Croom 50, 2013. Full of surprises.

When you ride the wrong way on singletrack, you meet two kinds of people.

The first kind yell, "Hey, you're going the wrong direction!"

The second kind say, "Oh no, am I going the wrong way?"

I realize suddenly, my day has been full of contrasts right from the starting line.

Here are Popeye and a few friends from the Space Coast Velo road group ready to head out.  Although Popeye and Blown Fuse are old hands, a couple of these guys are pure roadies.  One has never even been on a mountain bike before. 

No matter what I personally think of grown men in matching outfits, I totally give them extra credit for being willing to try something different from the Saturday morning paceline.

"Catch you later, guys," I say, as they take off. 

OK, maybe I am being vain, but I believe I might just be able to catch them later.  One or two of them, anyway.  My inner tortoise is confident that even the most super-fit rabbit will find a borrowed mountain bike to be a very different animal from a road bike.  

After the Space Coast boys have taken off at Velo speed, I go to look for the handful of mountain bike/hasher guys from Melbourne who are here somewhere. I might be able to hang with them - for a little while anyway.   

 

Here they are. Some of our friendly neighborhood mountain bike guys, dressed like, well, mountain bike guys.

While the key to pacelining is sticking with the group, the key to mountain biking is riding your own ride. 

No one else can make a trail easier for you.   No one is going to pop your front wheel over that log for you, or fly over the handlebars for you when you hit that patch of sand.  Basically, the only reason to have others along mountain biking, is in case you go over a cliff. 


With my baggie full of Endurolytes, Ricola, and Airborne tablets, plus two extra bandannas (i.e., snot rags) stuffed into my camelbak, I fully expect to be on my own much sooner than later.  No cliffs in sight, at least.  I feel so crappy that I even grab a map, in case I need to find a bail out point later.


What I am riding now, this wrong-way business, is purely guilt mileage.  There's really no point in going back. 

I am of no practical use to the hasher dude a couple miles back with the cut in his leg.  He has four other friends already with him. 

Riding to look for the access road that was supposed to be a quarter mile up the trail, I have some vague idea of maybe being there to flag down the ambulance that was supposed to be on it's way. 

I see no road at a quarter mile, so I keep going.  There is no road at a half mile.  Or at 1 mile.  It has to be here.  Sooner or later.

I watch the trail and the computer closely.  2.3 miles up the trail from the stump where Pooh took the hit to his leg, there is a burst of situational overload.  Simultaneously, the trail crosses a fire road (finally!), the phone rings, and someone blows by me shouting, "See ya at the end, Vicky!" 

I look at the phone.  Road or no road, I have no explanation as to why I didn't turn around sooner or stop and make a call. I get in this forward mode sometimes, like a kid who doesn't want to put away his toys or come in for supper.
 
It takes a minute to answer the call and sort through the input. 

This is (duh) the wrong road.  The guys are way behind me - back at the road I obviously missed.  And the rider blowing by could not have been one of the hashers catching up as I first thought.  So it must have been our Mudcutter friend, Jim Malone flying solo on his single speed.

The idea of backtracking against a steady tide of riders is not appealing.  "I'd be happy to come back,"  I say into the phone, "if you really think there's anything I can do to help?"  And I would be too, if I could think of anything at all to do. 

I was expecting a quick release.  A nah-we-got-it-under-control, or something of that sort.  Because they do.  I am sure of that.  

Is it my guilty conscience or is there just a tiny hesitation at the other end?  "No, no, I don't blame you," my hasher friend says, "I wouldn't want to ride upstream either."

"OK," I say, even though I am pretty sure it's somehow not the integrous response he expects.  "Then I'm going to keep riding." 

It's dumb to go back, right?  

Over and over I pull off the trail leaving plenty of room, so as not to impede any one's forward progress.  Turns out, going back doesn't take much focus, really.  Less than going forward, in fact.  There is plenty of time to think about...  I don't know...  how dumb I'm being?    

I pull off trail, waiting for a group of three, then five more, to come through. 

Although I'm kicking myself because there's no good reason to be doing it at all, somehow what started as guilt-mileage evolves into just-plain-stubborn-mileage.  I never saw a road, dammit.  And dammit, I am going to keep going back along this stinkin' trail until I do see one!  Once again I recognize forward mode.  Only this time it's taking me backwards.

And finally, about 3 miles back, the singletrack swings fairly close to some quiet, narrow pavement.  Pavement that, away through the trees, looks a lot like rail trail.  According to the computer I am nearly a mile past the offending stump anyway.  It is time to concede that I am not going to see the correct road.   But it still doesn't explain why I never met the others. 

I stand over the bike, trying to reason it out. 

The rider with the cut leg would have gotten a ride out with the EMTs.  The guy he drove over from the coast with would have gone back to the parking lot for the car, taking the extra bike, or maybe coming back for it. 

But why didn't I meet the other three anywhere on the trail in between? 

Three guys.  Flat out gone.  Disappeared. 

Six bonus miles.  One unsolved mystery. 

At least I found a road.  It's probably not the right road, but the sight of it breaks the stubborn streak.

It feels good to go with the flow again.  Good to finally pass the spot where I had turned around.  Hooray.  New territory. 

If I had seen the Easy/Hard cut off sign for the Drunken Monkey, believe me, I would have chosen Easy.  But like the access road, if it was there, I missed it. 

The first hint was a cool little straight-up whoopty-do and I was just thinking to myself, "That's OK, this is going to be fun!"

Then I saw Velo kits standing around at the side of the trail. True, I had expected to catch some of them eventually, but nowhere near this soon.  Someone must be hurt.  But which one?  They are all laughing. 

Then I realize that Ruben, sitting on the ground, is laughing, but also wincing at the same time. 

I remember Ruben from last April. He was the first of them over the finish line at Cross Florida. 167 miles in 8 hours. 

He has never been on a mountain bike before today. 

The story gets filled in quickly.  Ruben went over backward on the steep little climb.  Popeye and Jimmy had ridden to the next sag for help.  The sag guy is already there, with his truck parked on a fire road, a short haul away through the woods. 

Popeye and Jimmy get back while the rest are getting Ruben up.  He can't put weight on his right leg.  He smiles, even through obvious pain, when they prop him up on his bike.  

Jimmy pushes, Popeye takes the extra bike.  The rest of us follow.  I guess I am following this time because Popeye is there.  And the rest of the guys?  Turns out they all rode over together in Jimmy's truck.

Getting a push to the sag vehicle.

 

 

Finally.  In the sag truck.  Still smiling!

 

 

I hope, when his fractured pelvis heals up 6 weeks from now, that Ruben will consider mountain biking again.

 

Another tally is in order. 

 

One hasher hurt at mile 15.  One driving him home.  Three more disappeared. 

 

One roadie hurt at mile 20.  Three more taking the bail-out, in order to drive him home. 

 

Two riders left. 

 

The biggest contrast of all. 

 

One of the slowest mountain bikers around, left to finish off the second half of the Croom 50 with one of the fastest. 

 

I would have told this rider to just go on ahead.  Except I knew he wouldn't.  Because he's just that kind of guy.  And he's also my husband, Popeye.     

 

I daresay it was probably just as painful for Popeye to slow himself to my pace as it was for me to step it up a notch for him.  Well, maybe not just as painful, considering he was riding along, no hands, down the trail while I spent the miles mouth-breathing along behind. 

 

The day grew colder and windier by afternoon, but somehow I still needed to get rid of the layers I had been comfortable in all morning. 

 

When there was no more room in my camelbak for both the extra layers and a refill, Popeye somehow stuffed my jacket and tights into his pockets.

 

Toward the very end, we come upon Gobbler.  Some poor directions back to the trail after Pooh's injury, had left him with less than 50 miles.  So Gobbler had gone right back in to finish his fifty.  Which was pretty much the only thing all day that didn't surprise me. 

 

The three of us finish by mid afternoon.  

 

Popeye and I have nearly identical mileage. 

 

Mine: 56.07. 

His: 56.38.  

 

(I'm so sure Gobbler has his fifty that I don't even ask.)

 

Back at the parking lot, Popeye has my bike in the car before I can even locate my bag of dry clothes.  Then he hands me a beer with the cap already twisted off.  

 

Dry clothes.  Cold beer.  Bonus miles.  Breathing through my nose again.  Life is good.  

 

In spite of the late hour there is plenty of salty-good pasta left at the venue.  A park ranger sits down right behind us and chooses to ignore our beers.

 

You just gotta love mountain biking.  

 

Especially if you love surprises.