MS150 -- Day 2

The bed at the Mather Lodge, which had seemed as hard as an oak floor on the first night, was blissfully soft on the second. I awoke fairly well rested and only a little worn from the previous day's effort. After an eggs and pancakes breakfast (free, like nearly all the meals during the weekend), I lined up with the other riders for the start.

Once again, a four-mile warm-up preceded the winding descent of the mountain. I had thought that I was just nervous the first time down, but this time it was clear something was wrong with my bike. The hill was steep enough so that one easily exceeded 30 mph, but it was twisty enough to make hard braking necessary well before the many sharp corners. When I tried to control my speed with my front brake, I immediately encountered a violent shimmy in the whole steering system. I had to scrub a lot of speed to avoid a high-speed crash. (Later, I discovered that my front wheel was slightly out-of-true.)

At the bottom I watched the lead group escape into the distance without regret. I was just happy to be upright instead of lying on the pavement dealing with road rash. Indeed, the second group proved to be very hospitable. It devoured the course at a steady 20 mph. We cruised past the first break area at mile 11, but stopped at the second. My new plan was to keep my breaks short, so my acquaintance Steven joined me in cruising down the road ahead of the peloton. We chatted and kept away without really trying for a few miles before the group caught us just as a locomotive also came abreast of us. We easily hooked onto the train (of the peloton) and continued on to the lunch break at mile 47.6.

I packed away several small servings of pasta and filled my bottle. While eating I heard talk of a short, terrible hill ahead, Cove Mountain. I'll always remember IT! There were predictions that many in the group would end up hiking up the hill. I listened with some skepticism, confident that it couldn't be much harder than Cemetery Hill in Hand Cove, which pitches up to a nasty 11.4% for six-tenths of a mile. Once again, I set off alone, preferring to pedal lightly until the heavy diners caught up with me. Just as I was setting off, however, I noticed two fellows cruising along in front of me so I sped up to join them. Soon, we had established a three-man pace line at a brisk pace of better than 20 mph. We cruised past one pair of riders who didn't bother latching on. Then we passed a fairly plump fellow who did hook on until we dropped him a few miles further on. Finally, we stopped at the next-to-last rest station--mile 62.

Once again, I loaded up with Accelerade and set off alone. One fellow caught up and passed me, but I kept him in sight. Finally, we turned a corner and and headed sharply up Cove Mountain. He was leading me by about 400 yards, but I thought I might catch him on the hill. (I confess I'm a bit vain about my climbing ability.) He made it up the hill without having to walk, but he had clearly struggled. That gave me added incentive as well as cause for apprehension because (after 67 miles of riding, or 143 miles if you count the prior day too) I was really suffering -- just on the verge of cramps in both legs -- thighs, hamstrings, calves, stomach -- you name it. I had no choice but to dial back on speed. My only goal now was to avoid putting a foot down on that damned hill and to somehow finish the ride. Just where the pitch reached its worst angle, some kind soul had written a series of inspirational messages in chalk on the asphalt: DIG DEEP! PUSH HARDER! COURAGE! . . . Somehow I made it.

Sweating and suffering, I pushed through another couple of miles to the base of Petit Jean Mountain. The road was empty in front of me. Behind me, one lonely rider, dressed in white, was struggling to catch me. I felt sure he would do it since my bike was barely moving as I tried to avoid the onset of cramps. But he must have been suffering just as much as I was since he gradually dropped from view behind me. The ascent of Petit Jean Mountain isn't steep or steady. Instead, it is a series of short rises separated by false flat sections. It goes on for miles. I tried to summon a bit of energy by imagining rather more cheering than I was likely to be getting when I crossed the finish line. Eventually I did cross it, and I couldn't have been happier if there really had been a crowd going wild. It was just so GOOD to have made it!

Later I learned that out of roughly 150 riders, I was the lucky 13th across the line.


ENDNOTE: I later used Topozone software to examine the pitch on Cove Mountain. In its steeper section it cants up at a grade of 13.5%! Of course, Cove Mountain is trivial by the standards of professional bike racing. Tomorrow, they'll be riding up the Angliru in Spain's Vuelta at the end of 130 miles of racing. The average grade of the Angliru is about 13.5% over 18 kilometers! Some sections of more than a kilometer are at more than 20%! So horrible is that mountain that the last time it was used in the race Scottish rider David Millar (who had crashed twice in the rain that day and nearly been run over by a team car) pedaled to the finish line and refused to cross it. Instead, he ripped off his start number and laid it on the line in protest.