8 Hours of Labor. It's not for babies.

This past Friday, Simon La Grif was back in my head, as we returned to Clermont for the boys to ride a final long hill workout before some of them head up to Six Gap. 

On my own again, I was determined this time to reach the far end of that easy-peasy, sissy-ride, the West Orange Trail. 

It turned out to be 60 miles, out and back, from Clermont.  

The Cakery was closed.  The ponies weren't out.  It was hot.  I should have drank more on the way east.  I should have stopped for water sooner.  I should not have depended on outside sources for sustenance... 

blah blah blah wah wah wah.  

Whatever.

But, because I didn't drink up sooner, and therefore didn't stop for a refill sooner, it did make for a bit of a pickle at the far end. 

I didn't think a thing about it, as I wove between the 2 police cars parked across the sidewalk at the bike shop in Apopka, on my quest for trails end.  Cops love bikes. And cops feel privileged.  So, of course, they are just as liable as not, to block everyone else's way if it saves them a step or two. 

I decided I'd stop at the water fountain with my baggies of Gatorade and protein powder on the way back, when the place was less crowded. 

The End could not be far now. 

But this trail just didn't want to end.  And, it had turned from isolated shady bike path into wide sidewalk along a highway.  I began calculating my turn around time, and the number of Gu's I had left. 

The inner coach, always pushing, decides the maximum possible turn around time is 10:10am, 2 hours and twenty minutes from my start time. 

My inner wimp pipes up.  Or thirty miles, whichever comes first.

And the inner coach wins.  By a minute.

Finally!

Standing exactly in front of the sign, it is exactly thirty miles.

Whew.  I can turn back now.  Even the Coach agrees.

OK, so I was wrong. 

The cops weren't just being lazy. 

Some clever burglars at the bike shop in Apopka had cut the electricity the night before.  That shut off the alarms.  

And the water fountain.

So, the refill got put off for a few extra miles. 

The easy ride suddenly became a hot ride.  A tough ride.   Red-lined.  Hamstring cramps.  Headache.

Bonk.

Which made last weekend, Labor Day weekend, a piece of cake compared to Friday's ride of the West Orange Trail! 
   

8 Hours of Labor.  Sounds tough, huh?

But on the side of cake: 

The race runs from 10am to 6pm.  No alarm clock.  No lights to charge.  We like that!

The race course is a ten mile loop.  Set up camp near the chute, and stop at your own cooler for your own drinks (and sushi rice bars) every hour.  I could sit in my lawn chair after ten miles.  I could even stay in my lawn chair if I wanted to. 

Off road biking is fun.  San Felasco is fun. 

(Simon LaGrif is not in attendance.)

But that name.  Maybe if this annual mountain bike endurance race were called the "8 Hours of Riding Around in Circles Until Your Hamstrings Cramp and You Want to Throw Up"....  Nah, that would only make it even more popular, given the sort of people that are attracted to endurance races.

But I guess the organizers had to work in the fact that it's held on Labor Day weekend, so they went with the slightly wussier, "8 Hours of Labor". 

I always thought that endurance mtn bike events were usually team events.  I thought that solo riders were the minority.

On a team, members spell each other riding a ten mile loop.  The winner is the team coming in first with the most loops when the time is up.  

Solo riders ride the ten mile loop.  Then they ride it again.  Then they ride it again. Then they ride it again... 

So, I thought I'd be all special and sign up solo.

But, I guess a short endurance event like an 8-Hour (as opposed to a 12-Hour or a 24-Hour), draws the solo crowd, and one would assume, the beginners, since it's, well, short. 

According to the list posted on the side of the Goneriding trailer, there were:

32 two-person teams
27 three-person teams
7 kids (who rode The 8 Minutes of Labor, most with parents panting alongside)
64 solo riders, 5 of them women. 

(Look Ma - I'm in the top five already!  If they do gender divisions, that is.  I don't ask.  I don't care.  For fifty bucks I get to ride all day at San Felasco. Ya-hoo!)

Note to self:  When you decide to go up to Gainesville for a relaxing day before the race, check on the Gator game times.

Bail from the turnpike.  

Rural Florida is interesting when you spend all your days in a cement suburbia, but it can take for-f***ing-ever!

We finally arrived at San Felasco just in time for the 5 o'clock sign up.   

"What's your Team Name?", asked Terri as I made out the check for the entry fee. 

I'm solo. 

"Sure, but you still get to have a team name." 

Popeye has no hesitation.  Team Popeye! 

OK, Team Mile High for me, then.  A good abbreviatable hash name really comes in handy sometimes.  (Oops.  I suddenly remember I never wrote the other hasher who had indicated he was also going to race.  Sorry about that!)

The ten mile course was marked and we were welcome to pre-ride.  As if we wouldn't get plenty of riding in on the next day! 

I guess Popeye need to blow off some steam from all those hours trapped in the car.  I was pretty sure a loop the night before would take away a loop for me the next day, energy wise. 

But one step out of the car into the wall of gnats and mosquitoes was very convincing.  Better to keep moving than to stay put! 

So, on go the spare (dry) shorts I was saving for the 2nd half of the race, and off we went around the loop in gathering gloom.  

3 stops to admire deer.  Does, a buck, and one little guy barely older than a fawn were the pleasant surprises. 

And  one unpleasant surprise; my rear brake, working last weekend at the Econ, chose to fail completely this week at the race venue.

That's OK, says Popeye, Krafty can bring the bleed kit tomorrow.  We'll take care of it.  Easy for him to say with working brakes on the windy woodsy dim trails in gathering gloom.

Krafty called.  He didn't sound so good.  But, even though his bronchitis was hanging on, he planned to be there in the morning.

In the morning, when he called, he sounded even worse.  No one blamed him for being a no-show.

Missing out on Krafty's company was one thing.  Missing out on a rear brake was another!  There was no one at this race who had a bleed kit.  We know, because we asked everyone at this race. 

Back at Camp Pop-High, creeping up on start time, I had a decision to make.  Ride without a rear brake or don't ride at all. 

Maybe you ride hills all the time.  Maybe you use your front brakes all the time.  We ride the Econ.  I have barely touched my front brakes since I got this bike.  Just one face plant from too much pressure to the front brake can ruin your day.  I know.  I have ruined days before. 

At least no one else would be affected if I rode or not.
   

All set up, and relaxing at Camp Pop-High before the 10am start.

On either side of our camp, the neighbors are setting up.  Team Dragon has citronella candles.  Polka Dot Man, a solo rider who makes his own cyclocross suits, has a generator and a huge fan, so his mom can sit in comfort between handoffs.

A fan?   Darn.  Wish I'd thought of that.

But truthfully, I am more impressed by the home-made suit.

Standing still is torture.  The gnats are thick.  They are in my eyes, flying up my nose. They are very convincing.  I am inspired to motion.  I can ride one loop without having to worry about getting passed at least, and see how it goes from there.  

One loop.  One crash.  No blood.  Only a couple times overshooting into the bushes.  Not so bad.  I am encouraged. 

I wind slowly along, playing the tricky front brake, afraid to take on much speed.  One more loop - just to see how angry the fast guys will get when they have to pass on the narrow singletrack. 

Loop Two.  Crash Free!  Finally getting the hang of the touchy front brake.  Passing riders are surprisingly nice.

Loop Three.  Another crash.  The canvas bike sandals are soaked and stretching.  Unclipping is slow and takes almost a 90 degree twist of the knee.  Popeye comes by me.  My left hamstring fires a couple warning shots.  Gotta remember to eat next time through camp.  And change into actual shoes.  OK, sigh.  And socks.  Geesh.

One Endurolyte capsule, a Sushi rice bar, a V8, and a couple olives, up the electrolytes.  The salt tastes wonderful.  I sit a few minutes. 

And suddenly I feel wonderful. 

Except for the gnats.  Any thought of quitting for the day and sitting still is completely erased.  I go into the car and dig out the contact solution to rinse them from my eyes.

Loop Four.  Feeling good!  Glad I came to San Felasco!  Look at the time.  I can't believe it.  The day is nearly over.  Polka Dot Man passes for the third time.

Loop Five. Slow and careful.  Baby the hamstrings.  Doesn't look like I will make the 7 hour, 15 minute, cut off for going back out on another loop.

And I don't.  7 hours and 22 minutes after start, I have completed only five, ten-mile loops.  It's a little embarrassing.  But hey, no brakes, best excuse I've had at a race all year.

Popeye comes in from his 8th loop a few minutes after me, so he is done at 80 miles.  

Our neighbor,  Polka Dot man, is the overall winner with nine loops. 

Popeye is 7th. 

I am, uhh, not last.  Actually, since they do a women's division after all, I am technically fourth, only one off the podium.  

8 hours of Labor.  50 miles.  Two blood-free crashes.  One eight hour layer of excellent off-road dirt.

And fifty million gnats.

Why couldn't the West Orange Trail be that easy?