Years ago, I can’t remember when exactly, but it’s been a good long while, I got this bug to get me a belt buckle. Not just any old buckle but a finishers buckle from either the Western States 100 mile trail run or the Leadville 100 Trail mountain bike race. Chronic leg injuries put the Western States out of reach, so I set my sights on Leadville.
Though it’s possible to qualify for the Leadville Trail 100
MTB the vast majority of entrants arrive at the starting line via an open
lottery. Based on what I read on the
internets I figured that it would take me at least three tries at the lottery
until my number came up, so the email that arrived last February notifying me
that I had been accepted into the race came as a bit of a surprise. Beginner’s luck I guess. My buddy Jason, who had also applied to the
lottery, received a “sorry try again next year” email. I was in.
Be careful what you wish for…
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| 35 degrees at the start |
I’ve spent the last three years bike racing, but I come from
an endurance background, so I knew how to train for a long event, and, more
importantly, I knew how to develop a race day nutrition and hydration plan. I’ll put more on this in another post.
My son, Sam, and I arrived in Leadville on Thursday
afternoon after driving ten hours from Park City where we’d spent three days
acclimatizing to the higher altitude.
During a training ride on my first day in Park City my heart rate had
skyrocketed 30 BPM over my normal maximum to 200 BPM. Three days later I was back down to fairly
normal numbers – an indication that my body was indeed acclimatizing to the
lower air pressure. Leadville is four
thousand feet above Park City, but every little bit counts; we sea level folks
can only do what we can do.
My wife Melony flew into Denver on Friday and shuttled up to
Copper Mountain where Sam and I had already gear exploded all over our condo.
On Saturday – race day – morning I was up at three and had
eaten my breakfast of oatmeal and two poached eggs by three thirty. The drive from Copper to Leadville takes
about twenty five minutes and as we climbed through the darkness the
thermometer in the car kept dropping; the little green lights in the Subaru
read thirty five when we parked. I opted
for a long sleeve jersey over a synthetic t-shirt, two pairs of padded shorts,
knee warmers and dual socks (one wool, the other a thin racing sock).
The race is seeded: pros up front, qualifiers next, multiple
finishers after them, VIP types next, and finally, all the way in the back, is
the White Corral, which is reserved for first time lottery winners. I was a whitey.
Unlike in years past, when you could arrive early and simply
throw down your bike to reserve your place in the lineup, this year all riders
had to stay with their bikes and no non-riders were allowed in the corral. I arrived at five forty five – forty five
minutes before the start – and ended up about twelve hundred riders back from
the front line pros.
Somewhere in the neighborhood of seventeen hundred people
lined up for the race. The morning dawned cold and clear, somewhere in the high
thirties. At six thirty Ken blew off the
shotgun – which surprisingly I didn’t hear – and we were off. The first three miles are downhill and many
folks took off like absolute maniacs.
Riding in a pack of mountain bikers is a bit disconcerting as many lack
the predictability of road racers, and so I was extremely conservative, keeping
a good space cushion and letting the wingnuts fly by. The last thing I wanted was to go down and be
out of the race before even reaching the Leadville city limits.
I had been warned regarding what was about to happen, but
still I wasn’t prepared. After making
the right hand turn onto gravel the pack immediately slowed down to a little
bit slower than walking pace. It was a
traffic jam and the pace was now determined by the slowest forward rider. On the one hand this was a good thing as it
kept my pace in check and allowed me to ease into a long day in the
saddle. On the other hand, starting in
the back probably adds thirty to sixty minutes to your finish time – unless you
are able to really blast to the front during the initial three mile sprint.
Mountaineering has taught me that at high altitude it’s
crucial to maintain an even keel, both mentally and physically, and since I
wasn’t trying to win the race or go sub nine hours I simply geared down and
went with the flow.
There were very few gapers.
With the exception of two guys who seemed to have no clue as to what
they were getting themselves into, everyone that I saw at the race was fit,
trim and properly equipped, in short the vast vast majority of racers that I
saw were serious and seriously ready.
After a steady, albeit slow, climb over St. Kievens, we hit
a wild and fast paved descent to Turquoise Lake. It was hard to enjoy the downhill as I knew
that later in the day I’d be climbing back up this thing. Next it was up to Sugarloaf Pass – I found
this portion fairly quick and easy, just a steady effort. At the Pass we hit the rutty, rough and sweet
two and a half mile Powerline descent.
We were now more than two hours into the race and the pack was spreading
out. I got in with some good riders and
I followed their line through the ruts and over the bumps. It was a good fast descent ideally suited for
my Santa Cruz Tallboy.
Once down the Powerline we hit pavement, and after a couple
of failed attempts I got in with a nice smooth pace line. A big dude with an Ironman tat on his calf
was pulling half a dozen riders and I figured if he wanted to pull I wanted to
draft. Some folks say that there is a
lot of pavement in Leadville; well I don’t know about that, it didn’t seem like
all that much to me.
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| Sam getting ready for a long day at Aid 1/4 |
There was a really sweet twisting single track descent just
prior to the first aid station. I was
now able to start riding at my own pace and I began to speed up as I was eager
to see Sam who was crewing Aid 1/Aid 4.
As I approached the commotion and color of Aid 1 I saw that Sam had
taken up residence in the first position.
It’s so nice to have support out there on the course, it would have been
an entirely different race had I gone unsupported. Different in a bad way.
Sam was Johnny on the Spot and filled my water bottle with
Skratch, topped off my Camelback with water and handed me food for the Bento
Box. I pulled off my knee warmers and Hidy
ho I was off.
The route between Aid 1 and Aid 2 outbound is mostly flat or
downhill on fairly well-groomed terrain, and I tried to balance throwing the
hammer down with holding back in prep for the Columbine Mine climb. I was paranoid about the four hour cutoff –
always worried about that possible mechanical – so I rode maybe a little harder
than I should have.
I came through the forty mile checkpoint (you have to be
there in four hours) with plenty of time to spare. Aid 2 (Twin Lakes) was jammed with crews and
spectators, it looked like the Alp d’Huez, and I scanned the crowd for
Melony. She spotted me first – my all
red helmet was fairly distinctive – and jumped out to stop me. As it was cool I wasn’t taking on too much
liquid and so all she had to do was top off my Skratch bottle while I popped a
few Salt Stick capsules. Okay here comes
the big Kahuna – the ten mile ascent to the Columbine Mine.
I pulled out of Aid 2 and was nearly run down by the dude on
the big KTM who was leading out the three race leaders. Talk about flying – the lead rider, I think
it was Todd Wells, popped a big rock and caught about six feet of air as he
passed by.
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| At Aid 2 - 40 miles in |
Right out of Aid 2 the climb is steep, and so I geared down
and got ready for the big push. Much to
my surprise the grade went to horizontal for about a mile and then it was up up
up. The lower two thirds of the climb is
on a moderate grade drivable road, and it was just a matter of finding that
right gear and turning the pedals. I
wasn’t too obsessed about my heart rate but I did try to keep it under 140 BPM
as I didn’t want to gas out up high.
Now the downhill guys – and a few gals – were really coming
by. This is the only place on the course
where there is two way traffic. I wonder
if there were any face to face crashes as some of the downhill people were
really taking risks and swinging way wide into the uphill zone. It really didn’t make a lot of sense to be a
mad bomber on the downhills: Melony did a cool data reduction on the past
year’s results and the difference between the fastest riders and the middle of
the road guys on the Columbine descent was only about seven or eight minutes.
The Columbine climb certainly lived up to its reputation as
a soul crusher. I’m sure it made many of
those with a religious bent question the existence of a merciful God. The real killer was the final two miles,
which is above treeline. The road ends
about three miles shy of the summit where the route becomes a rocky jeep trail
barely wide enough for the now nearly constant two way traffic. After about a mile of pedaling I hit the long
line of walkers. You simply have to walk
at this point as there isn’t room to get around the tire to tire line of folks
pushing their bikes. Walking here was
actually a good thing as it kept me from blowing up in the high altitude. Finally the trail eased up a bit and I was
able to get on the bike and ride into the fifty mile aid station, where I stopped
long enough to eat a piece of watermelon and inhale a bit of ramen. All of my fretting about getting caught up high
in an afternoon thunderstorm turned out to be wasted energy as the sky was
nearly clear and the temperatures cool but not cold.
The descent was awesome.
I had vowed to take it easy but the Tallboy was eating up the bumps and
I opened it up a little more than planned.
Soon I was back into the Twin Lakes Aid Station (Aid 3) where I
replenished my Skratch supply, took a few salt tablets, two Alieve (for a
moderate altitude-induced headache) a couple drinks of cold coke and was off to
see Sam at Aid 4. Just as I was getting
up to speed and riding one-handed as I shoved a rice ball into my mouth a
three-year old girl wandered into my path; I threw on the front brake and
nearly went over the handlebars. No harm
no foul but that sent my heart rate through the roof.
Now I realized why I’d made such good time from Aid 1 to Aid
2 as it was mostly downhill. Now I was
making the reverse trip up the gradual, but continual, slope. I was feeling good and was starting to pass
riders who were showing signs of bonking. I wasn’t eating or drinking as much as planned,
but I seemed to have plenty of energy and no cramps; basically I was happy to
be where I was doing what I was doing. That
Tallboy is a great bike, I had the suspension locked out for most of the ride
between Aid 3 and Aid 4 and it just ate up the trail.
A long, straight, rutted, ancient road lead into Aid 4 where
Sam was patiently waiting for me. I
still had plenty of food and water so I just filled my Skratch bottle, drank a
bit of Coke, ate half a Snickers and took off.
Once again I have to say how wonderful it is to see a friendly face,
even better a family face, out there on the course. Sam is fifteen and certainly I hope that he
remembers his old man beating the shit out of himself out there in the Colorado
mountains in search of a silver belt buckle.
Melony had parked at the start of the road section and
snapped a few photos as I came by. Out
on the road the cross winds were vicious and I joined up with two other guys in
an effort to put together a paceline.
Nothing doing. We’d reel guys in,
I’d say “get on the back” but invariably they’d just drop off. We three worked the best that we could, but
had we gotten together a functioning paceline we could have all knocked five to
ten minutes off of our times. Many of
the riders were now visibly hurting, thankfully I was feeling all right.
The lower portion of the Powerline – the first quarter mile
or so – is just too steep and rutted to ride.
I guess Lance Armstrong rode it – EPO does wonders I guess – but not
me. Even pushing a bike up that hill is
exhausting, but by putting one foot in front of the other I managed to crest
the steep stuff and jump back on the Tallboy.
I still had another two and a half miles of steep rutted climbing in
front of me. I started out with a group
of four and we wove our way through the walkers grinding low gears and keeping
weight on the back tire. I figured I’d
go until my legs gave out, but every time I asked for more my legs just kept
pushing the pedals. Up up we went. Two of the original four dropped off and finally
it was just me and a tall guy with a mustache, that dude could spin and I just
kept on his wheel. Honestly we weren’t
going a whole lot faster than the walkers, but I’d come to ride so that’s what I
did. After three false summits I hit
Sugarloaf Pass and started a long descent into a valley. It was hard to enjoy the descent as I knew
that I still had to climb back out.
The final climb follows a steep paved road, and is maybe
four or five miles long. My stomach was
feeling a bit queasy and I figured that I’d go only with water from here on out
– finish on fumes. Once again I figured
I’d simply push my legs as far as they would go and then deal with the misery
when they popped, but there was no popping, I simply rode up the hill at a
steady pace picking of riders one by one.
Finally I made it to the Carter’s Summit mini aid station, a
lot of riders were gathered around the goodie table, but I just rode on past,
my Garmin was reading 90 miles and knew that a nice descent took me back into
Leadville.
Now here I have to say that I’d been warned that the Leadville
100 is really the Leadville 104, but I couldn’t help counting down those final
ten miles to one hundred. When the
odometer clicked into triple digits I was feeling fine, but unfortunately Leadville
was nowhere in sight. Worse yet the
trail was starting up a steep incline.
The mind is a powerful thing and I had set my mind to one hundred miles,
not one hundred and one not one hundred and four, but one hundred. I was starting to fade.
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| At the finish line |
Now a lot of people would say “one hundred, one hundred and
four what’s the difference,” well I’m here to say that there is a big
difference, especially when those last four are uphill and you’re down to five
or six miles an hour. At one hundred and
three there was still no sign of town. I
turned to a rider next to me and said “this is just plain cruel.” He nodded.
Finally we hit the middle school which marks the beginning of the final
climb to the finish. At the crest of the
hill I claimed my position with the nearby riders: I wasn’t going to go zooming
past the guys in front, but neither was I going to allow someone to do some
kind of finish line sprint on me either. When we hit the red carpet I backed
off the tatted up guy in front of me so that he could get a solo finish line
photo – I wish that the guy behind me would have done the same.
I finished in under eleven hours, which was my goal. Those final four miles were tough, but I’d
never really cramped or pooped out, I simply kept turning those pedals until I
hit the red carpet. Leadville reminds me
of that old adage of how do you eat an elephant - one bite at a time. This is how I approached the race; I took
care of the challenge that was in front of me, I didn’t think about the miles
and the climbs ahead, I simply turned the pedals until I reached the top.
Leadville was a well-organized race that took me through
some awesome landscapes, but the best thing about the experience was the other
riders. Everyone I encountered was cool,
supportive and encouraging. Don’t get me
wrong everyone was out there racing, they were fit, well-prepared and ready to
go, but they also seemed to recognize that they were part of something big,
something bigger than a mere mountain bike race, and even though oftentimes I was
riding by myself I never felt alone.
