Point-to-point

 

The day began at 3:57AM with the sounding of my alarm.  It became silenced instantly as I was already awake, having not slept well during the last six plus hours of one-man sheet-wrestling restlessness.  Perhaps it was the full moon to blame for the onset of stir-craziness or perhaps it was nerves firing in anticipation for the day’s Tahoe Sierra 100 Endurance Mountain Bike Race.  A few hours later I had already buried my memories of the night prior and sat with one hundred fifty other helmeted slow-twitch ‘racefugees’ awaiting the start of the event at Ice Lakes Lodge near Truckee, California.  The temps were perfect for a day in the woods, albeit slightly cool, and Jim Northey’s crew punctually released the hounds to chase down that finish line in not-so-nearby Foresthill.  Shoes and cleats harmoniously engaged in pedals, tires sunk their teeth in and roared along on the initial stretches of pavement, and the sheer sight of this singletrack-hungry swarm, rather existing inside of it, is one I will always remember.

 

The day’s course routed riders through the XC ski trails of Soda Springs, allowing for a nice, steady warm up before diving into some heads-up hijinks along Red Star Ridge with epic views of French Meadows reservoir.  This stunning body of water beckoned all to take in its grandeur and serene presence, yet I had bigger fish to fry, which consisted of keeping my mojo flowin’ through twisty, tech, duffy goodness.  I’m not sure where the naming of this trail originated, but based on the few dozen ‘puckered’ riders that I passed over nearly five miles of stellar singletrack, it became evident that tension in the red star department may have been cause alone for such trail titling.

 

Miles and miles melted away trying to keep pace with both the sweat escaping my pores and pal, Gregg Stone, who initially served as my rabbit in this gear-shifting greyhound race.  As usual, climbs began to taunt my legs and the mind began to wander, yet not too far off-track, once I became alone, internalized my thoughts, and found my trail chi.  My level of fitness was a concern but soon became favorably quantified as I never once did become delusional on course, with a drive and passion to reel in that finish line like my life depended on it.  In a sense it did, as not crossing it would mean I’d be lost somewhere deep in a wilderness I’d only previously scratched the surface of familiarity with.  Well-stocked aid stations, volunteers, and fellow perishing racers came and went as the sun traced its route across the oxygen-deprived skies.  I felt strong, calm and in good form, evidenced by a rapid trailside repair after breaking my chain at mile 43.  Within 5 minutes I was back on my portly steed and ready to make up lost ground, which was a marginal time loss over the course of this endurance event.

 

Hours, minutes, and seconds cascaded down my temples alongside electrolyte-rich sweat and became faint memories during my quest for a sub-12 hour finishing time.  Then a second burst of adrenaline rocketed through my being after insight became provided halfway through the event that this 100 miler was in fact an 85ish miler due to course rerouting thanks to a record snowfall year.  Suddenly, I felt the drive to stand on the pedals a little harder, dig a little deeper, and suffer a slight bit more.  God appeared before my eyes at Dusty Corners after a seemingly endless, treadmill climb and it was in the form of salted, cured pork.  He encouraged me to consume his lifeform, represented as three slices of choice bacon, in order to seek redemption.  I told this Holy character I would abide, but confessed the only ‘sin’ in riding singletrack are the first three letters.  He chuckled, I burped, and sped off to the last chapter of this anthology.

 

This volume of the TS100 featured its first point-to-point layout, and Jim reserved the best for last.  Three nasty ass climbs awaited lactic-acid laden limbs of the lurking lunatics and required grueling hike-a-bikes, the first two each at least 40 minutes in length and 1,500 feet of elevation gain.  It was pure survival and simply placing a foot in front of the other brought up visions of pirates taking their final strides as they walked the plank to their own demise.  Eventually, my tires met asphalt and I mustered up the fumes I was running on to propel me into town.  My engine bucked, jerked, and stalled as I brought the checkered flag into sight.  Crossing the line, I looked down at the 10:05:15 on my Garmin and felt pleased.  I finished the race, I lacked a single drop of blood on my extremities, and my shoulder remained in place despite its wayward progressions of late to escape its socket and explore the confines of my shirt-sleeve.  God damn, people, if you’re after an epic ‘hundie’ next season, which is slated to be a ‘true’ 100.00 miles, you better get your butts out to Ice Lakes Lodge in 2012.  This was an event not to miss.  Thanks to Jim, his posse of volunteers, and the chamois salve that allows me to sit in comfort at this very moment.