|   24 Hours of Adrenalin: Mission Accomplished (long)... | Fat-tire
Apr 7, 2003 6:09 PM | | A little more than 30 hours crossing the finish line for the last time at the 2nd Annual 24 Hours of Adrenalin race in Phoenix, I'm just realizing that Team Charity Case accomplished its Mission. No, it was not to win, nor was it to circle the course 26 times, or to turn in sub 50 minute laps. No, our Mission was to have fun and to leave with a smile on our faces (as well as leave a little bit of ourselves out on the course). And each one of us did.
Having participated in a 24 Hours of Adrenaline race last year in California (but having to miss the last year's Arizona race), I knew what to expect. A bunch of wacky, smiling Canadians, running around in 24 Hour of Adrenalin gear, point us to camp spots, asking if the race was going well, asking if we were having fun, yada, yada, yada. That was a given. What I did not expect was the calming anticipation from all the other racers. Maybe it's because this is the only 24 hour race I've done in my backyard (I ride McDowell's maybe once a month), or that all of my teammates decided to come out Saturday. ("You're ruining the 24 hour karma." I thought. "You *must* camp out Friday night to get the full 24 hour racing effect."). But my experience in the past was one of chaos. Racers running around looking for that perfect camp site. Trying to get a lap in before heading into town for dinner. What I discovered on Friday was a quite calm. The racers who were already there weren't nervous, or anxious, or antsy. No, they were ready. Each one I talked to had their own Missions: Do 18 laps. Place in the top 5. Be able to walk at the end of the race. Nobody cared which camp spot they got, or what kind of SWAG was going to be given away. Everybody had a Mission to accomplish.
Friday started with me being the last and first to arrive at our campsite (the last in that everybody else put up their tents and canopies, positioned workstands, and even strategically placed a couch to "hold our space"; but the first to arrive in that everybody had left after setting up to catch one last night's sleep in their own bed before race time, leaving me there to stand watch over Fort Charity Case). As I went through the motions--putting up my tent, canopies, positioning my workstand--I got those "18 hours before race time" jitters. I started to realize how little time was left, and how could my teammates leave me here alone. I looked around, and the chaos I was used to was eerily absent. The place was almost like a ghost town, and I was a bit nervous myself about staying at our campsite as the lone member of Team Charity Case. (Actually, there were 6 campsites--saved for friends, and friends of friends, and so on and so on--that were all sharing this one precious plot of land I called "home" for two+ days.) Thankfully, I calm my nerves for an hour by doing a practice lap (funny how riding can make you forget everything) before my support--in the form of my girlfriend/den mother and my pooch, Pepper--met me for dinner, and stayed with me that night. However, those jitters returned with me through dinner, and well past midnight, until I finally was able to shut my eyes and get some sleep.
Saturday came before I knew it, in the form of howling coyotes and a dog not used to sleeping in a tent (that would be Pepper), especially while coyotes lurked just what seemed yards away. As the sun crept up, I glanced at my watch and noticed it was barely 6. Those "18 hours to race time" jitters I felt the night before quickly turned into "I have 6 hours to kill, what will I do" relaxation. There was no turning back now. If I wasn't prepared by now, I never would be. I arose with the speed of a desert tortoise. My plan: grab a cold bagel, boil some water, and make some coffee. Thankfully my plans changed, as our neighbor to the left proved to be more prepared--and more friendly--than myself. With one pot brewed, and another already going, my morning was made when he asked if I wanted a some coffee. Not being a morning person, I accepted, trying to barter with a cold, stale bagel and some CheezIts (realizing the answer would be "No thanks" when I noticed the pan of scrambled eggs and sausage).
Morning quickly crept into late morning. By 10:30, all of Team Charity Case except for one (unfortunately, the most important one: the runner) made it to the park. (For those not familiar with McDowell Mountain Regional Park, it is one of a handful one areas dedicated specifically to mountain bikers. It's where the old Cactus Cup 3-day stage race was held.) Two of my racers had never done a 24 hour race before, so the questions started mounting. "What if I get a flat?" "What should I do if somebody wants to pass me?" "Where are the bathrooms?" I fired off answers as fast as the questions were asked, "Change it. Mechanical failures are all part of racing, and are factored into the lap time. However, if you have an non-repairable mechanical failure, tell a racer to let us know, and we can scrub your lap." "They will yell, On your left' or On your right.' Just make sure you give them enough room to pass, and don't get off your bike. It's their responsibility to pass at a safe section, not your responsibility to stop riding. You're racing too, even if they are faster than you." "Bathrooms? See that tree? TP is in the box under the table. Shy? Bathrooms are aaaaalllllll they way down there." With what I had hoped was the last question asked, I glanced down at my watch: 11:30. "Where the heck is Wallace? He's supposed to do the first lap," I thought to myself, as I subconsciously began getting my bike ready, just in case Wallace flaked. Just as I was forcing that last blast of air into my rear tire, he pulled up.already sweating. "I couldn't find you guys, he said, after spending the last 10 minutes running around looking for us. "There are way more people here this year than last." (From what I was told, there were twice as many racers this year as there was last.) Wallace geared up, and sprinted to the start line.
This being my girlfriends first exposure to mountain bike racing, she was overly curious, and started walking the grounds. She came back with stories from other race participants. Like the 51 year old soloist, John, and his wife, who refurbished an old AirStream, liked her wine, and who on a trip with her husband realized he loaded a road bike she never knew he purchased (it sounded like me and Autumn, 20 years from now); or the campground with the palm fronds and surfboards. I could tell she had the bug, and in fact was already talked into joining an all girls team for next year's race. Nonetheless, as she and I walked to the starting line, I think both of us started getting nervous. The race was five minutes out, and it seemed like forever.
Thankfully, it wasn't it because before I new it, Wallace and the other "suckers" (read: those who got talked into doing the LeMans start) sprinted around the parking lot. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on who you talked to, the sprint turned into a lollygag as I think (or at least hope) that most racers realized that not only did they have to run the huge distance of a quarter mile (maybe)--which to a mountain biker is the equivalent of a marathon.or maybe two--but then they had to jump on their bikes and race--not ride, but race--10+ miles. I'm pretty sure Wallace realized this a hundred yards into the run, as he came in towards the back (to my delight actually, as I did not want him to run himself out of the race).
As he mounted his bike, I looked at my watch. "Okay, one hour until my lap." I went back, changed, lubed the chain, and waited.and waited, and waited, and waited. No, Wallace was not running late, my body was running fast. That one hour seemed like one week. My stomach was upset. I had cotton mouth. "Why does my body do this every race?" I thought. About 30 minutes into the race, I told everybody, "See ya." Everybody collectively looked at their watches, and I could read their minds, "Wallace is not due back for another 30 minutes." I just couldn't wait. One of the nice additions to this race was the trainers. Racers were allowed to warm up on one of the numerous trainers brought to the race to demo. I took advantage of this--after first stopping by the Clif Bar tent to grad a gel--and spun.
When Wallace crossed the finish line at exactly 1 o'clock, I was fresh. I hoped on the bike, and took off. As a typical "put it in the middle ring and leave it there" rider, I knew if I wanted to beat my goal of 55 minutes per daytime lap, I needed to throw it into my large ring, so I did. About a quarter mile into the race, I was short of breath, and a little dizzy. Instead of backing it down as I typically do when I get this winded, I fought through it, letting my heart rate and breathing catch up to my bike. And I left it in the big ring.and flew through the course. Topping out at over 20 mph about two miles out, I barely had time to notice the 3 foot long rattler meandering off the course. Of course, I noticed just as it coiled and I heard the rattle. Thankfully, my bike was faster than its bite. Boy, I hope that was not a sign. Thankfully, it wasn't. The ride was more exhilarating than it was fun. I flew down the hills as fast as I could, peddled on the flats as hard as I could, and lumbered up the hills as only a Clydesdale could. As I climbed the last climb, and heard the PA, I realized I was almost home. Keeping my eyes off the computer, I had no idea what kind of time I did. As I crossed the finish line, I had to peek: 52:17. I was stoked and bummed at the same time. If only I had run instead of walked after the dismount area, I might have had a 51 minute lap. But I still beat my estimation by 3 minutes.
As any 24 hour racers knows, the first and last laps are always the most memorable, unless of course you crash, have a mechanical, or are attacked by the gremlins that have a tendency to come out during your 3 a.m. lap. (For me this year, thankfully, none of this happened--saved for one minor bail that barely broke the skin, and a five minute delay helping a fellow rider with a flat.) And those two laps are only 2 of the 24 hours. So, what memories does one take from them from the other 22 hours? Well, for me, it was seeing the faces of our newbies after their first laps. Both had smiles wider than the Grand Canyon, and sweat dripping off their face wetter than the Colorado. And I could tell they were hooked. They got back to camp, and after I demanded they change and eat, neither could stop talking about how much fun they had. I also remember meeting them after their second lap, and noticing the smiles were a bit less wide, and the sweat was a bit more wet. But they still were having fun. And of course, I remember hearing about their last laps (sticking to rule No. 1 of 24 hour races--get sleep--there was no way I was meeting them after their third lap), and how miserable and tired they were. "But you're having fun, aren't you?" I asked. "Oh, heck ya, a blast," each said. And then I knew it: They were hooked.
Judgement day came at 9:30 a.m. on Sunday, as we realized we may be able to get 3 more laps in before the 1 p.m. cut off time. Wallace started his 5th lap at 9:50, and I planned to start my 5th lap at around 10:45, which would leave us 1:15 to do lap 23. Ron, who was scheduled to go after me, was spent and declined. Both the newbies had planned all along to do 4 laps, and left it all on the course, as did Wallace, which was evident as he crossed the finish line just before 11. I had a dilemma: I wanted to turn in my fastest time; but I also told myself if I saved my legs, I could do a 6th lap. Unfortunately, my body did not know how to interpret this. My mind said go all out, and I did, keeping pace with my first lap times. With a little more than two miles to go before crossing the finish line--and my legs still seemingly fresh and my senses still intact--I realized a sub 50 lap was possible (which would give me even more time to complete a 6th lap, number 23 for Charity Case). As I cleared all the technical stuff, and only had a couple small hills to climb, I knew I was home free. And then out of nowhere, a football sized rock jumped in front of my bike, throwing me over the handlebars. Not only was my dreams of doing a sub-50 minute lap dashed, but the soreness in my knee told me I was done. I was able to get back on the bike, and I did finish the lap in a respectable 55 minutes, but the fall was the first time my body--other than my feet after falling into that gosh darn groove on the last, short hill--touched the course.
If there was one thing I got out of this weekend's race, it was the satisfaction I got from showing those who have only heard about how fun 24 Hour of Adrenalin races just how much fun doing a 24 Hours of Adrenalin race is. And when each of them tells their friends how much fun they had, I hope they answer "Mission accomplished" when asked how they did.
Jeff K
Team Charity Case #2 (222) |
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