Entering town, I saw our Race Director, Trevor, at the Lobby Cafe and ran in to grab my second cup of coffee*. I was so excited my heart was racing, and had been since the night before. Being interviewed a few evenings earlier by the Sprocket Podcast only added to the pressure build up. I dropped my drop bag and had bib number 224** pinned on to my back. I had hoped for 211, with my special affinity for type II fun, and the number eleven in general. It had been my messenger number, and therefore my name, for a couple of years. Since then, I often notice a mile post 11 sign, just when I need a boost.
It was dark and chilly at the start line and I was glad to have my bunchable pink jacket with me. I watched Mark slide in just in time, and madly pack his bike while Trevor spoke. Although harried, Mark took the time to run over and give me a hug and a "Bonne Route". Trevor's speech included the usual "look out for tracks and deer, turn left at the bottom of the hill" type announcements. Then he went on to name the fallen, the killed endurance riders from this year. I touched the MH sticker on my bike in honor of Mike Hall. After a silence, he read a poem.
I was honored to be queuing up with this bunch of amazing athletes, and somewhat incredulous to even be counted among them. Trevor announced that we had some accomplished endurance bike racers in our midst and that he'd like to call them up. Then he said my name.
Time froze. Me?! I'd never gotten a call up before, and he was calling me up and calling me up first? My strategy of staying within myself immediately went to crap while I rolled my bike up to the front. He called up others then, Kraig (winner of this year's Steens Mazama 1000), David for the Steens Mazama, Route 66 and TransAm, and Mark for his RAAM finishes. And of course, Rob English, who'd go on to win today's event.
The group finally rolled out and I let myself drift to the back. I knew if I rode with the pack, I'd chase and wear myself out too early. As it was, our neutral rollout was at a 20mph pace. The dark and chill exhilarated me and I missed a turn***, which luckily added only a couple of miles. I pledged to pay closer attention for the rest of the day.
The alternating woods and countryside were simply glorious. Watching the horizon dimly lighten and brighten over the span of an hour felt like having a front row seat to a pretty great sky show. I rolled into the first control, in Lacomb, ten minutes later than my 8:30am goal time, but with plenty of time before the 10am cut off time. "I better hurry up!" I thought to myself. Before leaving, I recited my "blackout poem" to the volunteer. These were hand created by our Race Director and mailed to us in advance. I loved mine so much I'd memorized it.
Below is the one photo I managed to take all day. I was trying to capture the sweetly stenciled Swift Summit logo, but was too harried to notice it was blocked by my basket.
The next control, Arturio's house, was coming soon. I imagined there'd be a slip & slide and lounging racers scattered on the grass. Instead there were a couple of nice ladies sitting in lawnchairs behind a table laden with fruit and chips. I recited my blackout poem to them and munched on some chips while madly taking my jersey off to re-pin my number, which had come loose and was flapping in the wind while I rode. Next year, I'll sew it on.
I had done quite a bit of math on the way to Arturio's, and calculated I'd be a half hour
earlier than my goal of 12:30pm. As expected, I rolled in at 12pm, an
entire 2 hours before the control closed. The climbing began in earnest after that. Fern Ridge doesn't seem to have any ferns and felt like more of a mountain than a ridge, but the views were grand.
Finally the uphill it turned to gravel. The hill and the gravel were hard but not impossible. The downhill portion felt sketchy and I had to coach myself not to fall: "Relax, roll right through, float float!" I yelled.
Hot foot haunted me in the final stretch to control number 3 in Brownsville, or "Brownsville 1" as I had come to think of it. We'd have three control stops in Brownsville, and my drop bag would be available at each. Brownsville 1 closed at 3pm and my goal had been to get there at 2pm. I was a half hour late.
The volunteers welcomed me as if I were their long lost best friend. They took my bike from underneath me, filled my bottles and set up a bucket of ice water for me to stand in. After a couple of sublime minutes standing in ice water, they urged me on, telling me I had 45 miles to complete in three hours. So I put on my shoes and raced westward, looking forward to the long flat section.
I had envisaged this section would be my time to shine. I'd have 110 miles on me, be fully warmed up and ready to roll fast, head down, hands in the drops. There was just one tiny thing I'd forgotten - the north headwinds that the western Willamette Valley is famous for, which always kick up in the afternoon. The dirt devils and yellow brown countryside scorched.
I decided to finish singing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall before doing any race math. I suspected my situation was dismal, but knew pedaling was really the only thing I could do. After we passed around the last bottle of beer, I realized I needed to average 18 mph for the next hour or so. I was working hard to maintain 12mph.
Soon the route turned north again onto Falk Road. "FALK" I screamed joylessly. I saw a lady up head walking a bike and slowed down to suss her out. She had heat stroke and was cramping and I stopped to hug her. She started crying and I urged her to call in and get rescued, then said goodbye and pedaled on.
A few miles later, I saw another pair standing by their bikes by a mini-mart, with a large bottle of water on the ground. I asked if they'd be using it all and they offered me some. They told me they were done racing and riding straight to the brew pub finish line in Lebanon. I told them they were a bad influence and left quickly. Although I felt little hope of making it at this point, I didn't want to quit until I knew for sure I couldn't make it.
I don't quit. I won't quit. I will just pedal and sing and some magical tailwind will fast track me to Brownsville 2 and all I'll have to worry about then will be the Crowfoot and Brownsville 3 controls. That's what I kept telling myself anyway. At 5:20pm, I had 10 miles to go. There was no way I could get there in 10 minutes, so I stopped and took a break on a small bridge over a little creek.
I thought for sure I'd cry. I always cry when things get rough. This was my first DNF (did not finish) in a big event; surely I'd be crushed. Instead, I looked out over the creek and felt strangely peaceful. I texted Trevor that I was scratching (bike racers scratch or abandon, we don't quit!).
Then I texted my mom and dad and told them. They were extremely sympathetic, imagining I'd be in mental agony over the defeat. They offered to pick me up but I wanted to go for a little ride before facing my fellow racers. I pedaled on and enjoyed being honked at angrily by some gangly teenage boys in a pick up truck. If they only knew how much they motivate me and my kind.
It was on that last stretch that I finally figured out the "swift" in the race title referred to the birds in the valleys, not speed. I was checking out a big metal playground slide for sale when KP passed me as if I was standing still. His number 211 was just barely visible as he blurred by.
Soon I was turning off the quiet alley and into the finish line party at Conversion Brewing. Everyone screamed and cheered while I madly made the cut throat signal to indicate I hadn't finished. I needn't have worried, everyone would know that because I wasn't presented with a finisher's cap. You can bet I'll be back to finish up my business next year.
It was on that last stretch that I finally figured out the "swift" in the race title referred to the birds in the valleys, not speed. I was checking out a big metal playground slide for sale when KP passed me as if I was standing still. His number 211 was just barely visible as he blurred by.
Soon I was turning off the quiet alley and into the finish line party at Conversion Brewing. Everyone screamed and cheered while I madly made the cut throat signal to indicate I hadn't finished. I needn't have worried, everyone would know that because I wasn't presented with a finisher's cap. You can bet I'll be back to finish up my business next year.
** mistake number two: I was too shy to request a number I like.
*** mistake number three: I should've accepted a friend's offer to borrow their garmin.
**** mistake number four: I should have carried a third bottle, I was always low on water.
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