07.7.2016 | 7:48 am
A Note from Fatty: World Bicycle Relief is doing its annual dollar-for-dollar July fundraiser, this year focusing on bikes for Malawi students.
Take a moment to check out this incredible program, and be sure to donate. This is not only a charity where your money does immediate good in a lasting way, but it does double immediate good. And that’s incredible.
2016 Rockwell Relay Race Report, Part 7: No, You Go On Without Me.
You’ve all been very patient. I’ve promised you for six posts now that things were going to go completely off the rails during this race, and you’ve been very patient as I told what has been — apart from the slowness I exhibited during my leg of the race — an absolutely stellar racing of the Rockwell Relay.
No errors.
No mechanicals.
No poorly-executed strategy.
Just a family team, having fun while more or less eating our competitions’ lunch.
Well, all of that’s over, starting now.
Today the whole thing goes pear-shaped. Off the rails. Jeapordized. In a way that could be both very injurious and very expensive.
And, as you might expect, it’s all my fault.
Hi and Goodbye
One of the things I love about The Hammer is the intensity she brings to racing: I understand it and feel like it’s one of the things that ties us together. When we race, we race hard.
So I know that she’s not going to to slow down to chat when we pass by her, yelling encouragement. I know she’ll take the time to smile, but not slow down.
When she’s riding, she’s riding. There’s a reason “This ain’t no time for jibber-jabber” has become known as her catchphrase.
So after loading Ben into the van and driving forward to catch up with her, I wasn’t surprised when she simply shook her head and gave us a “thumbs-up” when we hollered, “Need anything?” at her.
Hey, it had only been ten or fifteen minutes since she had begun her leg of the race.
Hi and Goodbye, Again
We piled back into the van and passed her on the narrow, climbing canyon road.
And, like countless times before, the hunt was on. And by “hunt,” I mean we began hunting for the next possible place for us to pull over on the side of the road.
In some parts of the race — the wide, flat desert parts — you find places to pull over all the time. In this part of the race, however, I knew from experience that pullouts were few and far between.
Still, in a few miles we found a good one. We pulled over off the side of the road, going forward so at least one other race support vehicle could slot in behind us. (It was rare, this early in the race (just the fourth leg), that you’d be the only vehicle stopped and supporting a racer.)
I left the car running so the air conditionning could keep the inside of the van cool; we didn’t expect to be staying in this place long. All three of us piled out of the van and stood at the side of the road, watching for The Hammer.
Within a few minutes, we saw her. Just flying up the road. I’ve become good at reading The Hammer’s body language on the bike, and could tell: she was feeling great. Strong, fast, focused.
“What can we get you?” I hollered?
“Cold water at the next stop!” she yelled back. Not a surprise: in heat like this (I had noted that the outside temperature had just clicked over to 100 degrees, and there was a very mild tailwind, making it feel like a still, dry sauna to the rider), cold water is the best treat you could ever hope for.
One More Goodbye
I began walking back to the van when Lindsey had a suggestion. “Let’s wait for the Beauties and the Beasts rider to go by, so next time we see Lisa we can give her a split.”
A great idea. I knew The Hammer would like to know how she was doing against our competition, the “Beauties and the Beasts” (BatB) team.
Lindsey started the stopwatch on her phone, and the three of us continued staring down the road for a couple minutes.
Then the van began rolling away.
Certainty
I saw the motion of the van out of the corner of my eye, and I didn’t understand, at first. Then, realizing the van was rolling forward on its own, I ran at top speed to the driver door.
The car seemed to be accelerating, rolling toward a slope and then a six-foot dropoff into concrete ditch leading to a pipe, where rainwater could run under the road.
I managed to open the door, hoping to press the brake with my hand.
But even as I did this, I knew I wasn’t going to make it in time. I knew the van was going to go down the bank, then plummet nose-first for a six-foot drop into a concrete floor.
I won’t say that time slowed down for me, because it didn’t. However, I will say that in the half-moment while desperately tried to save the van, I had plenty of time to think about how this was my fault. How this was the final moment before the van — and probably everything in it or attached to it (including tens of thousands of dollars in road bikes) was totaled. How The Hammer was off on her own. Most of all, how I was just not going to get to the brake in time.
I don’t know how I had time to think all these things, but I promise: I did.
Ninja
What I didn’t realize, however, was that I was not the only one trying to rescue the runaway van.
Lindsey had seen it start rolling away, too.
While I had dashed for the driver’s door, however, Lindsey had run around the passenger side, where the side door was open.
She dove through.
The van accelerated.
She scrambled to the front.
The van began tilting down into the ditch bank.
And as I was opening the driver’s door and having guilt-laden epiphanies, I yelled, “It’s going over!”
Lindsey made one perfect kick at the brake.
The van skidded. Then — to my astonishment — it stopped.
All was well.
In a Predicament
No, just kidding. Everything was totally not well. Everything was absolutely completely the opposite of well.
Things were, in short, unwell.
The van was tipping nose first down a steep ditch bank, literally inches from going over a short-but-effective concrete cliff. It was tipping so steeply, in fact, that the rear-left wheel was high in the air. About two feet in the air, I’d guess.
Let me show you how things looked, van-wise.
I know, it’s grainy. But it’s the best we’ve got. We weren’t thinking about photos at the time.
Ben hung on the back of the bike rack, using his weight as leverage — maybe it’s what kept the van from sliding over, I don’t know.
“Let me take the brake!” I yelled. “You get out!”
“I can’t take my foot off the brake!” Lindsey yelled back.
She was right.
“What do we do?” I asked, my mind completely blank.
And it occurs to me now: it would be practically criminal to not end this installment of the race report here, when — finally! — I have an actual, literal cliffhanger.
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07.5.2016 | 6:47 am
A Note from Fatty: We’re now at a crucial point in the telling of my 2016 Rockwell Relay Race Report.
The story necessarily splits off in two directions here. Kind of like when Frodo and Sam break off from the rest of the Fellowship so they can head off to Mordor.
Luckily for me, I happen to be married to the person who can tell this part of the story — the part of the story I cannot tell. Because I was not there.
This is her story.
Abandoned: A Story of Riding Alone in the Desert
by The Hammer
“Hey, are you the girl riding the fourth leg for your team?” the cute, bubbly blonde asked me.
“Yes, I’m the fourth leg rider,” I replied, curtly.
“Maybe we could ride together?” She replied
Couldn’t she see that I had the “eye of the tiger?” That I meant business? That I was here to win a race? I wasn’t here to make friends.
Besides, I had Lindsey’s words echoing in my head: “You need to put thirty minutes on the Beauties and the Beasts” (BatB) Team. Thirty minutes!”
I knew she wasn’t joking, either. We knew how strong Nate from BatB is; I needed to give my husband the biggest buffer I could.
This was certainly no time for jibber jabber, but I replied, “Sure, we can ride together. But right now, I gotta go. I think this is my rider!”
I was overjoyed to see a lone rider coming toward me on the road; Ben had successfully popped the other riders. I would be able to start the 20 +mile climb out of Lake Powell—solo. I work best solo, but don’t really like to be the one being chased; I like to do the chasing.
Oh well, I was amped, regardless. I had been waiting all day to get on my bike.
I’ve never been the fourth leg rider. I usually take my turn cheering and catering to the fourth leg rider. I was always so happy to be the one not on the bike. Climbing out of Lake powell in 100+-degree heat never looked like very much fun, with the “reward” for that climb being a hot headwind as you descend into Hanksville.
Well here I was, about to ride into Hell.
During the beginning of each leg of the Rockwell Relay, I like to play a little game. When I leave the transition area, I like to see how far I can get before the crew van passes me the first time. My objective in this case was to make it up the one-mile climb and be on the descent down the back side or — even better — starting up the next climb.
Mission accomplished.
First and Second Stops
I had just started the long twenty-mile climb, when I heard the familiar cowbells and cheers from my team / fan club! They always make me so happy. As they passed, they yelled encouragement and asked if I needed anything.
“No, I’m good!” I said. I still had most of my waterbottle and a full bottle of Gatorade. I also had a jersey pocket full of GU. The van shot on ahead. I knew that the next time I would see them they would be off on the side of the road—probably out of the van, cheering me on. That is how we roll and why I love the Rockwell Relay so much! The team building and love that I feel for my crew grows and grows as the miles tick by!
Within a mile or two, I saw the giant SBR van, parked on the side of the road, with my crew ringing the cowbells and cheering. As I rode by, they asked again if I needed anything. I looked down at my bottles-I still had plenty. I would probably want a cold water bottle the next go around, but I was currently fine! I gave them the thumbs up as I rode by.
Riding Alone
For the temperature being around 100 degrees, I was feeling quite amazing. The road now turned into a mellow climb, some rollars, but no major climbing. I was moving fast enough the air wasn’t stifling hot; the wind was manageable. It seemed to be coming at me from different sides — like a warm fan blowing at me from different angles. I was still riding solo, but knew that someone was closing in on me. You see, a car was consistently leap frogging me about every mile.
I was afraid to turn around…..so I didn’t. I never knew how close he was. I recognized the driver of the car: I had talked briefly with him during Lindsey’s leg. He was crewing for the Salty Dogs (50+) team, the Mike Nosco Memorial Team.
Should I hold up and wait for their rider? No, I thought. He can catch me if he can! I rode on.
Ten minutes went by….
Twenty minutes went by….
Thirty minutes ticked by, the other crew’s car had leapfrogged me at least 3 times.
Where was my crew? Where was the van?
I picked up my water bottle…to find that I had about one swallow of (hot) water left. I grabbed my second bottle, which was full of Gatorade. I was shocked to find that the Gatorade was about 95 degrees. And hot Gatorade is about the most disgusting thing in the world. It practically burned my throat as I swallowed it.
SOMETHING IS WRONG, VERY, VERY WRONG
My crew would never leave me out on my own in hundred degree weather riding my bike unless something horrible had happened, I thought, repeatedly.
I played through every awful scenery you can think of, most revolving around an overheated van or an accident with a bike, car or pedestrian. You name it and I thought up a horrible graphic scenario. Believe me I have a very graphic imagination and these scenarios were not. One thing I did know was that every story involved that darn borrowed SBR van.
The other horrible scenario that was unfolding before my eyes was me, dying of heat exhaustion and dehydration on the side of the road……well not really, but the thought did cross my angry mind. I was starting to feel the discomfort of not having any water, hot or cold. My throat was dry and sore and my tongue was sticking to the sides of my mouth. My lips were cracked and drying up.
Well…I might be exaggering a bit. I knew if it came right down to it, I could drink the scalding hot Gatorade. Ugh. I wasn’t positive I wouldn’t rather die.
But lo and behold, a better option appeared! I had a crew car following me—not my crew car, but someone else’s crew car: the 50+ team (Mike Nosco Memorial) crew car pulled ahead of me and parked on the side of the road.
SALVATION!
Of course, I didn’t realize — and wouldn’t have cared — that this was the same team that had a rider confront Elden and Ben a little earlier, or that this team’s rider (who was supposed to be dropping me like a rock) was perpetually 200 yards behind me [It’s very interesting to watch how evenly-matched these two were. The Hammer / Tod Strava flyby shows they remained almost exactly 100 seconds apart for forty-five miles. I wonder how much faster they would have completed this leg if they were working together! —Fatty]. I was just thirsty, and bet they had water. So I rode alongside the car and frantically waved my arms —I’m sure looking like a dehydrated madwoman. They quickly rolled down the window. I exclaimed that I was dying of thirst and could I please get a bottle of water!
The kind man said, “I got you covered, I’ll do a bottle handup.”
And I was saved….by the kind man in the Mike Nosco Team car and a ice-cold bottle of water.
Return of the Crew
Now that I wasn’t going to die, my thoughts returned to my crew.
Car after car passed, I would wishfully look up to find that it was not my van.
Forty minutes had passed when I finally heard them. I looked up to see Lindsey hanging out of the window, but my eyes went passed her to my husband who was driving. Elden had a big ol’ piece of pizza in his hand, eating while he was driving. Not a care in the world.
Elden was eating pizza, while I was dying of dehydration.
I was livid.
“Where the hell have you guys been?” I yelled.
I was actually a little surprised at how angry I sounded. I was super relieved to see all of them and the van in one piece. I wasn’t going to die — my new friends had saved me. So why was I sounding so angry?
Trust me, this is The Hammer’s “I’m really mad” face.
Lindsey was yelling something about, “We have a very good reason for not being here.”
I didn’t even respond.
I even asked myself this same question. I think maybe because I was so relieved that everyone was okay, the crew, the van and me…but I still had a lot of frustration built up inside. And I needed to take it out on someone!
I angrily told them I was fine. They then left me alone to my feelings.
As I pedaled on I started to feel bad at my reaction. I was anxious to hear about whatever this “reason” was. But…I was still angry.
Some good did come of this, though: my anger and my now-hydrated body turned this extra anxiety into energy. The next time I looked down, I was going over thirty miles per hour, and I had less than 20 miles to the transition. The next time I saw the van I had them load me up with two bottles of ice-cold water (no Gatorade, thanks) and told them to hurry to the transition area. I would be there before they knew it.
And I was. No one ever caught me. I had soloed the entire leg and arrived at the Hanksville transition ….to an empty timing mat! [Faster, significantly, than any woman has ever done this leg before. — Fatty]
Elden was nowhere to be found.
And I’ll let him explain why in the next episode [To be honest, it’s probably going to take a few episodes — Fatty] of this story.
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