race, Boreas Pass.. That left a mark, and I've been waiting, and hoping, to resolve it ever since. So here's what happened in 2014: I rolled the neutral start from Main Street to Boreas Pass Road ... moved ahead of the 40-44 and 45-49 expert participants (we started together) ... and then .... I led the peloton that formed behind me for the first 2-3 miles. Another hell ya! Instead of being dropped and struggling, this year I set the pace for a significant portion of the climb, the fruit of many intervals and other training prescribed by my coach, Alex Hagman Despite gassing myself somewhat before I finished the 7.5 mile climb, I have absolutely NO regrets. When I faltered about 15 riders from the peloton passed me (I would eventually re-pass most of them). In the future, I'll recall the experience, stay in the peloton, and wait for an ideal time to give it some gas ... in the meantime I'm celebrating! Some other details that I've dug into from the Firecracker 50 include lap times (race consists of two 25 mile laps) from the top five 40-44 expert male finishers. Here they are: (1st) 1:58:13, 2:04:06 (2nd) 1:59:20, 2:13:52 (3rd) 2:00:38, 2:12:45 (4th) 2:02:12, 2:13:59 (5th) 2:05:07, 2:12:36 The 5th place times are my own. These lap times reveal at least three interesting facts: (1) Rob Batey (Feedback Sports), 1st place finisher, kicked our asses; (2), my lap 2 was faster than the 2nd-4th place finishers ... which means I was catching up to them. If the race had been a 100 miler, like Leadville, rather than a 50, then I might have caught them and finished even better than 5th place. Lastly, (3): I dropped myself to fifth place in the first lap and never recovered. Part of the reason is that I gassed myself somewhat on the first Boreas climb. However, that also gave me a lot of confidence because I knew I was much stronger than last year and that inspired me all day. But reasons aside, these lap times clearly show that if I could shave 2 minutes off my first lap ... I'm nudging up against the podium. That's certainly an attainable goal ... and something to keep in mind for both this race season and next. When we make plans those plans have a habit of arriving. That's been the case for the '40 in the Fort' and the Firecracker 50. And now in just 6 days, I'll be lining up to attempt the Silver Rush 50 for the 2nd time in my life. Honestly, I wasn't sure I was going to survive the first two races ... and here I am feeling good, ready to recover and then race in the Silver Rush. I couldn't ask for more ... but that doesn't mean I won't hope to continue to improve ... my best finish to date in the Silver Rush? ... and then even better in the ultimate Leadville Trail 100? We will know very soon! Thanks for dropping in ... |
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