"Nothing hurts but your dignity, right?" asks the guy in the blue shirt right behind me.
I have just slammed myself to the ground over a nearly invisible two inch rut in an otherwise seemless stretch of fast downhill meadow grass.
But that is mountain biking. All day long you can ride over roots and rocks with scarcely a scratch. Or you can catch a front wheel in a shallow rut when someone passes unexpectedly, and slam yourself silly in flat, boring grass.
Never a dull moment. (And absolutely no dignity.)
The guy in the blue shirt remounts and moves on. "Thanks for stopping," I say. The guy who flew by on the right is long gone.
I stand up and immediately lunge back down to grab at the sudden cramp in my calf. Darn it, I am going to have to stop a lap early and switch back to the Perpetuum. My rebellious bit of Gatorade indulgence is over. Perpetuum, with it's tongue coating, sour-milk aftertaste, wins for distance riding. Yuck.
It is past mid day. Lap five for me. The lap I had hoped would be my middle loop for the day.
The guy in the blue shirt has followed my wheel for the last 8 miles and declined to pass. Other than my asking periodically if he is sure he doesn't want to go by, we have not talked, each in his own bubble of concentration.
So far, I have passed a grand total of five people. The rest have been passing me. I am not the only solo rider in this race, but my little ride world does seem made mostly of relay riders swooping up from behind.
I like seeing the bright yellow springy bracelets though, dangling from wrists or Camelbaks. No matter how fast these riders clatter by, the relay bracelets mean they do not count. Not to me anyway. And to them? I am just another solo trail obstacle with a 700 number written on my leg.
So how did it all go?
Fine. It was fine. (Apologies, Fat Cyclist! No spin kicks, please. I know you want the real story.) But really, it was fine. Not great. Not bad. It was... fine.
I usually allow myself a fantasy goal - like the best possible, best day ever, most I could ever hope to do. Here at Felasco, my fantasy goal was to do 9 laps in the 8 hours.
I was fairly confident of 8.
I ended up with 7.
That said, except for the slam-dunk and cramp-in-the-calf, I had fun with it, went my own pace, and generally just enjoyed riding the very best (and shadiest) parts of San Felasco on the last day of summer.
So what's the story? Why not 9 laps? Or 8, for that matter? What happened?
This is the part where experience comes in. Experience and maturity. Experience, I have. Some, anyway. But maturity? The ability to apply that experience when you need it?
Oh well.
A ride in the park...
At 8:45 we gather for the riders meeting. The GoneRiding folks explain the particulars of a Le Mans start, talk about the course, and go over the guidelines for the change out of relay riders.
As a solo rider, the relay exchange does not concern me. My only obligation is to dismount and see that I walk through the finish chute for timing, once per lap.
Neither am I much concerned with the Le Mans start. I plan to seed myself toward the back, and trot along the grassy track to my bike, well behind any riders with that intemperate look in their eye. It is inconsiderate to impede others. It is also undesirable to start out the day with a trampling injury.
Of more concern is the announcement that the course has been shortened by a mile and a quarter. From a nice even 10 miles to approximately 8.75. This will eliminate a stretch of open sun, keeping the course almost entirely in shade, a very welcome announcement for a blue-sky, super-bright Florida day.
The extra shade is welcome. The extra challenge to my math impaired brain is not. Suddenly, it will require some mental effort to keep track of where I am on the loop at any given time, when to stop, and know how many loops I have to go. A mere glance at the bike computer won't cut it.
My brain isn't given to multitasking. Keeping track of roots and rocks seems enough of a challenge without the mental gyrations of doing math in my head as well.
7 loops will no longer be 70 miles. 7 loops will now be 62, and I will have to do 8 laps to get to my goal of 70. I will need to adjust the stops a bit. I have premeasured my drink powders and food concoctions for every twenty miles. Now I will have to choose. Stop every 17? 26? It is going to have to be one of those decisions made on the fly.
It is too much to think about, and at any rate, we're starting... NOW!
Off I trot, mind temporarily cleared of its math boggle by the spectacle of 101 bottlenecked riders trying to jam one at a time onto the shady single track trail.
The fifty ounces of Perpetuum and one bottle of ice water (for the occasional mouth rinse) works just fine. At loop two, it's an easy decision to keep going for a third without a stop.
At the end of loop 3, all business, I scoop ice from the cooler into the Camelbak. Then eye my choices of premeasured drink powders lined up in their baggies on my lawn chair. The taste of sour milk is still on my tongue. In a moment of self indulgence, I grab the much tastier lime green Gatorade, dump it in, and go.
Don't get me wrong. The wild and fruity flavors of Gatorade are absolutely perfect for an hour or three. But for hours four, five, and six, pushing through seven, and up to eight? Nope. Not enough of the right stuff for the long haul. And I can't say I didn't know better. I've made this choice before.
So there you go. Loop 5. A downhill stretch of meadow grass. The fastest part of the course. And I am at a dead stop, kneading a cramp out of my calf.
The mature side of my brain, absent at the last pit stop, kicks back in to make a better plan for the next one.
One cramp, even a big one, is not a big deal. It is fixable - if you have your cooler handy and a few extra minutes.
I would have to stop a lap earlier than planned, sit down, make myself eat a sushi rice bar or two, maybe drink a V-8. The salt, vinegar, and soy would take care of the seizing calf muscles.
What it wouldn't fix was the time loss of an extra stop. To make 8 laps before the cut off time now would be optimistic. Very, very optimistic. But you never know until you try, right?
Running the chronometer on my Timex, and distance on the bike computer, my increasingly feeble brain didn't have it figured down to the minute. But I was pretty sure coming in, that this loop, number 7, would be my last. Physically, I am good for another, but I am going to be out of time to do it.
Sure enough, in the chute stands a staffer, giving out the count down. "43 minutes left" he says as I cross under the arch. I need 55, at least. Realistically, more like 60 or 65, at this late stage of the day.
I exit the course. 7 loops. 7 hours, 17 minutes. Actual ride time on my computer shows 6 hours and 45 minutes. My three stops have amounted to almost a half hour.
The best I can hope is that maybe a few of the other solo women succumbed to heat or fatigue, and quit early. I do remember passing two. One seemed to be having trouble with the roots. The other was off and walking her bike, cheerfully singing out the tune of the William Tell Overture to the riders flying by. "On your left, on your left, on your left, left, left!" Her bike looked fine, and she said she was OK when I asked, so chalk it up to simple boredom, maybe.
But then, passing is all but meaningless on a looped 8 hour ride. Solo riders stop at will. For rest, or refreshments, or a trip to the porta john.
I never saw Popeye once all day, only evidence of dwindling ice levels in the cooler, and empty sandwich size Ziplocs back under our canopy. He usually outrides my mileage by 30-40 percent, so I knew he was out there, just unseen by me.
Two minutes later, at countdown minute 41, he comes in with 9 laps. He is a little disappointed. 9 is OK, but he was going for 10.
I know how he feels.
Back at camp, lawn chairs creaking, we pop our recovery Cokes and compare notes.
Endurance success or failure often comes down to hydration and nutrition. Except for a broken bike, nothing will put a dent in your day faster than screwing up your nourishment.
I screwed up by changing drinks, which caused the cramping, which caused extra time stopped, which led to missing the cutoff time. I knew it when I did it, and I chose the Gatorade anyway. Just because I like the taste better.
Popeye's screw up, we decided, was accidental. Getting the drink powder mix too strong, resulting in a bad stomach, will slow anyone down. Although his loops were much faster than mine, he knew he couldn't squeeze in a final 8.75 miles in under 41 minutes, so he was one loop short of goal as well.
We take our cokes and amble up to the GoneRiding trailer to check the posted lists. Ignoring the relay teams, I search for the women's solo category and do not find one.
Popeye is 11th on the solo list. Then I see my own name on the same list. I am 26th out of 53. All the solo categories are listed together. Open money, amateur men, females, and single speed. More math. Popeye concludes he is in 5th place. But my brain is done. I will have to figure it out at home.
We go on back to the car to pack up. Popeye grabs a towel and begins to scrub. I pour a jug of water over my head. "Next year, I'm gonna..." we each start to say, simultaneously.
I laugh. Because of course there will be a next year. This is mountain biking. Nearly every moment is over-the-top good. Even if you aren't.
Clean start.
Dirty ending.
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