I had been running a 32x19 pretty religiously since coming back from Colorado, last year. It seems to be the best gearing for someone who doesn't want to spend time changing gears or having knee replacement surgery at 30. I can tolerate it on the bombed out climbs at Kennerdell (see: Blunder), but at times I wish I had something a little harder at North Park.
A week before the race, we ran into our friend Jim Mayuric at the park and stopped to chat for a while. He had done Shenandoah before and was getting ready to go down again, so I asked him for gearing recommendations. He said go harder. I laughed, then saw he was serious. I looked back at him with my head tilted. He looked right back at me, his head tilted. Two confused men.
The next day I texted Dahn to get his opinion. He thought I should go easier to accommodate some of the steeper, longer climbs. I compromised with both of them by sticking with what I had.
We made the drive down on Saturday afternoon and got a camp spot next to Jim. It was raining, and he was just standing there letting the weather beat down on him. I said let's get some Mexican, and he's never been one to complain.
We order some food and beers. Jim names off some of the fast single speeders who were signed up. "You should beat him. You may have trouble with those two." I just look back at him, while I chomp on my tacos and guacamole. "You climb better than that guy. He's quick on descents, but can't ride rocks well." I continue to chomp. He asks where I want to finish. I say somewhere in the top 30% overall. He laughs, apparently thinking I'm selling myself short. I don't laugh. Then, he sees that I'm the serious one this time around. He looks at me with his head tilted, confused. I look back at him and tilt my head, not confused.
"Maybe 40% if it's raining."
"Maybe 50% if I have a few more beers."
The next morning, Ry and I are up early. We were planning to ride this thing together, so I was nervous about being able to stick together at the start. We see fellow Butler-ite and friend Rob Spreng at the start and wish him luck. If anyone deserves a good result in this race, it's him.
The sun is just coming up, and it starts. We hit some fast descents and work our way through some rolling double track. Climb, climb, climb, roll, roll, climb.
Singletrack coming up. It starts to bottleneck, and we make it up the twisty climb, before having to wait. The trails are fantastic. Tacky and fast. Ryanne is cussing with glee and happiness behind me. We make it down the first major descent to the first aid station. We pass through it, and make our way out to a road section.
The road continues for a few miles. I spin out on the flat section and make use of Ry's gears in front of me. We're moving a bit faster. Another geared guy jumps on the back. She pulls for a few miles. This guy keeps bumping my wheel. I ask him if he wants to take a turn and pull some. He says that I should be pulling since, I've been "using this girl's wheel for so long". I laugh and turn around. "In about seven hours, 'this girl' is gonna be bat-shit fucking crazy on my ass at some remote location in this endless forest. Her cramps and hunger will be my fault, and the cursing will continue until the finish. And you know what? I'm going to take it, because I'm just a dumb man. Oh, and then I'll buy her dinner. And then drive her home and wash her bike."
My reality bomb keeps him behind me, and the blonde time bomb stays out front.
We enter more singletrack. It starts pitching up, and there are a lot of people pushing in front of us. The trail is only about two feet wide. Steep embankment on the left. Wall of dirt on the right. My cranks are turning so slow up the grade, and I'm right on someone's feet. I can't pedal this slow behind so many people pushing. I hop off. We push, push, push. I try running past. It's a tight squeeze, but I manage to get around a few. After a while, it starts to level out.
Of the six major climbs in the race, number two is the worst.
The second major descent, though - quite the opposite. It flows and rolls. More downs than ups, my heartbeat oscilates smoothly with the change in elevation. Calm and easy. Long, smooth chutes of brown Virginia dirt are interrupted by patches of chunky white rocks and dark water bars. My heart beats faster. A history of good thoughts enter my mind, as my bike flows over the soft quilt of the forest floor. I hope one day to find a trail where the cloth never ends.
But, in the George Washington National Forest - it does.
So we climb, climb, climb, descend, descend, descend.
We pass through the fifth aid station at the top of Soul Crusher. I down some M&M's and a bunch of other junk. We continue on and start working up the last pitch of the mountain through the 13 Meadows section. Somewhere around mile 80. Storms just rolled through, so the three to four miles of pitchy climbing is nothing but loamy and grassy mud.
I start pushing. Shit.
I get mud in my eye. Double shit.
My contact gets dislodged and goes somewhere else on my eyeball. Triple fuck.
Ryanne stops and shoves her dirty finger in my eye socket looking for it. Five minutes later, "I see it! Hold still!"
Thank goodness, I think. I may actually be able to see something on the upcoming descent.
She grabs it, then immediately throws it to the ground like she just stuck her hand in the bug hole in the Temple of Doom.
I look at her, my eyes ready to pop out of their sockets. I fall to the ground, pulling the grass apart, searching frantically. All of a sudden I'm Golem looking for the One Ring.
It's no use. It's gone. She feels terrible. We start to get back on our bikes. Some old guy passes us. "Bad day to lose a contact." he says. He spins up the hill, grinning. Bastard.
Last meadow. Now the downhill. We start cruising. I'm squinting my left eye. It's almost better if I keep it closed. Rock garden. Swooping birm. Rock garden. Swooping birm. Roc...
...I see the old guy ahead. He's stuck in the rocks. I bunny hop a small boulder and blow past him like One Eyed Willie.
Unfortunately, I almost wreck soon-after while daydreaming and thinking of the sweet Rube Goldberg machine from the opening of The Goonies.
Aid station six. One more quick climb then we hit the last bit of singletrack. I expect a couple more miles, but we pop out above the campground. Ry and I ride in together, then I quickly accelerate past her, taking the Palermo win. Rob and Jim are waiting at the finish line. Rob finished fifth. Really cool. When I see him at Moraine riding rocks in the rain, and I'm leaving to go do something less-difficult, it reminds me how he's gotten as good as he is. Crazy.
As for me, I managed top 30% overall. 11 hours.
...Ok, ok. 11 hours AND four minutes.
But, I think I could really come to like 100 mile races. I'm going to put in an effort to do a few of the other NUE events next year, and Shenandoah will be at the top of that list.
