04.30.2012 | 7:55 am
Friday, about 4:30AM, I woke with a start — a terrible truth racing through my head.
“The Hammer,” I said, gently shaking The Hammer awake (while wishing I had given her a nickname that didn’t start with “The,” due to the awkward sentence constructions it creates during ordinary conversation), “I just realized: I haven’t boiled the bratwurst for RAWROD.”
“Mmm,” replied The Hammer, helpfully.
So I headed downstairs and got the brats boiling in my own special blend of PBR, chopped onion, and store-brand Worcestershire sauce.
Holy smokes, I thought to myself. If I almost forgot something as important as preparing the bratwurst, what else might I have forgotten for this trip?
Hey, it had been a busy week at work.
Friday Night
The IT Guy (the Hammer’s 22yo son) was coming with us, and was in fact volunteering to let his truck be used as the Sag Wagon for RAWROD (if you don’t know what RAWROD is, maybe you should read this, this, and this. Or this. Or just watch this). But I still had a more-or-less full workday, so we didn’t get out the door ’til late afternoon, and we didn’t get to the campsite at the top of Horsethief trail ’til about 8:30.
Kenny and I had a brief conversation about this fact via text message:
By the time we arrived — 8:30 as I predicted — it was dark. And most people had found something else to eat.
Which is a shame for them, because the people who waited (or who decided that due to the fact that we’d be riding our mountain bikes for 10-12 hours the following day it was just fine to eat a second dinner) discovered the indescribable beauty of beer-boiled bratwurst grilled over a wood fire under the stars in the desert.
Trust me: it lives up to the hype.
A Little About the Bikes
For a while, RAWROD was getting out of control — more than 50 people. This year, it was at a much more manageable size of around 20. We headed out at around 8:00am, riding an easy all-day pace.
I was riding my Specialized Stumpjumper Carbon 29 SS — currently my very favorite bike, geared at what I consider the most magically perfect gear there is: 34×19. The Hammer was on Her Gary Fisher Superfly SS, geared considerably lighter at 32×22 (it would be a high-cadence day for The Hammer).
The IT Guy was riding his Specialized Epic, but now equipped with brand new Shimano XTR brakes (he had fallen considerably out of love with his old brakes after a grabby front brake helped him endo and break his collarbone last August).
And Kenny — his cast freshly removed from his wrist — was riding his Niner SS. I should note that Kenny had recently used a fiberglass repair kit to fix his Niner. This is interesting primarily because of the reason Kenny had to repair the frame: he had worn a hole in the chainstay by his heel rubbing it each revolution of the cranks.
You want to be fast like Kenny? Ride your bike so much that you wear a hole into it.
The Ride Begins
The day started cool — but not cold. Armwarmers were just enough to make the ride comfortable.
The first 13 miles of the ride around White Rim (if you’re going clockwise and starting at the top of HorseThief) is a very moderately uphill, well-groomed, wide uphill dirt road — the perfect place to get your legs warmed up.
The pace was mellow, I loved the company I was in, the weather was looking good, and there was no wind to speak of.
The day was looking good.
We got to Schaeffer, — the only sustained descent of the day — and I took a minute to look out into the basin of the White Rim, where we’d be spending the rest of th day riding:
I wish I were a good photographer; my photos do this incredible place no justice whatsoever.
The drop down Schaeffer is always a little bit spooky, but it went off without any trouble.
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for what happened about twenty minutes later.
Ooooops
The Hammer and I were riding along the rough, rocky dirt road, side by side. Talking, enjoying the spring morning. Everything was going great.
And then, suddenly, our handlebars touched. Locked together.
Did I move into her line, or did she move into mine? I don’t know.
But I do know that when I pulled left to get our handlebars apart it made her veer hard right. She unclipped! Got a foot out and onto the ground! It looked like she was going to get out of this fall on her feet.
No. She had too much momentum. She fell forward off to the side of the road, landing on her side and hitting her head against rocks and dirt.
Apart from a headache, she was OK.
I, on the other hand, felt like a total absolute dork for about two hours.
Tomorrow: Part II
Comments (16)
10.6.2011 | 5:00 am
It was 3am. I was lying in bed. Not sleeping, just lying there. I had two reasons for not being able to sleep:
- The next morning, we were going to ride the Col du Galibier. First up the North side, then down the South side. Then up the Telegraphe, then back down, then back up the South side of the Galibier, and then — finally — coast down to the hotel. A big day of riding and climbing for our final day on the tour. I was just too excited to sleep.
- There was a very loud group of Belgians partying all through the night outside, just below our window.
The Belgians were there for a big event: a charity ride, where thousands (literally) of people would climb the Col du Galibier, the same day we would be.
The good news — as far as we were concerned — was that the road would be closed to cars because of this event. The bad news was that thousands of bikes are almost certainly more of an obstacle than a few cars. Oh, and no cars meant that our trusty follow van wouldn’t be there for us. We’d have to carry everything we needed for the day, like normal folks.
Ominous
The Belgians went to bed around 5am (really), so I got a good solid two hours-worth of sleep. So I woke grouchy and foggy. I knew it wouldn’t last, though. I knew from experience that riding gives me (temporary) relief from sleep deprivation, not to mention from cold symptoms.
But the sky was looking dark. Like it could rain.
The Hammer and I rolled up armwarmers and rain jackets and stuffed them into our jersey pockets. Surely, that would be enough.
A few miles of climbing from our hotel in La Grave brought us to the Galibier. Carlos — a heart surgeon from NY who goes on a couple tours with Andy Hampsten every year — rode with us. He asked The Hammer if she calls me “Fatty.”
“No,” replied The Hammer. “I used to, but now I call him Elden.”
Carlos looked at me. “You should have everyone call you ‘Fatty,’” he told me. “Who would want to be called ‘Elden‘?”
I admitted I had never thought about it that way before.
Summiting the Galibier (The First Time)
The Galibier is a daunting climb, because you can see all too well where you’re going. The road just grinds up and up and up.
Fortunately, as you climb, you can also look down and see what you’ve accomplished, so far:
We weren’t trying to set any records that day — I’d had enough of that for one trip — and so we took time to get pictures.
Thanks to Carlos, we were even able to get some with The Hammer and me together.
There were several cows — all white — alongside the road. Some of them would run beside you. Most of them would moo at you, too.
“Fatty, I think that cow just told you to get moooooving,” Carlos said. Which started a whole string of moo-related jokes. Which all seemed totally hilarious at the time.
Laughing and joking the whole way up, I hardly noticed that we had just climbed around 4000 feet in under twelve miles.
We were there. At the top of the Galibier.
As were about five hundred other people.
We got a shot of us with Andy Hampsten:
Was it a coincidence that Andy wore his “Galibier” jersey when he climbed the Col du Galibier? Only Andy knows for sure.
And I got this shot:
I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in the world with a picture of him or herself being put in a headlock by a grand tour winner at the top of the Col du Galibier. Can anyone prove me wrong?
It was kind of fun to stand back and watch people on the summit. I saw several people suddenly recognize Andy and point him out. It was the cycling equivalent of going to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and seeing Mic Jagger hanging out there. Or something like that.
La Rivine
We began the descent down the South side of the Galibier, which meant we were going the opposite direction of most of the thousands of people still climbing. All the way down, I looked at peoples’ faces. Some were having a great time; some were suffering bad. But everyone was doing what it took to get to the top.
I love that about cycling.
We got to a cafe, where we bought all kinds of pastries. And paninis. And quiche.
And, for The Hammer and myself, a couple of Cokes.
For whatever reason, there was nothing quite as wonderful as Coke during this trip.
I don’t know if it was that we were hungry, or just that we were tired of 12-course meals, but this was my favorite meal of the trip thus far. If I ever go to France again, I am going to do all of my eating out of roadside cafes.
As we ate, the clouds got darker. The wind picked up.
“I don’t think we should do the Telegraphe,” said Andy.
On one hand, I was a little bit disappointed. On the other hand, it’s not like we didn’t have plenty of riding ahead of us. In point of fact, we now were going to climb the South side of the Galibier.
The Galibier Climb (the Second Time)
We started climbing again, this time with The Hammer, Carlos, Andy and I all riding together.
Then I made a mistake.
I told Andy, “You should really be writing a book. Have you thought of writing one?”
“Actually, I have,” said Andy. And he started telling me about it. From time to time, I’d throw in a little piece of input.
But you know how when you get absorbed in a conversation, you can totally lose track of what you’re doing? That’s what happened with Andy. As he got interested in telling me about his book idea, he started riding faster and faster.
Still talking easily, still breathing calmly. But definitely going faster.
Before long, Carlos and The Hammer dropped off the back. I was hanging on.
Barely.
Andy was riding easily, thinking and talking about how he’d organize the chapters in his book.
I’d say maybe two or three words between gasping breaths. Andy spoke in full paragraphs.
And the climb just went on and on.
Rain
Finally, we got to the top. I figured, based on how I felt, that we must have been ten to fifteen minutes ahead of The Hammer and Carlos.
They rode up about one minute later.
At which point, I got my favorite shot of the trip.
At the moment I took this shot, it began to rain. One drop.
Then ten at once.
Then it was a downpour.
We put on what we had brought with us and began the trip down. At which point, I began to wish we weren’t descending in this downpour; that just made us all the colder.
I followed The Hammer the whole way down. I am not ashamed to say it: she is a better road descender than I.
Half an hour later, we were soaked, freezing, but back to our hotel.
La Grave is beautiful even when it’s raining.
This gave us a daily total of 43.5 miles, with 7200 feet of climbing.
I love the elevation profile:
Afterward
That was the end of our last ride. Sure, we finished with soaking bike shoes, but we spent the whole week riding with dry shoes. That’s not bad at all.
It rained the next day as we made our way back to Lyon. Torrentially. And the bus broke down. And it rained all through the night and into the next morning.
And our train — the Rhonexpress, which had broken down on our way from the airport to Lyon — broke down on the way from Lyon to the airport.
It didn’t matter. We were giddy from what we had experienced.
It’s now been almost exactly a month since we finished this trip; it’s been fun for me to re-live it by writing the stories down. Earlier today, I asked The Hammer, “Can you believe we got to go on that tour? Any one of those rides would have been worth the trip. Stacking that many incredible rides together, well…wow. That was the vacation of a lifetime.”
And it really was.
PS: In case you’re curious, our total mileage for the tour was 420 miles, with 45,344 feet of climbing. That’s a lot.
Comments (38)
10.5.2011 | 9:45 am
A “Go Big” Note from Fatty: In yesterday’s post, I asked you to help me help my friend Dustin keep a promise, by donating to my fundraising page for the Young Survival Coalition Tour de Pink. Click here for more details on that. Or just click here to donate.
Today, I’ve got an awesome additional way you can help me help Dustin get to his $20,000 goal. And this time, you’ll get some great gear out of the deal.
It’s what I’m calling the “Go Big” event at Twin Six. Specifically: today only, Twin Six will donate 50% of its gross for all size XL and larger (both mens and womens) t-shirts, jerseys, and shorts to the Team Fatty fundraising page for the Tour de Pink.
Yep, Twin Six is putting both the “Team” and “Fatty” in “Team Fatty:” half of what they take in, they donate. For size XL and bigger.
So, if you’re size XL or bigger — or you know someone who is — today’s the day to go shopping. You’re going to get awesome stuff, and half your money will go to an outstanding cause.
Allow me to make a few recommendations for items I consider worth taking a good hard look at:
- The Argyle (Yellow): It’s on sale for $46, which means if you buy an XL or XXL, you’re getting a great deal and making a $23 donation. Nice.
- The Masher (Womens): On sale, $46, and available in XL. A steal of a deal with a side benefit of making a great donation.
- Cars R Coffins: I love this jersey. $75 means you’re paying normal price, and you’re also making a sizeable donation: $37.50. Wow. XL available. Or how about a Cars R Coffins t-shirt? $12 of your $24 goes to the Young Survival Coalition. Sweet! Available in XL and XXL.
- Greaser Tech T: I love the Twin Six Tech-T’s, but they’re usually a little pricey. But this one’s on sale for $26, making it a great deal on a shirt that’s awesome for MTBing or running or nacho-eating. And $13 gets donated. XXL and XXXL available.
- CX T-shirt. Already on sale for $16, this beautiful t-shirt’s a no-brainer if you wear an XL or XXL. And the fact that $8 of your $16 goes toward fighting cancer makes it even less than a no-brainer. An anti-brainer, if you will.
I guarantee you, I’ll be buying a few things myself.
A “Hey, That Bottle’s Not So Ugly Anymore, Is It” Note from Fatty: Last week, I wrote a post describing how I was unhappy with the look of this year’s FatCyclist.com bottles. Well, since then the fact that these are the best bottles I have ever owned (brilliant valve, easy lock, easy-to squeeze bottle) has kind of warmed me up to them, and I have no intention of returning or giving away any of the ten I got for myself.
That said, these are not exactly what they should be, and so here is what you should do if you bought one or more of these bottles:
- If you just don’t want it: Send an email to service@twinsix.com and they’ll work with you to return the bottle and get a full refund.
- If you’re OK with keeping it but would like a little something special from Twin Six to put them back on the top of your favorite companies ever: Use the coupon code teamfatty when purchasing any full-price item (or multiple full-price items) at TwinSix between now and the end of the year. You’ll get 30% off on that purchase. You can buy multiple full-price things and get all of them at 30% off, but you only get to use this code once, so use it wisely.
I’m pretty sure that between these two options, we’ve got everyone covered.
Disaster On the Way to La Berarde
The day started with an interesting lesson. Before we began our 2000-foot descent to The Bourg, from which we’d be climbing 4500 feet up to La Berarde, Andy Hampsten did a little seminar several of us had been asking about.
He talked about how to descend faster.
It was all useful info, but Andy predicated it with, “Don’t try anything I’m talking about today. Practice on the roads you know best; the one’s you’re most comfortable on.”
Fair enough.
We begin the ride down the mountain road from La Grave. I am in no hurry, and plan to be in no hurry the entire day; I am saving myself for the following day — our final day of the tour — when we’ll be climbing the Col du Galibier. Both sides of it.
Yeah. Really.
So when we catch up with a garbage truck also going down the mountain road, I ask The Hammer if it’s OK for us to just slow down; there’s no way we’re going to get around that truck on this road, and I’d rather cruise down this beautiful mountain without the sight and smell of a garbage truck right there.
We ride downhill nice and easy, turning on our lights when we go through tunnels.
Then, coming out of a tunnel and around a corner, we see it: a bunch of cyclists crowded around another cyclist, who is laying on the ground.
Even before we get close enough to tell who it is, we can tell from the Cinghiale jersey that It’s someone from our group.
Oh no.
We quickly dismount and walk over. It’s one of the guides.
Then I see his leg. And I realize that I can see into it. All the way to bone.
“I think I’m OK,” said the guide. “I don’t think anything’s broken. I think I can move.”
“No!” say several of us, at the same time. Carlos, a heart surgeon, explains further, “Trust me on this. Your leg’s broken.” He doesn’t tell the guide what all of the rest of us can see: that it’s a textbook compound fracture.
And I’m suddenly really glad that, among our tour group, we have an EMT — Shawn — and a doctor. (It would have also been awesome to have the trip winner, Laura, with us, because she’s an orthopedic surgeon; she had gone ahead with an earlier group, though.) They get the guide covered and comfortable as possible.
I keep thinking how good it is that there are people around who know what they’re doing, because I certainly don’t.
Then we stand around and wait for the ambulance.
Meanwhile, the guide seems pretty amazingly lucid and happy, though we have to keep telling him that no, it is not okay for him to try to get up.
And a good thing, too, because once at the hospital, he’d find that he had a broken tibula and fibula, a broken clavicle, and a broken hip. Which is to say, for the next little while, he’ll have the unhindered use of one of his limbs.
We try to piece together what happened. Nobody really knows exactly, but it seems that as the guide came around a bend, he saw traffic ahead was stopped. He grabbed his brakes and went down, probably bouncing or slamming against those concrete barrier blocks you see in the picture above.
It seems weird and wrong to call anything about this kind of accident “lucky,” but there was definitely at least some good luck in how he crashed. Because he at least crashed and slid, staying on the road.
His bike, on the other hand, must’ve taken one good bounce, because it was not on the road anymore.
Nope, it had gone over that concrete barrier and continued on its own:
I know, at first that photo just looks like a shot of trees and bushes down below. But if you’ll look a little closer, you’ll see the bike, which had free-fallen for at least 50 feet. Probably closer to 60.
A couple of people went and recovered the bike. The titanium frame looked surprisingly good (I wouldn’t swear to its rideability, though). The fork, on the other hand, was a different matter:
Did that happen on initial impact, or after the fall? No way to know, really.
It seems like it takes forever for the ambulance to arrive. Eventually, though, it does.
What Now?
With the morning’s disaster over with, we’re confronted with a question: what do we do now? Continue with the ride as planned, or call it a day?
Some people want to keep riding, some want to head back to the hotel.
In a low voice, I tell The Hammer I don’t understand why the question is even being asked. Of course we should keep riding, I say. It’s not like our odds of getting hurt go up because someone else got hurt today. And it’s not like our going back to the hotel is going to help the guide get better any more quickly.
The Hammer tells me not to be stupid. Yes, I’m pretty sure she said — and I’m using the quote marks here because I’m quoting her — “Don’t be stupid.” And then she explains that not everybody reacts to trauma the same as I do. And my way of dealing with stuff isn’t the only right way to deal with stuff.
Imagine that.
On to La Berarde
In the end, some of us continue on the ride, some of us don’t. Shawn, Laura , Carlos and I head up in a group.
And I’m so glad we did, because I’m pretty sure it’s the most beautiful ride of the trip so far. The climb is steep and loaded with switchbacks, and the river is an astonishing turquoise color:
There are dozens of small-but-beautiful waterfalls on the opposite side of the canyon from us (you can see them if you click the image below for the larger version):
And we come across a church with what has to be the most incredible view in the world.
I just can’t get over how these little villages are built right against cliffs like this:
4500 feet of climbing later, we make it to the town of La Berarde, where the van is waiting for us, with a picnic in place. A good thing too, because by the time we got there, I was a whole new kind of hungry. Here’s The Hammer, drinking an Orangina and eating the only pastry I did not eat:
In fact, I got so into the groove of eating that I didn’t stop until well after I should have.
You know what doesn’t feel great? Knowing you’re going to have to get back on your bike when you’re overstuffed, that’s what.
We descend back to the Bourg, then start our almost-daily climb of 2000 feet back to La Grave. “I feel like Wonder Woman,” says The Hammer, right about at the moment I am about to ask her to maybe slow down a little. She is riding so incredibly strong.
Somehow, by the time we get to La Grave, I am hungry again. Our daily total? 64 miles and 6473 feet of climbing. About normal for this trip.
The Hammer and I stop at a roadside cafe and get ice cream and a Coke.
As we sat there, I remember asking myself, “Could I possibly be happier than I am at this moment?”
And I don’t think I could have been.
Comments (28)
09.21.2011 | 6:43 am
Have you ever sat down and thought about what a memory is? Me either, until it was time for me to start writing this blog post, at which time I began thinking about my fourth day of riding in France, when my group rode from Aix-les-Bains to La Grave.
And I found myself thinking about what a memory is. Or really, what a memory is not.
See, a memory of a ride can’t be a recollection of the whole ride, because that would take too long. Instead, your brain has to pick out certain unique moments and maybe munge together groups of similar moments. And then you call that edit of your experience your memory.
And if, for some reason, there’s something special or powerful about that memory, it may become the dominant memory you have for a certain kind of activity. Or maybe you’ll even begin to associate that memory with certain words.
For example, my dominant memory for the trip to France comes from the ride I’m about to tell you about: climbing the Col-du-Glandon.
And — maybe it’s too early to say, but I think it’s true — my new mental picture of “road climbing” is associated with climbing the Col-du-Glandon.
In other words, this fourth day of riding affected me pretty powerfully.
It Starts Out Easy
The plan was simple. We got up in the morning in our hotel in Aix-les-Bains, dragged our luggage downstairs, where the tour guides would pack it all into a bus and drive it to La Grave, where we’d be staying for the rest of the tour.
Our ride for the day, meanwhile, would be to cover that distance by bike. 107-ish miles.
Honestly, I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Neither did The Hammer. We’ve reached the point where 100+ miles on a road bike is not a frightening prospect.
And the first 50 miles was, in fact, pretty flat.
We rode along bike paths and through little villages. Around roundabouts chained to roundabouts.
I wondered, aloud, what “Rappel” meant, since it appears on so many road signs.
We stopped a couple hours into the ride at a field bordering a vineyard at the base of a mountain.
Yes, I often ask The Hammer what she’s going to wear on a ride, and then dress the same. Isn’t that precious?
The day had that autumn feel to it — warm sun, cool air — and was just perfect for a ride. We were cruising. Not really going fast. But not dawdling either. I repeat: we were cruising.
Talking in a rotating two-across paceline.
Why, I believe that Stanley Tucci and Patrick Dempsey are taking a turn pulling. Will wonders never cease?
And then, about 45 or so miles into the ride, lunch in a beautiful little park at the edge of a village.
Honestly, that’s not a backdrop or anything. It’s just how the place looks.
Beautiful drinking fountain in village, as required by law. Beautiful wife not required by law, but definitely a nice addition.
Col-du-Glandon
Right after lunch came the part that I now associate with “road climb:” the Col-du-Glandon.
If you take a look at the elevation profile for the day, you’ll get an inkling of why:
You see how the elevation kinda does nothing for 55 miles or so, and then suddenly goes a little bit nuts?
Yeah. That’s the Col-du-Glandon. 5000 feet of climbing in 13.7 miles.
But you know, I’m worried that I’m selling this climb as a horrible experience. It was not. It was an amazing, perfect, beautiful climb, that just happened to go on forever.
It starts with more of what we had become used to: moderate-grade climbing with occasional villages to spice things up.
But then it opens up to a wide mountainside, and you can look up and see switchback after switchback after switchback.
And you know that, eventually, you’re going to have to ride all of it.
Here’s what it looks like when you’re looking down on it:
Steeper than it looks. And I think it looks pretty steep.
And here’s The Hammer, going past one of the kilometer markers considerately placed to let you know you’re making progress.
My favorite moment of the climb came when, after several kilometers with an average grade advertised at 11%, one of the markers promised an incline of 9%.
“Oh good,” said The Hammer. “Just nine percent for a while.”
And she said it without any irony whatsoever.
The Hammer and I rode this whole climb together. Sure, I could have indulged my inner cycling dweeb and decimated myself by being a minute-point-five faster, but I decided: one of the nice things about a riding vacation together in France is riding together.
Aren’t I smart?
After an eternity of switchbacks and smallest-gear climbing, we reached the top. Which called for photographs in heroic stances.
“No, I’m not sucking my gut in. What would make you think I’m sucking my gut in?”
OK, that’s more of a Vanna White pose than a heroic pose, but I like it.
The Other Side
Do me a favor and scroll back up to that elevation profile earlier in this post, and then come back to here.
Pretty bomber, isn’t it?
So when I say that I really don’t remember the downhillishness (including what looks like a drop off a cliff on the elevation profile) of the descent down the other side of the Col-du-Glandon, you must understand that there was some seriously beautiful scenery taking my mind off of that descent.
And the thing is, neither of us are especially good photographers. I.e., this is what you get with a point-and-shoot.
There is nothing quite so wonderful as a windbreaker when you’re starting a descent on a cold day and you’re all sweaty from the climb. Not that The Hammer sweats.
I don’t know what these are.
We finished the descent proper and rolled on relatively flat roads to Le Bourg d’Oisans — the gateway to the Alpe d’Huez. Somewhere on that relatively flat road, though, I faded.
Hard.
By the time we reached this little town, in fact, I was cooked.
Okay, maybe this was a staged shot. The sentiment behind it was genuine.
The Hammer was feeling pretty wiped out, too. This, however, was put aright by purchasing pretty much the entire contents of a bakery, and two cans of Coke, each.
The Hammer asks me to point out the awesomeness of her Smartwool jersey. Perfect for temps that go from warmish to coldish and back again. (And I would like to acknowledge the awesome restorative powers of Coke.)
We now felt good enough to take a couple of hammy pictures.
Between the jersey and the armwarmers (which she stole from me), The Hammer is pretty much ready to shoot the 2011 Smartwool catalog.
Climb to Home
We were tired. We were ready for the day’s ride to be over. But there was a problem. We still had to ride to La Grave, which is where our hotel was situated.
And La Grave is 2000 feet higher than Le Bourg-d’Oisans.
So we started riding. What else can you do? (Well, theoretically we could have bailed out and gotten in the van, but neither of us really liked that idea).
There’s something distinctly painful about starting to ride — uphill — when your body thinks it’s done for the day.
But you know what? There’s something very cool about having your legs, after five minutes or so, get back into the rhythm. And something even cooler about discovering that you do, in fact, have it in you to keep riding.
The Hammer and I were in a group of five or six riders, chugging along. Up ahead, there was another group of five or six riders.
I had no intention of bridging.
Then I saw The Hammer getting close to another of the riders in our group. I thought perhaps she wanted to get around, maybe take a turn at pulling. So I looked back, saw that there were no cars coming and said, “You can go.”
And she went.
Or, more specifically, she just rode the entire group off her wheel. Not so much an attack as a statement of authority.
I stood up, put my head down, and chased, catching her about the time she finished bridging to the faster group.
“What was that for?” I asked.
“You told me I could go,” she replied. “So I went.”
Clearly, I need to be careful about what I tell The Hammer.
Useful Comparisons
When I’m tired, I use close-to-home comparisons to help me bring the remaining part of a ride into perspective. So it was a nice surprise when The Hammer, out of nowhere, said, “Really, all we have left is a climb up the South side of Suncrest.”
I thought about it. We had about 1200 feet of climbing left. Which is about the amount from our house to the top of the South side of Suncrest. Which we do not really think of as a big deal.
That helped.
We got to our hotel in La Grave –The Edelweiss (of course) — right about as it got dark.
Tired. Hungry. And a little bit in awe of the epic ride we had just done: 105 miles (or so), with 10,500 feet of climbing. (And don’t forget that there was no climbing whatsoever for the first 55 miles.)
I was glad the next day was a rest day.
PS: A number of you have mentioned that you wish you had The Hammer’s side of the story. Well, honestly you’ve been getting it, kind of. The Hammer wrote a letter home every day we were gone, and I’ve been using it as source material while I write these posts.
That said, I think I will start posting her letter from the day along with my own post, since she does in fact talk about some things that I don’t, and sometimes has a different perspective on the same events.
Here’s her letter home, describing our Aix-les-Bains to La Grave ride:
Wow, wow, wow! I can’t even begin to put into words the ride we went on yesterday! Absolutely the most gorgeous ride ever!
We left our hotel in Aix les Bain at 0845. Our end destination would be in the Alpes in a small ski village named La Grave. We knew it would be around 100 miles, but had no clear idea on how much climbing we would be doing! We woke to another day of perfect weather, just a little chill in the air!
The first 50 miles were pretty flat. We rode on a bike path similar to Provo River bike path and in the bike lane on the road through many small villages and cities. We passed the only 3 stop lights I’d seen in our journey so far!
We rode in a long train and hardly expended any energy. Lunch was in a park next to a water fountain. After lunch, the first real climb of the day began. It was called the Col du Glandon and I’m sure it’s been in the Tour de France at some point!
It was a 14mile climb with 5000 ft of climbing! The average grade was around 9% and toward the end-the last 1 1/2 miles it was 15%. Blake, that is similar to the last switchback before the Squaw peak lookout that you love so much!
I actually enjoyed the climb. Elden and I rode together and passed several other riders from our group in the process! It was most satisfying!
The van met us at the top and we snacked on French cookies and took a lot of pictures. Then we put our windbreakers on and started the descent. This is where I can’t describe in words the beauty that was all around me! I was in awe!
We rode past a high mountain lake, beautiful flowers and mountain goats!! I thought I had died and gone to heaven!
When we finished the descent, we saw a sign that said the town we would be having our next break in was still 12k or just over 6 miles away! I was exhausted and my back hurt and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it on the 4 French cookies I had eaten over an hour ago! I tucked in behind Elden’s wheel and began a mini sufferfest!
We eventually pulled into the village of Le Bourg d’Oisans, home of the Alpe de Huez and a great little pastry shop-(according to our guides)! I bummed 5 euros off of another rider to buy a coke and downed 3 pieces of tart and finally started feeling better!
I also got a chance to use one of those fancy self-cleaning toilets. I wonder what happens if you get caught in one when it starts it’s cleansing cycle?
Le Bourg d’Oisans is where the climb to the top of Alpe de Huez begins. We will be returning on Thursday for that adventure!
After resting and getting refueled, a group of us headed out for our destination and bed for the night–La Grave! We had just hit the 90mile mark and 7500 ft of climbing! LaGrave was stll 15 miles and 2500 ft away from us!!! AAGH!!
The last 15 miles were grueling, but beautiful! We rode through several very long dark tunnels that were rather surreal. These miles passed rather quickly, I think the others in the group were suffering more than Elden and I!
We eventually arrived at our hotel. It’s old and quaint and has a funny smell, but it’s charming and home for us for the next few days!
The village is nestled up against the mountains. There is a huge peak and glacier looming over us! It is very pretty! After a nice shower, we all met up for dinner which consisted of pumpkin soup, lamb with kidney gravy, some kind of au gratin potatoes and string beans, followed by a course of cheese (the French love their cheese) and some kind of “puff” filled with ice cream and covered with chocolate sauce for dessert!
It’s now Wednesday morning and our official rest day! I scoffed a few days ago at the thought of a rest day–even brought my running shoes to go for a run! I have now reconsidered the error of my way and am officially resting my weary legs.
We have a load of wash in the washing machine and am seriously considering a nap and it’s only 11:30am!
Tomorrow: A longish video interview with Andy Freaking Hampsten.
Comments (44)
06.14.2011 | 8:24 am
A Note from Fatty: This is Part III of a long series about the 2011 Moab to St. George: Rockwell Relay race. Here’s what you’ll find in each installment:
- Part I: A little about the race, team philosophy, pre-race excitement, and the first two legs of the race covered.
- Part II: The Hammer rips up her first leg of the race, The IT Guy gives Heather motivation to continue by using a novel technique.
- Part III: The night laps begin. I turn off course, nearly hit a deer, and nevertheless love riding this race.
- Part IV: Night laps extract their toll on the team; The Hammer works with Jerry to both their benefit; I show off my Superman jammies; Kenny does a hard climbing lap on a singlespeed.
- Part V: We finish our final legs, going from cold to hot in record time. We collect our prizes and catch up on sleep. We announce our intentions to defend our title next year.
My sense of time got all jacked up during the Rockwell Relay. I mean, when we started, it was early Friday morning. Then I did some driving and racing, and it’s suddenly the hot part of the day. And then it’s Kenny’s turn to race, and…then it’s my turn to race again, but now — even though it feels like it should still be morning — it’s getting on toward night.
It’s amazing how fast night comes on.
I mean, when Kenny started his lap, it seemed the smartest thing in the world to wear a sleeveless jersey. It was blazing hot out there.
By the time he finished and handed off the slap-bracelet to me, though, it was cold. And starting to get dark.
Clothing and equipment were tricky for me for this leg of the race: riding up into the Boulder mountains, and then dropping. For one thing, I’d be starting the ride in the semi light, doing a big climb — where I’d definitely be heating up — followed by a big descent, where I’d definitely be in the cold, total dark of a mountain night.
My solution? Pure brilliance, as you’d expect. I suited up as you see above: shorts and short sleeves. I had my handlebar-mounted lights on and ready to go.
And here’s where the clever part comes in. Pay attention, please.
I told my team that I would want a jacket to wear once I got to the top of the climb. And that I would want more light power then, too, and so I’d want them to plug the battery in to my brand-new NiteRider Pro 1400 LED light I had mounted to my helmet, giving me a huge lighting (and confidence) boost for for the descent.
I know, I know. I’ll give you a minute to consider the elegant brilliance of my plan.
Wherein My Bacon is Saved
Having secured the Slap-Bracelet from Kenny, I took off at full tilt, happy to find that during the eight hours that had elapsed since my last leg (I had finished my first leg at 12:59pm and was starting my second leg at 8:53pm), my legs had recovered. I felt fine. I wanted, once again, to experience the euphoria of passing another cyclist.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Kenny was laying in the parking lot where the Exchange happened, crying genuine tears as his legs cramped up more severely than he had ever experienced in his life.
Of course, if I had known, I would have lent Kenny a hand, in the form of valuable advice such as, “Eat a banana. Or drink something.”
But, as I mentioned, I did not know.
And that was not all I did not know.
For example, I did not know that, as I pedaled my little heart out, head down, mind focusing on turning the cranks in beautiful sine waves, I had blown right through a left turn in the course, and was now officially riding off toward a destination unknown.
Luckily — indeed, incredibly luckily — for me, another team caught site of me before I got too far away and drove up alongside me, saying, “You missed a turn. You should have made a left about a half-mile back.”
I admit: I searched their faces for signs of treachery. For deceit.
Then, having found no such signs, I thanked them, made a U-turn, and started pedaling doubletime. No longer trying for a perfect sine-wave cadence. Mashing in anger.
I have since wondered, several times, how far I would have ridden if this team hadn’t caught and corrected my mistake. The fact is, I don’t even know which team it was. But I owe them a huge debt of gratitude.
Like I mentioned before, everyone competed on the bikes. Once off the bikes, though, everyone acted like incredibly good neighbors. I was glad to be in the middle of such good people.
But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to outride them.
Oh Deer
Fueled by embarrassment and the realization that I was now a full mile behind where I would have been if I had been paying attention, I got into the drops and resolved to give everything I had on this leg of the race. I would climb so hard that I got tunnel vision. I would descend on the very edge of recklessness.
I would make up the time, somehow, I had lost.
And that’s how I very nearly crashed out of the race.
I was riding on a nice, moderate descent — a good, working descent where you can get into your biggest ring and find out how fast your legs will really take you. I had taken to the middle of the lane, wanting the blinking red light to be as obviously centered in any motorist’s sight as possible.
Watching the wash of my light setup. Intrigued at how tiny my universe had become: my legs, my bike, the 30 feet in front of me and the eight feet to my left and right.
And I was hauling. 38mph, plus or minus a couple mph’s.
And that’s when the deer sprang out in front of me.
I locked my rear brake, giving my front brake considerably less of a squeeze — later, I would think about the kinda cool fact that twenty years of riding has given me a conditioned reflex for the right amount of brake to tug in an emergency.
The rear of the bike fishtailed left, then corrected true as I let the rear brake off a bit.
The deer bounded by. I’d say I missed it by two feet.
Later, I’d hear that another rider hadn’t been so lucky — he also had an encounter with a deer, resulting in a broken collarbone.
Which makes me wonder: how is it possible any deer hunter doesn’t come home with a truckload of venison every autumn?
Taking Flight
Now fueled by 2.5 quarts of adrenaline flowing through my veins, I rode furiously up the mountain, climbing the 3500 feet to the summit without really feeling the climb at all.
Each time my team passed me, they’d yell encouragement. I’d yell back.
It felt great to be alive, fast, on a bike, on the right course, and not T-boned by a deer.
Then, as I got near the summit and stopped, so Heather and The Hammer could help me get my jacket on and battery pack plugged into my NiteRider helmet light, I asked, “Where is everyone?”
The question was plaguing me. I had been riding so hard. But I had not seen a single other rider. Nobody had caught me. I had caught nobody. Were we the only team riding through the night?
“There’s another rider about two minutes ahead of you. You keep up this pace and you might catch him,” The Hammer told me.
It was all I needed to hear.
I tore off again, wanting desperately to catch somebody on this leg of the race. To show that, even with my big turning error, I was still adding value to the team’s standing.
And, almost at the exact moment I hit the summit, I caught him.
I was unable to contain myself; I howled. Literally. And then, with my lights blazing, I turned downhill.
I had 3500 feet of altitude to shed, and only eight miles to do it. No time to waste.
It was during this eight miles that I fell in love with the NiteRider Pro 1400 LED setup (Full Disclosure: NiteRider provided this light setup at no charge for my use during this race, but now I’m totally going to buy one). It was so powerful. So bright. The light covered such a large area, and so evenly. It felt better than car lights.
“This is amazing,” I thought. “I had no idea bike lights could be this good.”
And then I realized: I had only turned on the “flood” light. This thing wasn’t even going at full power. I pressed the switch again until it was burning at full brightness, at which point the leaves on all nearby trees burst into flame.
My teammates, now concerned about kamikazeIt deer at nighttime, decided a good deer interception strategy would be to drive the van a hundred yards or so in front of the bike. If something was going to hit a deer, better the van than a bike.
This served an awesome dual purpose: it let me know which way the road was going, letting me know early where the curves were coming from.
So I bombed the mountain descent. In the wind and the rain that had just started. With my lights blazing me a perfect view of what was coming up immediately, and the van giving me a good idea of what was coming up next.
Forty-five, fifty miles an hour. Down a mountain pass. At midnight. Laughing all the way.
When I reached my Exchange point, about an hour earlier than we had anticipated, I didn’t even wait for anyone to ask how I felt.
“That,” I said, “Was the single best ride I have ever had on a bike.”
Continue to Part IV
PS: While I was having the time of my life on this leg of the race, not everyone was so lucky. Callahan Williams, the honcho behind Team Give — the charity funding treatment and research for children with rare neurological disorders — hit a cattle guard wrong on this leg and crashed hard; he had to be life-flighted out.
Yesterday, The Hammer, while rounding at the hospital, caught up with Callahan.
His neck is badly injured and he’s scheduled to have surgery later this week.
So, if you would, take a moment to send a good thought or prayer Callahan’s way. And remember that things can go sideways in life at any time (on the bike or off); tell your family you love them often.
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