2010 Tahoe-Sierra 100

This is a post I wrote on the http://www.sheilamoonracing.com web site on September 13, 2010. That site is now gone, so I rescued it using http://archive.org, and I'm reposting it here.

This is how the Tahoe-Sierra 100 web site describes it:

The Tahoe Sierra 100 is one of the most challenging ultra mountain bike races in North America, a true 100 mile course, not a lap course. Due to the remoteness, this race differs substantially from other ultra mountain bike races. Racing on the rugged roads and trails used by the gold and silver miners of the 1850’s, now accessible only to hikers, bikers, horses and 4Wheel drive vehicles. Adequate mental and physical preparation are of the utmost importance, for the mountains, although beautiful are relentless in their challenge and unforgiving to the ill-prepared.

I was not well-prepared.

All day I listened to my iPod in one ear, and these lyrics from a Tom Waits song struck me as being appropriate for the day, and for me:

The hawk had his whole family out there in the wind
And he got a message for you to beware
Kicking your ass, in a cold-blooded fashion
And dishing out more than a good man can bear

2010 is a recovery year for me. I am riding for pleasure. I haven’t done an interval since 2009. My only real racing goal for this year has been the Tahoe-Sierra 100. Oh and to beat Curtis. I have been riding a bunch, but also drinking beer and eating whatever I like. Life is pretty good.

I did build up a pretty bitchen bike for racing, this season, so I’ll talk about that. It’s way more impressive than I am! It’s a Niner AIR 9, purchased from our sponsor Brian Bruckner of Big Swingin’ Cycles. Thanks Brian. I also got the Edge Composites (now Enve Composites) XC rims from him. It’s running SRAM XX, which is great for racing and a 2×10 drivetrain. I built the wheels with 32 DT Aerolite spokes and DT 240S hubs, utilizing the “Oversize” front hub that can swap “adapters” (end caps) such that it works with 9mm quick-release, 15mm thru-axle, 20mm thru-axle and even Specialized’s wacky 24mm (?) thru-axle. Most of my bikes are 20mm fronts, but the XX Reba is 9mm, so this is handy. This size Large hard tail weighs 22.7lbs with pedals, and it is strong enough for my large body and aggressive style. I attribute a lot of that to the scandium frame and the carbon rims. The rims are way too expensive, but there’s no way I could ride the equivalent-weight aluminum rims without destroying them quickly.

For the race I swapped out the slippery Racing Ralph 29×2.25 Snakeskin tires for a WTB Prowler front and Nanoraptor rear, both set up tubeless. I swapped them the Tuesday before the race and they mounted up easy-peasy. I happily set out for a test ride in my local park; with a co2 can but without my pump. Thirty four minutes in, I rolled a small rocky drop and my front tire un-seated and deflated completely, getting all kinds of dirt, wood chips and other crap in the bead in the six feet it took me to stop. In true dumbass fashion, I tried cleaning the bead and reseating the tire with my co2 can, instead of putting a tube in. It was a long walk home, but luckily Lauren met me part way. I thoroughly cleaned the tire and rim that night, re-mounted it, but I raced dfL the next night on my cross bike, so the Thursday before the race was my next chance to try the tires. With trepidation, I set out on another local loop with tire punishment in mind. I hit all the nasty drop-offs and ledges and stairs that I could, as fast as I dared, with 28psi front and 29psi rear. Not a burp. What a relief! Now I could trust my tires. The front stuck nicely in corners too, where the Racing Ralph never inspired that confidence.

If only I was so prepared. I think I weigh 215lbs, and I am definitely built more for pleasure than for speed. Oh well, might as well enjoy this ride.

Friday I got a later start than I wanted, hit awful traffic on the way out of the Bay Area, and was running late for the 8PM close of rider registration, the night before the race. There was to be no race-day registration and a 6:30AM start. I called Carrie, who was ahead of me in traffic, and she let the race staff know I was coming late. Thank you, Carrie! I got to the race registration / start at Royal Gorge at 8:30PM, a half hour late. Jimmy and his staff were still there, but registration was closed. I was able to get my number and hand in my waivers. Whew! Carrie got me a serving of pasta from a closing restaurant at Donner Lake too, that saved me. Thank you again, Carrie.

I stayed at the Rainbow Lodge, which is rustic. No bathrooms in the rooms, the shower is for people 5’5″ or shorter, tiny beds and doorways, but hey, it’s close by and they offered a discount. I didn’t sleep much that night, maybe a couple hours. I woke up at 3:30 and tried to go back to sleep, finally got up at 4:45, filled some water bottles and a very old, nasty hydration pack (Should have cleaned it, or thrown it away before I left home!) and drove to Ice Lakes Lodge for the free breakfast. Met Carrie there, forced some food down my throat, was the last one to leave the Lodge, one of the last cars to park at Royal Gorge and almost missed the start! I was so unprepared. My bike was dirty, I forgot a master link, spare derailleur hanger, had two multi-tools when I needed one, but I did one thing right; I turned on a very full iPod, pressed play and put it in my pack, with ear buds dangling from my helmet straps. I listened to music – and one hour-long recording of KQED’s Forum on the topic of Billy Savage’s Klunkerz documentary, featuring Joe Breeze, Wende Cragg, Charlie Kelly and Gary Fisher – all day, one earbud in my ear. That was nice.

OK, I’m using too many words and putting off telling the story of the race. The race was not fun, for me. It was brutal. On the second really long climb, as men, women, children, babies, victims of polio and chihuahuas passed me, I realized I was in over my head. Why didn’t I register for clydesdales? Who was I kidding? Why was I here? People were talking to me, suggesting I appreciate the beautiful view (It was pretty, early golden sunlight hitting beautiful Sierra mountains, clear air filling my lungs…) but I was just plain suffering. This was one of those days where I was the nail.

I didn’t know the trails at all. I can’t recount them by name, so I’ll just tell you that I suffered for a long time on rocky double-tracks and service roads, riding really slowly on the uphills. I got to Redstar Ridge, a section of ridge-top singletrack that Jimmy Northey and his crew had recently rehabilitated, and finally started enjoying myself. This was more my style; technical Sierra singletrack. I really enjoyed it. There followed another tough double-track & dirt road section, including a long section of dirt road marked with “Western States Trail” signs. (I thought the WS was all singletrack, I guess not.) At mile 44 I saw a really cool, three-story elevated platform. It wasn’t a building, closer to a tree fort without the tree. It was on a ridgeline. I wonder whose it was, why it was built? Would have liked to have stopped and checked it out. I rode with a few people; Jason, John, found my new friend Chris Rose a couple times too. We’d recently done a huge Tahoe Rim Trail ride together. I got to an aid station where people were talking about a really nice, 6-mile loop of singletrack to come. I saw Carrie at this aid station, at about 6 hours in. She was just finishing the singletrack loop, which means she was almost an hour ahead of me! I was happy for Carrie, but a little sad for me. This realization confirmed that I was riding as slow as I was feeling. But the singletrack was a little burst of happiness. It reminded me of something from Annadel or Tamarancho. I ripped it. My earbud had Ben Folds’ “Rocking the Suburbs”, one of my favorite songs, and I was whistling and singing along with it as I passed a couple slower riders. Finally, my terrain! It was over too soon, then we were grinding along a gently-climbing service road again, back to the same aid station. This is where I really felt the hammer. I was the nail. I was hurting. I think it was 60 miles in. I was at about 7000′ climbed so far, according to the gps, and Jimmy had said 14000′ total, which meant that in the final third of the race the second half of climbing would be served. And someone told me the next climb right from the aid station was brutal.

It was.

I crawled up this section, riding most of it but very, very slowly. I was just grinding my low gear (26-36) up endless, double-track climbs in thick dust / powdered loam. More people passed me. One was a woman I’d passed on the last singletrack session. As she passed me, she said “You’re quiet now.” I felt a wave of malice rise in me to match hers, but I was too tired or civilized to say anything. It felt like another nail.

After a long series of stair-step climbs, I returned to an earlier aid station, the Mad Cat station. The people here were fantastic, really a sunbeam of human kindness. I recognized some of them from the NorCal High School races; moms and dads of racers. They oiled and tuned my bike, filled my hydration pack, fed me delicious snacks, one of them even cleaned my glasses for me. The first time through I’d still been thinking about brevity, racing time, pace. This second time through I wasn’t really thinking about anything, staggering around like a zombie and suggesting the potato-and-bacon tacos they were serving to every newly-arrived racer. My friend Chris caught me again, and we both agreed we were cooked, and that we’d ride together.

We mostly did, for the rest of the race. Both of us were going as fast as we could, but I think we rode together like two tired boxers, leaning on each other, hugging more than punching so that they don’t fall down. He was on his full-suspension 29er Turner Sultan (I was envious; I have the same bike and it would have been perfect for this race in some ways.) and he would pull away on the downhills. My climbing angel would get me up the hills faster. I stopped using the brakes much at all on the descents, so that I could keep up with him. We both felt we were a lock for mid-pack or lower in the 40-49 standings, yet neither would let the other go. There is no fiercer competition – for me at least – than riding punch-drunk tired with a friend in a race. One of us would beat the other. I am simply not sufficiently generous of spirit to do the handshake-across-the-line finish! I also wanted it to be over. We reached the aid station where my friend Steve was working. I think his Presbyterian church was sponsoring it, and they’d done another station right before Redstar Ridge. I was a zombie. Steve jokingly offered me a PBR, and it sounded SO GOOD, but I knew it would only cement me into the grave I was digging for myself. Images of the raising of the Kursk filled my mind. I felt like that heavy, dead submarine, stuck deep in the mud of the Barents seabed. (“The chemical explosion detonated with the force of 100-250 kg of TNT and registered 2.2 on the Richter scale.”) I pulled out a pack of Riley’s beef jerky that I’d been carrying for what… 70 miles… from my back pocket, and shared it with the people there. It tasted good, even though it felt like 10 minutes to chew a piece. It had special mojo too; I’d bought it at the grocery in Downieville, the weekend before. Soda tasted so good. I ingested maybe my 9th and 10th electrolyte pills of the day, and Chris and I rode off.

More tired slogging ensued. We rolled up and down steep hills. I looked at my total gain and calculated how much more climbing remained. According to my projections, maybe 5000′ more over 20 miles? Curseword. We did some big descents. Normally big descents make me happy, but these just inspired dread; we’d have to reclaim all that elevation. I blew past the next checkpoint at 10 miles to go. To be frank, Chris was behind me, and I wanted to beat him. Sorry, Chris. I also really wanted to be done. I fantasized about how much more suffering slow people like me endured – hours extra – than the faster people. I wallowed in self-pity, but I was also growing angry. I get this way at the end of really big rides and races, I develop a weird fury; “This better end soon, god damn  it!” I was pissed off at rocky double-track, at endless climbs, at being a slow, fat bastard. Just mad. I apologize, Chris, but that’s where it was coming from.

We’d been warned about the last 10 miles being constantly uphill. Good; a place to spend my anger. I’d pedal as hard as I could on that final climb. Four thousand more feet to climb over ten miles? Bring it! I needed something to punch against. But we’d hit these rises, then drop! What the hell, descending? Where is this constant ramp? I was still hitting descents with 5 miles to go, at mile 88. Chris was still within hailing distance. I wanted to end it. I wanted to beat Chris. And looking at my time, I realized I might also beat 11 hours. I felt sure I was on 12 – or even 13 – hour pace, earlier in the race. With 5 miles to go I think I was at 10:30 or so, and I thought I might be able to squeak in by 11:00. With duplicity in my heart, I told Chris I was going to just go, try to beat 11:00, try to burn my anger until it was gone. We said goodbyes and I just pinned it. I caught another guy, John, who I’d ridden with earlier in the race, and I explained that I was trying to beat 11:00. He looked at his computer and told me it was unlikely. I agreed, but continued on. I truly thought about beating him, too. Why? I don’t know. I don’t even think he was in my category. (He wasn’t.) Anger and desperation fueled my pedal strokes. I was riding harder than I had since the first three hours of the race. Finally.

My gps’ timer clicked over 11:00 and I was still in some no-mans-land of rocky service road. The pink course marker ribbons were not up on this section, but it was the same way we’d gone out, and looking at the fresh tire tracks on the road in front of me, the tread pattern chevrons all pointed back at me, meaning I was going in the right direction. So I soldiered on. Finally I saw a pink ribbon and a sign directing me to turn left. I descended slightly to a dry wash (ah! brief respite from climbing!) then immediately after the wash was a moon-dust hike-a-bike I recognized from the morning; we’d all careened down it, sliding this way and that. As I began climbing it I heard John behind me. Shit, he was still behind me! “I’m going to kick Jim Northey in the nuts, when I finish.”, he said. I grunted assent, but really all I thought about was John catching me. I took big steps up the slope, then got on as soon as the pitch slackened to “steep”, then pedaled as hard as I could. I knew the finish was near, problem is, I was wrong. For the next two miles of bumpy, rolling double-track I kept thinking, “What is it going to take to finish this damn race?” Around every corner I was sure I’d see a finish line, the finish line, some merciful end.

Yeah, I was unprepared for this race.

It finally came. Up a long, grassy slope I cold see the Royal Gorge buildings in the slanting late-afternoon sunlight. There was the finish arch. I could hear Jim Northey’s voice over the amplified PA system, booming and echoing across this tilted meadow. “Here comes Morgan Fletcher. He is a happy man right now.” Jim, how wrong you were. I was full of murder, but thankfully it quickly passed as I crossed the line. John didn’t finish long after me. Carrie; looking clean, rested, happy and wearing civvies, offered me a beer. I felt like a caught fish on land, one second before the blow to the skull. I declined the beer with a gasp, painfully jacknifed my leg over the top tube and tried to regain my humanity. Carrie, I appreciate it now, but at the time I was sub-human.

I ate a little burger supplied by the race staff, drank a little beer, ate some minestrone soup. I slowly collected myself. There were lots of happy, rested racers sitting around chatting, looking way fresher than I felt. I felt like a cadaver, levered from the grave and reanimated via dark arts. I had dark, empty feelings in my soul, but as they evaporated, a sense of peace took their place. I’d finished it, I’d achieved my goal. I’d persevered, thinking of my family during the hardest parts of the race, knowing their hugs were waiting for me at home. I slowly, painfully changed, turned on the phone, called Lauren and gave her a tired summation of the day. My voice surprised me, it sounded hoarse and old.

I went back to the finish, said my goodbyes, congratulated my friends, thanked Carrie and gave Jim a pat on the shoulder as I left, and he hurried off to congratulate another finisher. I know he put a lot of work, sweat and tears into making this the hardest 100-mile race in the toughest, most beautiful terrain I know. It really kicked my ass, took everything I had to finish it. I am already thinking about how I can break 11 hours next year.

I got 9th out of 31 finishers in the 40-49 MEN category, and there were 8 DNFs. Results are here.

My GPS showed 12900′ climbing for this course, so some of my worst fears about remaining climbing late in the race were unfounded.

The bike did great. A FS bike would have been nice, but it would have to be a great climber. The Sultan could be that bike. Maybe I experiment with that next time.

I could have gotten away with two big bottles, or one small hydration pack and one bottle. The carbon Reynolds cages never let go, and the Camelbak bottles worked great. My tired old, funky Camelbak 70oz hydration pack was OK. But I was really carrying too much water. Drop bags with ready bottles would have been good. Carrie rode without a hydration pack. Then again, being able to drink with two hands on the bars was good.

Here is my Garmin Connect record for this race. One thing that was startling to me, looking at it later, was how much stopped time I had; almost an hour! Most of this was because I was punch-drunk tired, but with racing in mind, I know I could shorten this. Getting drop bags to the race organizers and using them wisely during the race would have helped a bit, so would training; knowledge for next time.