The Hammer’s LT100, Part 5: A Good Fight

09.7.2015 | 3:57 pm

Looking for Other Installments in this Story? Here are links to all the parts published in this multi-part story:

• Part 1: End of a Long Week, Beginning of a Long Day
• Part 2: Bad News Bento Box
• Part 3: Ups and Downs
• Part 4: The Quest for a Cold Coke
• Part 5: A Good Fight

Our little group — the same one that had left Twin lakes hours ago — were climbing at about the same pace. The jerseys around me all looked very familiar. I would pass a few; a few minutes later, some would pass me back.

I found myself riding with Mark G., who lives just a few miles from me. We had met at the expo the day before, where he introduced his very good-looking and nice mountain-biking son, who just happens to be the same age as my nineteen-year-old daughter, who loves mountain biking and would probably get along well with a good-looking, nice boy who mountain bikes, if he were to happen to call or message her or something. 

Not that I’m trying to set them up or anything. Cough cough.

Ahem.

Dark Place

Anyway, this was Mark’s eleventh time racing Leadville;  he was hoping this would be his year to finish in under nine hours. We would make small talk as we slowly climbed up the mountain.

I felt weird — like I was moving in slow motion. I normally climb all of Powerline, after the first steep half mile. This time, in contrast, I found myself getting off the bike and walking up steep pitches. I would even have to stop completely at times, lean over my bike and take a few deep breaths.

I was physically exhausted. But more importantly…..I was mentally exhausted. I had been falling off my time schedule since ten miles into the race. I had been berating myself constantly.

Sure, a little while earlier, I had thought that with Dave’s help I was back on track.

But who was I kidding?  

I know how fast I can ride sections on this course. I had 20 miles to go and I knew I wasn’t going to make it. “I’m not gonna get sub-nine, and no one around me is either,” I told myself.

I think that is why I allowed myself to walk: I had given up. 

Home Stretch

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally crested the top and headed down Sugarloaf. My brakes were still screaming at me, riders I had passed on Powerline climb were now leaving me in their dust.

One of them was my nephew-in-law, Ben.

We had passed each other a few times on Powerline. I figured this was the last time I would see him. He still had a prayer of a sub-nine time if he really poured it on.

As I turned onto Hagerman pass road, I caught up with two bikers, riding side by side. Their pace was not terribly fast. I wanted them to get out of my way so I yelled, “If you’re going to make it under nine, your gonna have to pick it up.”

I was beginning to sound like a broken record. I was also beginning to think my children might be right when they call me a “nagger.”

The riders moved aside and I sped past them. The paved descent felt wonderful. I was at mile 88. I had been riding for 7:51. I always do well on the paved climb. I told myself, “Just because I’m not going to make it under sub-nine, I’m not giving up.”

Something New

Then something terrible happened: my bunions started hurting.

Elden had gotten me a new pair of shoes a few weeks earlier. The shoes felt fine, but the placement of the new cleat made my feet turn slightly inward. It had felt weird at first, but Elden said it was the just the new cleat and that it would wear itself in.

It had never caused me any pain before, but now it was horrible. Every pedal stroke hurt. I tried to ignore it, pedaled on, and made a note to fire Elden and hire a better shoe fitter.

Up ahead I could see the familiar “Fatty” jersey. Ben was just ahead of me. I eventually caught him. As I pulled along side of him, he gasped, “Do we have a chance?”

It was a good question.

I knew I didn’t have a prayer, but Ben is an excellent descender. It was just possible that he might be able to finish this climb, get down St Kevin’s and up The Boulevard in sixty minutes.

“Sure you do,” I replied. “You are an awesome descender. You just need to hurry.”

And he was gone.

Carter to Finish

Cold Coke: the thought of one is what had kept me going for the last eleven miles. “Carter Summit always has cold Coke,” I had told myself, over and over and over.

“Coke! I need Coke!” I yelled urgently and hoarsely as I pulled into the aid station.

I must have flustered the poor volunteers, who scattered like startled sparrows. They quickly regrouped, however, now carrying Coke and a Dixie cup, which they filled for me.

I had them refill it six times. It was that good.

I looked down at my Garmin: I had been riding for 8:15, and  was thirteen miles away from the finish.

No doubt about it: that sub-nine just wasn’t going to happen. The fastest I have ever gotten to the finish line from this point is fifty minutes. I rode out of the aid station with the true realization that it was hopeless.

I hoped Ben was speeding down St Kevin’s on his way to the finish. (What I hadn’t realized was Ben was at the aid station with me, and was current in a state of shock and horror at discovering that the madwoman who had been bellowing for Coke was…me). Still, Ben did make a valiant effort and finished in a painful 9 hours and 2 minutes. So close!

I hate to say it, but I walked some of the steep pitches. “Why kill myself?” I thought. When I finally hit the top of the final climb of St Kevin’s and started to descend, my spirits lifted. I was on the home stretch. The Boulevard doesn’t scare or intimidate me anymore. The top of St Kevin’s is my finish line.

Not Defeated

Sub-nine was out of the question, but finishing strong with a smile on my face was not. Nine hours and 15 minutes would still be impressive. That would be faster than any of my other times, prior to riding with Reba.

Why was I letting a time determine how I was going to feel about myself and my race? Just over nine hours was still amazing — something that I never dreamed I could achieve even two years ago. Why was I letting myself be disappointed now over something I’d hae been elated over a couple years ago?

As I cruised up the Boulevard, I looked at my Garmin: nine hours came and went. My thoughts turned to Elden and his “million” attempts to break the sub-nine barrier. I felt his pain. How agonizing to see nine hours so close to the finish line. How agonizing for many riders who would see twelve hours so close to the finish today. I did take comfort in knowing that I already had a big buckle of my own hanging on the wall at home. I think that definitely takes the sting out of it.

As I approached the finish line, I saw my sweetheart on the sideline waiting for me. He ran alongside me with a giant smile on his face.

He was proud of me. I was proud of me.

I had ridden as hard as I could. I felt good. I had fought a good fight.

My time wasn’t going to define my happiness.

PS from Fatty: The Hammer has a lot to be proud of. Click here for the Strava of her ride, and here’s a screencap of her official splits: