Park City Point 2 Point – Race Report
Some days you are the hammer and some days you get the crap kicked out of you and then have your nose rubbed in it. My experience last Saturday at the PCP2P, was pretty much the latter.
It all started well enough off – at the start I’d tipped back an Ensure, the temps were mild, the vibe was good and it was shaping up to be a solid day. There was some confusion during the pre-race sort, I think because the first call was for 6-7 hour finishers which wasn’t a legit start group (should have started with 7-8 hour finishers I think). I’d intended to jump in with the 9-10 guys, but because I counted groups starting from 6-7 hours, instead got into the 10+ hour crew. Which as fate would have it was a bad omen.
Kingdon, me and JJ rolling out at the start. After the race, JJ said “this was the fun part.”
Things were going swimmingly during the parade lap around Round Valley – pace was mellow, riders were easy, the air was crisp and filled with 28 lbs per square inch of dust and anxiety. When riding directly into the sunlight, visibility went to zero as dust particles made it look like I hadn’t washed my windshield in years.
But all the dust aside, Round Valley really is good trail and the first 8 miles were a lot of fun. Which was a bonus, because the next 50 miles weren’t…so much.
Things started going downhill (certainly not literally) at about mile 9. I was on the wheel of a very courteous rider climbing up out of the Meadows Drive section. As we moved up on slower riders he would politely ask to get by when there was a good spot to pass. When he went by I would also chime in with a “one more, if that’s okay.” Everyone we passed was very accommodating and would respond to our “thank you’s” with a “no problem” or “your welcome”. Everyone seemed to understand it was a race and that most of the course was single track – hence you’d have occasion to pass slower riders. It’s all good, right?
Everyone that is except one upstanding, albeit slightly larger fellow racer.
Curiously, this guy didn’t say anything in response to my new riding partner’s request to pass. He just moved over and didn’t so much as grunt in response to the first “thank you”. At the time, I didn’t know why I paid particular notice to his silence, but 3 minutes later it became clear why I was so curious.
The difference between this guy and the other riders we had passed was that he quickly grabbed the wheel of my partner, so rather than follow our normal passing pattern I just sat in and found a good cadence. Until it was clear that he couldn’t hold the wheel in front of him and quickly fell off a couple bike lengths. That’s when I chimed in with a “hey, when it’s convenient I’d like to pass too, thanks”. Again, no response. But as before, he moved to the right. So I accelerated to pass. And wouldn’t you know it, right when I came up alongside, he moved back into the center of the trail and locked up my handle bar yanking my wheel to the right, undercutting him and causing us both to go down in a heap – unfortunately with my new found riding buddy sandwiching me between him, my bike, and the ever so soft sage bush to our left.
Now, crashes happen. I think we all get that. So my first response was “dude are you okay?”
His first response? Rage and words from his mouth in very high decibels.
“IT’S AN 80 MILE RACE AND I WAS RIGHT ON HIS WHEEL!” was the gist of what he had to say.
To which I meant to respond with:
“Well, fine sir I am not sure what distance has to do with it, as you mentioned, it is a race after all and pray tell what do you mean you were right on his wheel, it was clear he was rapidly distancing himself from you.”
But what came out instead was:
“WHAT THE [bleep] DOES THAT MATTER…”
To which he responded with…nothing. Back to the silent treatment he was. He got up and pedaled away. I hurried to get back on my bike to continue our friendly dialogue when I noticed my handle bars were twisted into my navel. My seat was skeewampus. Half of my pulley hangar was snapped off. A spoke was broken. And I was bleeding down my leg. I think it is safe to say that The Silent Type came away from our little scrape in better condition than I.
Needless to say I littered the air with expletives as I tried to get the bike back together. Once I was back in the saddle I felt a surge of adrenaline and my focus was turned to REVENGE! Which doesn’t work so well in general and certainly not during a mountain bike race. While busting down the trail powered by my rage and fury I neglected the trail at hand and two miles later washed out hard on a sharp right turn. Now my right leg and arm were bleeding. Then I began to REALLY come unglued. I jumped back on the bike and started racing down the trail only to hear parts of my bike falling off behind me. Stopping to assess, I saw my bike tool and tube lying in the trail. In my rage and haste I had busted the zipper on my seat bag and it’s entrails were strewn across the single track.
Oh for the love of all that is holy – I’m only at mile ELEVEN!
Pulling into the aid station I hadn’t cleaned up my language much and greeted my crew with a “some dumb [bleep bleep bleep] crashed into me, can you pull off my seat bag?” Only I didn’t say “mother father” (sorry mom). theWife said I was visibly shaking while at the aid station. I chugged another Ensure and was off again – still plotting my revenge amidst a surge of adrenaline.
Update: So as you’ll see in the comments below, turns out I actually know the guy I got tangled up with in Round Valley. Amidst the dust, confusion, emotion and his speedy departure we didn’t realize with whom we had just intertwined. His name is Pat Terry and he is a really good guy and a solid rider. So Pat did indeed move to the right, but unbeknownst to me had to move back left into the trail because of a sage bush that would have sent him flying ass over tea kettle. You can read his version of the story here . If you read my previous edit of the story, I need to apologize to Pat – I went a bit over the top on his weight. Pat’s not fat, he’s just big boned. Sorry about that Pat.
I passed Dug and Sleepy along the Rail Trail and shouted an incoherent obscenity laced summary of my last 4 miles and continued up the trail. Dug responded with a typically even and mellow “that doesn’t sound like a very good start to the day” response. It wouldn’t be the last time Dug would try to help me get through the day.
At the Solomere junction I chugged down 26 oz of CarboRocket and another Ensure.
Then six miles later all that adrenaline was gone. And by gone I mean I could barely turn the pedals. I had crashed so hard from the adrenaline rush it felt like I hadn’t slept in weeks. Less than 20 miles into the 76 mile day I was completely spent and on the easiest and most enjoyable section of the race no less. And then came Dug, happily rowing up the trail behind me. We rode up over Snow Top and up about half of Deer Crest together, but I couldn’t hold his wheel and dropped off. I saw him as I came into Silver Lake and quickly chugged down another Ensure and another bottle of CarboRocket. theWife asked how I was feeling and I could only respond with “I am SO tired”. She said the difference in my physical appearance between the first aid station and the third was amazing – from shaking to lethargic in less than 20 miles. Not good considering the next 2 miles presented one of the steepest climbs of the day up to Bald Mountain.
I left the station before Dug, but it didn’t take him long to catch me. When he rolled up on me I was standing in a stupor on the trail. It was bad enough that I was so tired, but I had no spark. Zero. Nothing. He gave me some of his CR 333 to tug on, which I did. That little sip was either one of the bigger mistakes of the day or one of the crucial turning points. It was mixed pretty strong and I think probably acted like baking soda to the vinegar already churning in my belly. Dug seeing that all was lost continued up the trail and left me for dead.
I made it to the top and started the downhill. I am normally pretty fast on the descents, but I just couldn’t get anything going. Some lady blasted past me like I was standing still. Something wasn’t right. I was feeling bloated and felt like my kidneys were detaching with every bump in the trail. I limped around Bow Hunter, totally wasted the awesomeness that is Dear Camp and started into the trees on Flagstaff. Then all hell broke loose.
At first there were a few innocent wretches. Then the wretching turned to roars. If you’ve ever heard a T Rex mating call – it sounded like that. Over and over and over. Then an atomic puke bomb went off in my head. Then 4 or 5 more of them. The sheer volume of stuff coming out of my face was SPECTACULAR! It was like the pie eating contest in Stand By Me – only pink. The hills were alive with spewage and ruckus. Banks said later as he was coming up the hill he could hear the carnage and thought to himself “that sounds like Bright”. Say what? He recognized my wretch? I think we have spent to much time together.
After throwing off excess ballast things started feeling a bit better. I started to have clarity. The encounter in Round Valley followed by the subsequent adrenaline rush had overridden my body’s ability to digest all the liquid calories I’d consumed during the day. Even though my stomach was full – I was running on empty. I had burnt through the adrenaline jet fuel and had clogged the fuel pump while I was at it. At least that’s what I think happened. I only play a doctor on this blog.
I was a little worried that I had 5 miles to the next aid station with no food in me whatsoever, but I also started processing what I needed to do: get to the next aid station and regroup. Sit down, eat some solid food and just regroup. And so I did. During the second pass through Silver Lake I learned that Dug, Jason and Erik were already on their way. Banks, Kingdon, and Shellenberg rolled in behind me and things were starting to look up. I ate some fruit, peanut butter and jelly’s, and a coke and started feeling like I could at least get up and go.
The section between Deer Valley and Park City was long and hot. I ran out of water. But rather than dunk my head in and quaff a portion of Shadow Lake, I found the head of a little spring that was running down the trail and guzzled as much as my stomach could hold. As I was slowly making my way across this section, Banks caught me again and after a particularly steep climb back up double track to the lift below the brown shack we looked at our clocks. It was 1:19 PM – we had just over 2 hours to go 12 miles to make the cut off time. I was doubtful, Banks wasn’t – he was certain we’d make it. Banks’ confidence we’d make it was the second critical point of the day for me, once he said we could do it I was ready to make the push. We walked up the rest of the steep double track with a lady pushing a single speed and when it turned back to single track I got on and went, no looking back. Turns out I should have maybe looked back at least once, because Brandon missed a turn that eventually ended his day. Sorry Banks. But thank you for the boost to get me to the PC aid station in time.
Coming into PC I saw my dad at the top of the ridge line. “3:06″ he hollered – 24 minutes to spare, whew.
I rolled in to see the carnage that was Erik R. – he looked like someone had only just brought him back to life with the defibrillator. Stomach issues. theWife told me Dug and JDub had left ten minutes earlier. I decided to wait until 3:30 to make sure Banks rolled in and to get fueled up for the last 20 miles. The last 10 minutes waiting there hoping to see Banks crest the horizon was painful. I knew how important a finish was to Banks and we all were sharing in the anguish of anticipation. 3:30 rolled by. No Banks. With heavy heart I set off for the next 2 miles of climbing up Spiro.
About 10 minutes into my Spiro climb I saw a ghost. My mind couldn’t comprehend what I saw coming down the trail on a bike. It was Banks. Descending the trail he should have been ascending after making his wrong turn. We passed each other in a blink, both wading in thoughts of regret (Banks in making the wrong turn and me in not waiting). Well Karma was about to return the favor.
Spiro wasn’t nearly as bad as I had anticipated and getting to the top got me over a pretty big mental barrier. I was about a half a mile across the buttery section of the Mid Mountain Trail when suddenly my seat fell out from under me. At first, I thought the collar had come loose and my seat post dropped to the bottom. That would have been good. Instead my frame had cracked and come apart just above the top tube and the entire seat post folded back to the tire. That was not good.
18 miles to the finish and I was standing there with seat shrapnel in my hand. Perplexed, but not really surprised given how the rest of the day had gone I worked through the options. I could go back to the PC aid station and drop. No way. I already had one DNF this year at Butte. So buck up lil’ camper and start riding.
I started with the seatpost in my left hand resting it on top of my handle bars. That lasted about one minute and 12 seconds or until I had to brake quickly and realized that holding the seatpost and trying to brake with the same hand isn’t really a good idea. So I slid the seat post and seat down my jersey and rode Quasimodo style for about two miles. Standing up. That wasn’t going to work either. I knew my legs wouldn’t last another 16 miles without any break from standing up, getting off the bike to rest every two miles wouldn’t get me in before dark and walking certainly wouldn’t get me in before dark.
So I pulled the seat back out, removed the broken piece of frame and slid the seat post back into the seat tube to see how far down it would go. Naturally, it went all the way down. It wouldn’t tighten (because the collar was attached to the broken piece of frame) so it swiveled freely. That should make for an interesting ride. Scenes and lines from Cast Away started playing in my mind.
“YESSSSS! Look what I have CREATED.”
And off we went, me and my new BMX bike. I settled into a rhythm alternating between the middle and small ring on the front and leaving it mostly in the biggest cog on the back. I could power up most of the mild climbs sitting in the saddle albeit with strain on my lower quads and knees. The big climbs I climbed out of the saddle and powered up.
“This could work.”
Riding so low in the saddle I felt like an Oompa Loompa blasting through the forest, but I was moving and that was all that mattered. The low center of gravity made me feel surprisingly in control even at high speeds. Before I knew it I was passing people, including Shellenberg who I didn’t even recognize. I was in the zone. The miles started ticking off…13 to go…9 to go…5 to go. Being forced to focus on the problem and how to resolve it cleared my head of everything else that had gone wrong during the day. I didn’t think about the Round Valley Rumble. My stomach was no longer bothering me. And I had some spark!
Coming around a corner at about mile 73 I saw J Dub standing in the middle of the trail. Pondering the possibilities of life, maybe? I don’t know, but he was just standing there and I was really glad to see him. We made the final push up and over the torture of the last 1,000 foot climb before the finish. Riding in front, every now and then I’d hear J Dub chuckle.
“It’s like I am riding behind a little kid on his BMX bike!”
The comedy of the situation made the final miles go by real fast. Losing my seat was probably the best thing that happened on the day. Those last 18 miles were by far the best 18 miles for me. I was so focused on keeping the seat pinched between my cheeks and powering up the climbs that I didn’t even notice how bad the re-route of Mid-Mountain was and the brutal climb up Ambush didn’t really feel that brutal.
Blasting down the pavement between the barricades and cheering crowds was such a highlight. The crowds were cheering so loudly I felt a bit embarrassed. A sheepish grin stole across my face and I gave a brief wave to the crowd feeling so undeserving of their cheers, but so grateful nonetheless.
J Dub and me crossing the finish line – BMX style baby! (that smokin’ little number in green to the left in the background is theWife – such an amazing partner and crew chief – you rule Cic, thank you so much for getting me through it):
*thanks to MoBe Photo for the picture
The day ended on a super positive. Looking back I really loved racing the PCP2P. I’ll do it again for sure. The course was amazing. The organization was the best I’ve seen and with one notable exception the people were so much fun to be around.
A huge and heartfelt “thank you” to the Draper Wives for once again providing the best crew support out there – you all make the day so much better.
Thank you and congrats to all of the fellas on a great ride especially Banks, Dug and J Dub for being there during some pretty dark parts of the day. It is so great to roll up to the start and finish lines and share stories with all of the friends from the biking crowd. That’s what makes these events great – shared suffering and triumph with really great people.
Next up? Cyclocross and some trail running.
Grand Canyon Rim2Rim2Rim anyone?