FAT55 Mountain Bike Marathon

I very nearly bailed out of the inaugural FAT55 mountain bike race in Oakridge, Oregon (aka OROR) yesterday. It was early in the race on an atypical rainy September morning and I was already struggling with both bike- and rider-induced challenges. I've always enjoyed racing but promise myself to keep it fun and not take it too seriously.

On this particular morning I was not having fun. And not just in the way that you don't have fun at mile 21 of a 26-mile marathon, but seriously not enjoying myself. The internal conversation went like this: "You know, I'm just not having fun here. And I really don't feel like riding my bike in the rain over wet roots and rocks all day." I decided I would finish out the current loop that would deposit me at the finish area mid-race. I would have had a decent workout and I would load up my stuff and go home. End of not having fun.

Then I exited a rocky, root-strewn section of trail and started a gravel road climb up to the Aubrey Mountain trail. I put on my iPod which I wisely programmed the day before with a solid playlist designed to encourage me uphill through the rain (the race-saving song turned out to be I'm Only Happy When It Rains by Garbage). Comforted by the knowledge that I was in this for the short haul, I pedaled determinedly up the relentless mile-and-a-half grade known as "The Wall." I whispered sweet nothings to my derailleur when I passed the poor bastard walking his single-speed.

I reached the junction to the Eugene-to-Crest and Aubrey Mountain trail sooner than I expected and was treated to a few sweet miles of well-structured singletrack. Now this is why I mountain bike! Winding along the side of the mountain, rolling through forest and meadows, then down, down, down. My tunes still spurring me on, I ripped down the trail and tore through the industrial park and into the midway aid station at Greenwaters Park. Somewhere along the way, I changed my mind about going home and decided to keep racing. I stayed at the aid station just long enough to switch Perpetuem bottles, refill the Cambelback, and apply fresh chamois cream. Eugene (a friend and the race organizer) yelled encouragement as I rode out of transition and across the footbridge toward Larison Creek and Larison Rock, the last two sections of the course.

Now I was really on fire, regaining lost ground from this morning as I pedaled furiously up the gentle gravel grade and settled into a steady pace on the steeper paved road. I passed several riders that I never saw again. Then I felt all alone as I made my way along the seemingly endless 8-mile gravel-road climb/traverse to the top of the Larison Creek trail. Periodically I would glimpse a brightly-colored jersey as it disappeared around the next corner and work steadily to catch up, then pass. Finally, feeling that the trail should surely be close, I began to falter both mentally and physically. I struggled to focus on the task at hand, to keep my upper body relaxed and not expend unneeded energy. When I really thought I might die, The trail appeared on my left.

The first bit was a smooth descent toward the creek, then the trail dropped and twisted furiously, combining tight switchbacks and wet roots to force me off my bike time and again. While dry roots can make for fun and interesting riding, wet roots are pure evil. They tend to snatch your wheel out from under you, slamming you hard to the ground. Weather-smoothed rocks are no better when rain-drenched. I rode cautiously and walked when I had any doubts about a successful outcome. I passed one rider and was passed by another. Then the trail smoothed out and I flew along the creek as it neared Hills Creek Reservoir, cornering through the lush forest and rolling gently up and down.

When I reached the paved road at trails end I felt confident in my position and knew I could reach the finish if I just kept moving. No need to kill myself by pushing hard. Instead of stopping to eat, I pedaled easily along the flat road and ate a small energy bar out of my mountain feed bag. Hardy volunteers pointed the way up the final, 4.5-mile climb to the Larison Rock trail which would deposit me at the finish line. It was raining steadily now and a miserable day to sit still for hours, marshaling slightly insane mountain bikers in the right direction.

I suppressed any feelings of shame about using my granny gear and engaged it to spin slowly uphill. The guy who passed me on Larison Creek was on the side of the road nursing a cramp. Another guy dawdled at the final aid station as I rode by. No stopping now. Must. Keep. Moving. Finish. Line. Near.

Cramp Guy passed me again. We agreed that there must be less than two miles to the summit. Maybe around the next bend? Or the next three or four. We kept going up. And up. If I didn't make the top in five more minutes, I would stop and stretch. Four minutes later, a rain-coated volunteer waved us into the trail for the descent. I thought I might be hallucinating.

I was so exhausted I could barely steer my bike. After a couple turns, I remembered that I had locked out both front and rear suspension for the climb. The trail was much more fun when I opened them up again. Then cold set in and shivering added to fatigue to make keeping my wheel on the trail a challenge. My glasses were wet, dirty, and steamy. I couldn't see through them, but without them things were blurry. Better to not see with glasses or not see without them? I kept them on, but slid them down my nose so I could peer over them. I told myself to just relax. I didn't have to ride fast, just keep riding.

After what is normally a super-fun, ripping-fast lark (but today was a miserable, cold, wet, slippery descent), I exited the trail for a brief stint of gravel road, then some fast, twisty trails back across the Middle Fork Willamette to the finish line. Feeling strong and anticipating hot food and warm clothes, I hammered in: 29th overall and second in my age group, good for my first ever prize money!

But the most exciting part of the weekend was the ongoing saga of the Cultus Lake Carjacker. Eugene was concerned that the race course would be impacted by the manhunt. The morning of the race, the local sheriff brought him a map of the area where the suspect was thought to be corralled. Later that night, we got word he had been shot and captured near the Fish Hatchery--which we rode through during the race!