Deciding the night before.
Racing to the race.
Some people just can't bring themselves to plan ahead.
That would be Popeye.
And I am beginning to see his point.
Friday at lunchtime, Popeye calls home and says, “So, are we going to the Hammerhead 100?”
Huh? I had written that one off 2 weeks ago, when I sent out an email and got no interest from anyone, Popeye included.
“Um, it’s tomorrow.” I say.
“What time does it start?”
I laugh. 7:30? 8? Does it really matter?
We talk ourselves out of it. He’d miss the Saturday road ride. My bike was having rear shock issues. The drive to
Nah, we decide before we hang up. Too much money. Too much trouble. Maybe next year.
Later, the place is sparkling. The realtor has been and gone. Even the laundry is folded. I am finally ready to get myself out the door.
The card stash on the desk catches my eye. The number of the Tile Market is right on top. Good idea. Before driving forty miles to Vero, I will call first. The solo shop owner is a mom. You never know. I turn the card over. On the back, Diane has written her hours: Monday through Thursday, 10-4. 10-2 on Fridays.
It is 2:05. Suddenly, my errands for the day just got 80 miles shorter.
What would you do with an extra two hours on a Friday afternoon?
Go for a ride? Start a blog post? Finish reading The Kitchen House?
Or, prep for an all day race on Saturday?
I decide to surprise Popeye, instead of the other way around for a change.
When he gets home, I am pulling energy muffins and sushi rice bars from the oven.
The ever-unflappable Popeye walks into the kitchen. Seeing the muffin tins and the open cooler he says, “All right!” and goes for the bike repair stand.
We decide to get everything into the car, eat and sleep at home, and drive to
The alarm is set for 4 A.M. We’ll be cutting it close, but I just can't bring myself to set it any earlier.
5AM. Still dark, up to speed, heading for the Turnpike.
Wham! Bam! Bam! My side of the car lurches up, then drops from under me. I bite my lip hard and taste blood.
We roll, tires thumping, to the Beachline’s grassy median.
A Kia Soul and a pick-up truck come flapping to a stop opposite us on the right shoulder. Popeye hops out to run back and see what we hit. A passing cop stops and helps him roll someone’s abandoned spare tire and rim out of the middle of the highway. Both our passenger side tires have long slices. I call Triple A. We wait for the tow truck.
5 hours and 2 new tires later, we pull in at the Land Bridge Trailhead. The day is bright and beautiful. It is 10 AM. We have missed the start by exactly 2 hours.
Popeye’s stubborn resistance to pre-registering seems more rational all the time. We may have already spent $400 this morning, but at least we haven’t wasted the price of two non-refundable entry fees.
We have never been to the Hammerhead 100 before. It is a mountain bike endurance race held on a 25 mile loop.
In mountain bike racing, especially when there are loops, the toughest obstacle is often not the course itself, but passing slower riders on narrow single track.
Being passed is not easy either.
Your ride gets progressively slower and harder when you have to repeatedly ride to the side, or pull completely off trail, in order not to be blown off by some race-fevered, wanna-be leader.
How do I know this? Don’t even ask. Unless seeing a bunch of scars interests you.
Today, in spite of our good intentions, we are technically bandits, about to go out on the course with no numbers.
Popeye’s speed pretty much guarantees he won’t be in anyone’s way. But as a back-of-the-pack rider on my best day, it’s hard not to feel guilty about cluttering up a race course, especially when I am not officially racing.
When in doubt, rationalize. I tell myself everyone is all spread out by now. The fast guys should be out on their second lap. I vow to pull completely out of the way for anyone with a race number on their bike.
It’s easy to blend in with the racers just a few yards past the cameras of the GoneRiding trailer.
I see no reason for Popeye to wait for me every couple miles. He goes on ahead, and I am soon with my peers toward the back.
Just before the
In hindsight, I probably could have been a little less accommodating about letting every rider with a number pass me.
After the underpass, I hear two riders coming up from behind and decide, since I’m in a good spot at the top of a rise, to wait for them to go by. I realize my mistake when the wait is longer than I would have taken to cover the same ground. Quite a bit longer.
It is the ponytail guy. He is following a strong looking woman in a blue jersey. She has a number, 30-something, in black marker on her calf. Other than off road tri’s, where they race in age groups, I’ve never seen body marking at a mountain bike event before. But I have never been to the Hammerhead 100 before either.
I sit up, moseying along behind. Although it would almost hurt to go any slower, it’s tempting. Ponytail Man talks non stop to the girl ahead. Since I’m right on his wheel the chatter is loud and clear for me as well.
He says he’s in sales. “You gotta go for the younger ones, you just can’t sell anything to old people.”
So true, we don’t fall for just any pitch. And today it looks like nobody’s buying it.
The woman keeps plugging. Ponytail Man’s pass isn’t working but he’s still not passing. My ears are tired. It’s almost a relief when an old guy, on a bike so tall in the front I think at first it’s a hybrid, fetches up behind our little train of pain.
Hybrid guy has 70-something on his leg. He's riding well, but the riser bar and white tube socks reinforce my age group theory.
I am happy to pull up and let him pass. At least he will provide some insulation between me and the ponytail guy’s chatter.
Finally we get to the crossing at 484. The woman in blue stops at the sag. Ponytail, still talking, pulls off after her. Volunteers stop traffic. 70-something is quick to jump across and leave them behind. I follow tight on his wheel.
We have reached Earn and Burn, the section of the course I have heard about, but never seen.
Almost the moment we are in the woods on the other side, 70-something starts to yell at the top of his lungs, “Granny gear! Granny gear!”
I look around. Who is he yelling to? And why? There are some ups and downs but it’s not especially steep.
A few people flicker through the woods up ahead but no one is nearby except me. I leave my chain on the middle ring and follow along, ready to shift any second should we come around a bend and see a surprise uphill.
Eventually, there is a rocky spot on an incline. A woman is pushing her bike. 70-something, his granny gear strategy paying off, pops up over the rocks and goes by her. She has a race number. I wait for her to top the little rise. Her leg is marked 140-something. So much for the age group theory. The woman in blue comes from behind and I let her pass too, and then a petite young woman on a full suspension 29r, which makes her appear even tinier.
When I look up the Hammerhead results later, I realize these women, whom I have just allowed to pass, represent the female leaders of the fifty mile and relay categories.
Of course, even if we had been there in time to sign up officially, I would have done my usual delusional thing, and entered myself in the hundred. Even after all these years, my old high school swim coach, Simon La Grif, still wields influence. “You can always do more than you think you can.”
After seeing the course I realize that, even if by some miracle I were still upright after 75 miles, it’s doubtful I would have made the cut off time to go out on the last lap.
As it was, it only seemed easy. I was on my first loop. While these folks were on their bikes at 8 o’clock this morning, I was on my phone checking directions from Ryker’s Tires back to the Turnpike.
I think about next year. 50 miles might well be enough, especially if it’s dry and sandy.
I find myself drafting behind two of these women on the return route to the Land Bridge, which is a gravel road. Suddenly I realize duh, it’s a road. There’s room to pass.
In fact, I not only avoid hindering them by passing, they hop onto my wheel and I pull. Fast.
We shoot the last couple miles topping 20. What the heck. What else is a bandit good for anyway?
So next year will we do the Hammerhead 100? Absolutely.
Will we plan ahead? Probably not.
I still won’t be fast enough to complete the hundred. And knowing Popeye, we won’t pre-register.
But I do have one plan in mind for next year. Only bandits have to be this nice. And next year, I don’t plan to be a bandit.
