Tuesday, September 17, 2013


LoToJa 2013

Enjoy The Day

Part One

Out of the Ashes

100 miles into a 113 mile race and it was over. Not A race. Not THE race. But MY race. The one I train for daily. The one I brag about always. The one I dream about nightly.
13 miles from the finish line, and I had carried my bike six of the last seven miles to get to this spot. Carrying my bike, running up an 11% gradient hill in desperation. Hoping, beyond hope, there was help at the top. I passed a few riders still pedaling on their bikes. Desperation is a big motivator. I was carrying my bike because I'd suffered my sixth puncture of the race. To my immediate relief, there was help at the summit where neutral support put a new tube in and sent me on my way. I'd lost touch with the leaders, and mid-pack riders, and a lot slower riders than that, but I fought on. 
Less than a mile off the summit, and receiving a new tube, there I sat.
100 miles into a 113 mile race and it was over. Not A race. not THE race. But MY race. My bike underneath me with its 7th flat tire of the day.
And with it the rest of my season. 
LoToJa, scheduled in one month, would have to wait another season. I couldn't trust my bike. Couldn't risk racing on it.
So there I sat, watching other riders go by, enjoying the day. 
My Demons dancing a victory dance around a bonfire. 

But sometimes, sometimes, out of the ashes...
A week passed.
I never looked at my bike.
An entire week.
Usually after every race, and ride, every time I get off my bike, I go over it with a fine-tooth comb.
Not this time. I pushed it into the bike room and closed the door. And a week passed. Seven days of inaction. 
Then action.
I began to get vocal. The flaw was in the bike, not my training. It has to be the bike. No one gets 7 flat tires in 100 miles. People started coming to my aid. Bambi started calling everyone involved with the bike being moved from the factory to my bike room. No one in that line wanted to accept responsibility. A friend started scouring the threads of different websites looking for problems with the bike. And there it was: a flaw in the construction of the wheels. But no one had put the pieces together. My bike shop got involved. A discussion arose. And in the famous words of Sherlock Holmes "Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth." There was a big flaw, and we were uncovering it. 
We got more vocal. 
And out of the ashes of a lost race we started kindling our own fire.

"You have a Direct Message." Came over my phone notifications. It was from the Director of Marketing. 
"How can we fix the problem? And if we do will you stop with the assault?"
The next day a new, better wheel set was on its way.
But two weeks had passed. No training, no bike, no diet, no structure.

LoToJa would have to wait another season. 

Part Two

Training To Lose

The wheels were nice. Real nice. The hub was probably the nicest single piece of bike equipment I'd owned. The next morning I crawled out of bed after a two week hiatus and pointed the bike, with the new wheels, up Potosi. I climbed, and climbed and didn't want to stop. The old wheels had always been flawed and I felt it immediately on these new ones. The whole season had been raced on bad equipment. I felt free. I wanted back in. Back in the game. Back in the pack of riders bunched 2 inches away from each other. Back in LoToJa. 
When I signed up, I knew there was never a chance to win, or stand on the podium of a race like LoToJa. It's not built to my strength. It's not a focus of my season. It's an afterthought. 
But it's the biggest race in America. And I had gained entry into it. 

"You know I can't win this." 
"Win what?" Bambi questioned, at dinner. 
"LoToJa." I answered.
A big grin on her face. "I don't want you to win. I want you to enjoy the day."
"I don't know how to do that on a bike." I replied. 
"I remember when you did."

It's not what you do the morning of the race. It's not what you do the day before the race. It's not what you do the week before the race. 

It's what you did two years ago. 

And two years ago I rode every day. 75+ miles a day. Rode hard. Won races. Controlled a season. The last two weeks would have little affect on me. I could train hard enough with two weeks left before LoToJa to get through it. I wanted to finish the season the right way. And so I carried on as if I'd not missed a day. Every morning up at 4am to ride at 5am. Every day studying the course route. I'd never been on those roads, didn't know the minor details. I'd have to rely on the course outline in the Race Bible. And train accordingly. And so I memorized the outlay. And my mind began to dissect it. I stopped looking at it as a 200 mile race. In simplest terms it was two 100 mile races: one with three moderately tough climbs and the other a very flat course. I could do two 100 mile races no problem. Even without training. But I did have a concern with this approach. More often than not after 75 miles into a ride or race I cramp up. It's nothing to panic about. Nothing detrimental. Nothing that lasts more than a few kilometers. Just something that has to be fought through. But now I was going to have two races in one day and the possibility of cramping more than once.  
Every morning up before sunrise, before other cyclists, to ride. Every day studying the course, tearing it apart, mile by mile. Every night studying the true causes of muscle cramps, not the wives tales or myths told by the supplement manufacturers. Every chance, reading about past LoToJa races, the tricks, the thoughts, the history of the race. 
And very quickly I became obsessed. The morning rides became extremely intense. The course became my every thought. I became an expert on potassium and how it's stored and used in the body. 
I couldn't get the miles back from the two weeks I'd been off the bike so I took a different approach; I would work on my power instead of my endurance. I would work on my pedal stroke instead of my RPMs. 
Every chance I got I was studying GoogleMaps and the roads of the route. I was looking at the map and course profile supplied by the organizers. I knew the turns, the climbs, the descents, the flats, all through technology. I'd decided to take a friend's advice and ride at a body weight 5lbs heavier than I normally do. This wasn't a climber's race so my lightweight frame wasn't as important as my other races, and it allowed me to fuel my body with the extra potassium and magnesium I was overloading my body with. 
The intense workouts were making it difficult to keep weight on, much less add weight. The added minerals to my diet was also making the workouts difficult. The kidneys don't take kindly to processing a lot of potassium at once. But knowing this allowed me to understand where the pain was and train through it. I'd studied the times from the previous 5 years and was seeing patterns emerge. My mind, my systems, were becoming LoToJa veterans without ever being at the starting gate. 
I was gaining confidence. It was time to lay out the goals.

Maybe, maybe, I can compete. Stranger things had happened. I could put myself in a position to compete.
"I don't want you to win, I want you to enjoy the day."
The struggle. 

Cycling isn't a winning sport. In honesty, I knew I couldn't win this. But I'd never entered a contest where I didn't think I could win. Where I didn't expect to win. 
"...I want you to enjoy the day"
To enjoy it, I'd have to teach myself how to lose it. 

"I don't know how to do that on a bike."

The average finishing time of LoToJa between the years 2005-2012 was approximately 11 hours and 22 minutes.
I wrote down 11 hours 8 minutes on a piece of paper. 
201 miles went next to it. 
I did a few bike calculations in my head and wrote down another number: 18.14 mph
And then I nearly puked. 
Over 18 miles per hour, for over 200 miles on a bike. 
I wanted those 2 lost weeks back. 
I began dissecting the race even more. Eventually I broke it down into 6 segments and started looking at the race profile and how much time I could spend inside each of those sections and reach my 11 hour 8 minute goal. The six different sections would also allow me to check other aspects of myself as I raced. Over the next few days I added time to certain sections and subtracted time from others then compared those times to what I knew about the course. It seemed daunting, and at the same time extremely attainable. In my head the day was becoming less of a 200 mile race and more and more a day of 6 races, each between 20 and 50 miles long. A stage race taking place all on one day. 200 miles is a long ways on a bike: 50 miles is barely time to warm up. The times I had designated for each of the six segments would allow me to pedal at a very calm 86rpm's when usually I race at 92-100rpm's. This lower than normal rpm rate would keep my heart rate low for the long day and also help alleviate leg cramps. I was also eating with the sole purpose in my mind of stopping, or delaying, those cramps.
Everything I consumed was high in potassium and magnesium and low in sodium. Although sodium is important for muscle contraction, I knew that a high potassium/low sodium diet helped control blood pressure and I felt that was as important in a long day like this. I live in America- I knew I'd get enough sodium in my diet. If it contained a 3/1 potassium/sodium ratio, I ate it. 

Two days before the race I handed Bambi a sheet of paper with 6 landmarks, distances between, and time to (plus total time):

Preston 30 miles 1:15
Strawberry summit 26 miles 1:45 (3 hours)
Montpelier 20 miles 1:00 (4 hours)
Afton 47 miles 2:30 (6:30)
Alpine 34 miles 2:15 (8:45)
Finish Line 36 miles. 2:20 (11:05)

The winner would cross the finish line with a time somewhere around 9 hours. I'd just decided on a time 2 hours longer. 

Part Three

Biketown, USA

The day before the race was going to be as long as the race. We planned on leaving Las Vegas at 9:30am Nevada time and getting to Logan at 6:45pm Utah time. It was that precise. Checkin at the start line shut off at 7pm and they had made it clear they were sticklers to the schedule. We didn't have time to sightsee. 
The last two weeks had been difficult, mentally, for Bambi and I. Her sister was dealing with health problems. Bambi was actually going to stay in Salt Lake City after the race to help the family through this. Going to the race was a financial crimp that was making it hard to justify racing with the worry she wouldn't have the financial means to stay with her sister through a more important event than just another race. A few people stepped up and made it possible to continue with the race; some I know, some I don't know. When we headed out of the garage I was feeling overwhelmed. I understand when people want to attach themselves to me in races I'm competitive in, I couldn't grasp why people would want to help in this one, with nothing to gain from it. 
BMC bikes have a very distinct frame and are easily recognized. It's always fun to have one strapped to the back of a car. It seems like every time you stop for gas or food someone has to make a comment about it's looks. And it does look fast. But the casual conversation always quickly turns to "are you heading to a race?"
This trip eyes got big when the answer was "LoToJa." 
Gas stations were approached in the spirit of an Indy 500 pit stop, no time to waste, no time to lose. We have it down in the same precision. Bambi heads to the store for fresh drinks, I take care of the vehicle. No communication needed. 
This trip, with the clock ticking toward the close of check-in the food stops were taken just as seriously. I didn't want to throw away the last two weeks of proper nutrition so the choices were a little more tight than normal, but Bambi does so much before, during and after these races that she deserves some enjoyment, so it became a balancing act between my nutrition needs and her enjoying "human food". 
The miles and hours ticked away. I know it's got to be tough to drive to a race with me: sometimes I want it quiet, sometimes I want conversation. I don't know when I'll want each, so no one else can know. Somehow it seems like Bambi does and she's good at keeping the tension at an even level. 
Eight hours passed and we were pulling into Logan, Utah with 22 minutes to spare. Grins, snickers and looks of awe resonated from both of us. The hotels leading into town were full, each parking spot filled with a vehicle with a bike rack attached to it. Every restaurant packed the same way. Cars driving up and down the streets adorned with bikes. 
"Is this heaven?"
"No... It's Logan." 
"I could have sworn this was heaven."

Somehow we found a parking spot within half a block of the check-in/festivities. LoToJa is a slick operation. Walking into a check-in there's always that apprehension of where to go, who to see. Not here. Signs pointed the way where one person would grab you, take care of step one and hand you off to someone else for the next step. In less than 10 minutes of getting out of our car I had been processed. A bracelet and stamp on my right arm and a timing chip for my left ankle to prevent cheating. Bib number for my kit and race plate for my bike. A swag bag handed to Bambi. I know the pecking order here. She rummages through it and gets what she wants, and I get the crumbs left. 
We wandered through the festivities for a while but we had an hour trip back to a bed waiting for us. 
The rain was falling as we headed to our room, my bike in my hand to go over the equipment one more time. 
I couldn't believe it. My back tire was flat. Not just flat, but flat flat. Future generation's cliché level flat. "How flat was that?" "As flat as Eric's back tire the night before LoToJa." "Wow that's flat!"
 Surely I must have left the valve open. But it was closed. I started pumping it back up. Air was escaping as fast as I could pump. A very ominous sign: I'd suffered my first puncture of LoToJa 11 hours before the race. A quick change of tubes, a check of the rest of the bike and I fell asleep concerned that I was doomed already. 

Part Four

"The Chaos Before The Calm"

As my body slowly came into consciousness I could hear the patter of rain outside on the cement. A grin crept onto my face. I love riding in the rain. I crawled out of bed and looked outside. It looked like it had come down hard here through the night but it was just a sprinkle now. Being an hour's drive from the start I has no idea what it had done there. As the drops rolled down the window in the glare of the street lights I thought back to past years at LoToJa with some crazy weather. They don't cancel this race. They'd raced in the snow before. Rain or not we were riding, you could embrace it or hate it. I love riding in the rain. 
The ritual has become natural. I probably don't need to wake up at 4am on a race day because my systems would just start taking care of everything until I did: Diet Pepsi, vitamins, food (3 hours before start time), shave (don't tell the Velomenati that I shave on race day: big no-no), shower, go over my kit, starting from the helmet down to the shoes, and check my race bib one more time (Bambi is the master of pinning the number on in a way it doesn't create drag). Then move onto the equipment that I'll carry. A miniature pump and two Co2 cartridges, a tube, 1000 calories of food, two water bidons; one with water, one with liquid calories, my sunglasses are cleaned off; right lens first then the left. I carry the bike and equipment to the car. 
With a few minutes left before we leave I go over with Bambi what I'll need from her and when. There will be only 3 Feed Zones where she'll be able to legally hand me things. With so many riders in the race they will not allow things to be passed from a moving car. In anticipation of this, Bambi has made 3 drop bags that she can hand me with what I have pre-assigned for each feed zone. It'll speed the exchange up more than stopping and deciding what needs refilled/replaced. I'll simply discard everything I have before the feed zone and grab the bag. 
At 4:50am we head off toward Logan. Usually I like showing up an hour before the start but this morning I'm breaking from that schedule. I've got a friend launching 30 minutes before me and want to see him off. 
It was still dark when we pulled into town and found a spot to park. Work lights dotted the parking lot as cyclists were busy prepping themselves and their bikes. I decided to get my bike ready before we headed to the start gate and when I started going over it my heart nearly stops. The rear tire is flat again. I'd just changed it and checked it last night. It hadn't touched the ground. I was in complete panic mode. This couldn't be happening. Two flat tires before the race even started. Before I'd even straddled the bike. There was nothing to do but change it again. As I did Bambi ran to the bike shop. Luckily it was open. She got two more tubes to replace the ones we'd used. What she couldn't replace was my confidence. It was sinking, and sinking fast. 
Once the tube was replaced and bike was checked we hurried to the start. 
LoToJa is actually two events combined into one. The first is the competitive race sanctioned by USA Cycling as the longest one day race in America. The other is a non-competitive fun ride. 
A 200 mile "fun" ride. 
Then the sanctioned race is actually 3 races in one. There's the race for overall winner, then you are racing against others in your licensed category. But because of the amount of cyclists entered some of the categories have to be split up and you then are racing against only those that start with you. 
Dave was starting 30 minutes before me and we got to the line just as his group was placed in the corral behind the gate. He looked ready for a good day in the saddle as the starter got them off and he disappeared around the first corner with his group.
I turned and got back at the task at hand. I had 30 minutes before I was off. I ran the bike through it's gears, checked the brakes, double, triple, quadruple checked the rear tire. It was fine but my confidence was still low. With 200 miles in front of me there was no real reason to warm up. I stayed on the bike just to waste the time. 
Anyone that's rode with me knows that I always have a "cheat sheet" made out of blue painter's tape attached to my top tube with bits of info I want to make sure to remember. At the bottom is always the one thing I want in my head. It's Jens Voigt's famous quote "SHUT UP LEGS". Today's cheat sheet was the six landmarks I'd given Bambi for time checks but on mine were the amount of calories I wanted to consume before each of those places. But at the last minute, instead of writing SHUT UP LEGS, I wrote 
Groups of around 50 were being launched every 3 minutes alternating between the racers and the riders. I started inching my way toward the starting corral. The clock said I had about 4 more groups before mine. I wanted my familiar spot at the start: 18 feet off the line and on the inside of the first hard corner. The amount of cyclists waiting for their time was amazing. I felt at such ease. In amongst bikes is about the only place I feel a part of. As I slipped forward with the waves of bikes I heard an "Eric!"
It went unanswered at first. There were 3000 cyclists which meant there were probably 2998 Erics.
again "Eric!"
"Hey Bonk Breaker Eric!"
I turned around. There running through the mass of bikes was Steve Miller. I didn't know he was in this but it took all the tension off. A smiling friendly face. We joked quickly, he was riding in the non competitive ride and leaving right before me. Bambi snapped a picture and I went back to focusing on the race. It was hard to do when you're questioning why the owner of The Utah Jazz felt he needed to say "hi", minutes before the start.
7:18am Cool and cloudy. It smelled like rain. No wind. The Bike Gods were with us. 
7:19am, the call for my group to enter the corral behind the starting line. 
It was sheer confusion trying to funnel in through the back. I didn't get my normal place. Instead I was as close to dead center as possible. I looked down at my bike, unnerved.
"I'm Eric." I extended my hand to the racer to my right. Quick intros and well wished were exchanged. I turned to my left with the same intent. Then back, over, and anywhere I could reach. I'd never done that before at the start. I usually bury myself in my handlebars and ignore the confusion around me.
7:20am Race instructions about not crossing the center line, no public urination, No moving hand-ups. Obey the race official in the car and motorcycle.
I found Bambi in the crowd one more time, "See you in 4 hours" I mouthed.
She would have to take a different route to our first exchange at Feed Zone 3 and mile 76. There was no support vehicles allowed on the course until then. 

Part Five

Saturday Morning Group Ride

Saturday, September 7, 7:21am MST 
We pushed off. Even at this level there are nerves and someone in the front missed clipping into their pedal and fell on their bike. There was a little pause as everyone behind worked their way around. Immediately after that a hard left turn started us down a long straight stretch. We were moving smoothly now. 50 bikes bunched together moving toward a common goal in the cool, cloudy morning.
The feel of the air swooshing in, out, under, over and through you and your bike. The heightened awareness of being able to touch, at minimum, 6 other cyclists as we roll at 20+mph. The flashing lights of the police escort 50 meters ahead. Bunches of people scattered along the roadside. Cowbells ringing in the dawn's light. Seeing, but not really seeing all of it. Feeling it. Feeling the cowbells ring, the spectators, the other cyclists. Most of all feeling the wind dance around you and your bike. 
This was a real race. Sanctioned. A police escort was leading us. There was a 4 mile neutral zone: No attacks. We'd ride as a group until then. I looked around. I was about 10th, with cyclists in front, to the sides and back of me. A good spot. 
"You ever do LoToJa before?" The wheels next to me asked. 
"First time." I responded. 
"Second time for me."
I started picking his brain. Average speed, course info, nutrition... I looked down at my bike.


I shifted the conversation to personable info. Where he was from, how long he'd rode, how he liked his bike, who was here supporting him. And I listened. A couple others around us joined in the conversation. The police car leading the way, stopping traffic, letting us roll through red lights, keeping the pace. This was our day. Better than a parade. 
You do things moving on a bike that later amazes me. Just little things. Within 10 minutes I'd shaken hands with 8 or more other riders. We were moving at 23+mph. 
At 10 minutes I reached back into my pocket and grabbed some food. Normally I wait an hour before eating but I didn't want to be playing "calorie-catch up" 6 hours from now. The first self-diagnostic check point was the town of Preston, 30 miles away. The speed that we were doing as a peloton would get us there in less than 90 minutes. The conversation continued from cyclist to cyclist as the peloton rolled through Logan behind the neutral pace. It was agreed upon that this speed was good and we would hold it through Preston. As the police escort pulled over at the edge of town a group of 8 guys from 3 different teams took control of the front and rotated through to keep the pace. I sat about 15th back and let them pull me along. A guy from Salt Lake City pulled a bottle out of his back middle pocket and took a sip. When he went to replace it he couldn't find his pocket. I pulled up alongside, grabbed it from him and replaced it in his pocket as we sped along. Neither one of us had our hands on our handlebars as we worked through this task. 
Then it happened. A very distinct sound. The sound of a tire expanding and popping as a tube explodes. Bikes behind me scattered. It had obviously came from my bike. My heart sank but it was time for action. I swerved out of the peloton in case I lost control. I looked down and saw something I didn't expect: My tire was still inflated. Another cyclist pulled out alongside me. 
"Was that your tire?"
"I thought so." I replied.
He leaned down and took a good look as we moved along. 
"It looks a little low but it's still holding air."
We shook our heads in disbelief and pulled back into our spots. About a mile down the road he asked if I wanted him to check again. I shook my head and we pulled out of the group as he checked. It was still holding air. 
The guys holding the pace up front were doing a great job but I'd seen enough. As they started rotating through I kept my spot and worked up the line. When I was about fourth in line the lead pulled off and started drifting back. He noticed my unfamiliar jersey in the rotation. "We got this, no need to do anything."
"I hate taking free rides."
"Cool," he said, "Thanks for the help."
These eight were obviously veterans of multiple LoToJas. As The lead cyclists pulled off and my spot worked closer to the front I double checked my speedometer. They were taking about 3-4 minute "pulls" at about 24mph. The one thing I didn't want to do was be that guy that slowed the pace. 
I was number two, I switched my eyes back and forth from what was ahead in the road and his back tire. Then the hand signal showing he was pulling off to the left and dropping back.
I slid my hands down into the drops, or lower hooks of my handlebars. And boom, the wall of wind. No more protection hiding behind another cyclist. No more free speed. I was now responsible for pulling 40 guys in my wake. It felt good. It felt fun. I was leading the race and helping 40 other guys ease along. 94 rotations per minute. 24 miles an hour. Don't change either. Don't surge, Don't slow down. 
Don't crash.
Above all, don't crash.
I counted my leg RPMs in 15 second intervals: 23.5, no more, no less. 
3 minutes 45 seconds. 
1.5 miles.
I dropped my hand and pointed to the ground, the signal that I was moving over, pulled to the left and dropped my speed by 1mph. The train moved on to my right. Multiple compliments on a nice pull as I fell back. I've sarcastically waited for the day when someone says "pathetic pull you Oaf!" After about 12 riders I pointed in toward the line of riders. I wasn't going to fall farther back than this. A space was made and we rolled on. 
We continued on, a line of cyclists less than 8 inches between front and back wheels of opposite bikes. At mile 27.5 my rotation had me on the lead and Preston was getting close.
Same thing: no surges, no slowing down, work for everyone else.
I dropped off the lead at mile 28.8 and checked my fuel as we wound our way through Preston. I'd taken in 400 calories, exactly what I had planned on. The cool, cloudy weather had meant I didn't need as much water. My bidon was nearly full. I took a couple sips to get some in. 
The racers and non-competitive riders had taken different routes up to this point but at the far edge of Preston the two groups would merge and take the same route the rest of the way to Jackson. As we came to the junction and could see groups of riders on the other road someone in the peloton mentioned "Here's were it gets real boys."
I looked back, the peloton was still about 30 strong. I looked down at my computer. It read 1 hour 18 minutes. The paper I'd given Bambi for a time check read 1 hour 15 minutes. 
30 miles down; 176 to go.
The first big climb was in view. 

3 minutes was nothing.

Part Six

Halfway Done

Strawberry Summit was 26 miles ahead. There was a quick steep climb and descent before a steady 22 mile climb to the summit. The pace had slowed a little but gotten harder because of the pitch upwards. I looked around and guessed about 15 riders. The eight that had set the pace and some other strong riders. The rotation at the front were becoming shorter with each guy pulling between 1-2 minutes. As the gradient increased I found myself at the front taking my pull.
All I'm thinking about when I'm at the front is "Don't be the guy that can't keep the pace." I slipped my hands down into the drops and focused on my speedometer. 
"Don't be the guy that slows us down, Eric." I kept repeating to myself in my mind. 
At 90 seconds I dipped my head underneath my right armpit to get a view of how it was going behind me.
It wasn't going well.
I couldn't see anyone. No cyclist, no bike, not even a tire. 
I cocked my head backwards.
The group I was supposed to be pulling was 100 meters back. 
There's two things you can do at this point:
1) sit up and let them catch back up. Whereas you're the guy in the group who couldn't keep the pace
2) Keep pedaling until they catch up.
You guessed it. 
There's only one thing you can really do. 
I upped the RPM's and kept climbing. At the top of the first short climb I was 200 meters ahead. I summited and shifted into the heaviest gear and pushed on. It was a fast descent but sadly "You can't expect to go down like a bowling ball when you go up like a feather."
By the time the terrain leveled off they'd caught me. I counted 11. Some had fallen off the pace. As they went by I latched onto the back feeling a little more confident. A nice steady 22 mile climb lay ahead. 
Our group had been catching and passing cyclists since the routes converged. It was a confidence booster to catch numbers lower than the one on your back. The groups were launched at the start in numerical sequences. 100's followed by 200's and so forth. We were catching 1200's, launched 6 minutes before us along with stragglers from 1100's, 900's and a few 700's. I tried to talk to and encourage every one.
I met cyclists from all over the country and all walks of life. Each now with only a common goal of finishing. 
As the length of the climb continued, the steepness increased. It shattered what was left of our group. As some pulled away from me I struggled with the decision to go with them or ride my pace. All I could do, not knowing what lay ahead, was keep my pace. Some pressed on, some fell behind. The mix of the different groups continued. I made it a goal to talk to everyone who passed me and encourage everyone I passed. 
About a mile from the summit was the first Neutral Feed Zone (the first one the racers could use) We were 55 miles into the race. It was still cool and cloudy. Most of my pure water was gone, only a few sips were left. I still had enough fuel to get me to Feed Zone 3 where Bambi was waiting to replenish me. I can't stop going uphill. I don't understand why you'd want to kill your momentum. I'd made the decision along time ago that I'd only stop in dire emergency. I pressed up the hill. Shortly after the feed zone I passed a guy who had to weigh twice my weight. we were half a mile from the summit.
"I bet you catch me on the descent." I said as I went by.
"I probably will, but you'll pass me on the next climb." he laughed.
As I crest the summit I looked down at my altimeter. It read 4,054 feet of ascension. The Race Bible stated there was a total of 7,950 feet of climbing. 56 miles into a 200 mile race and in my mind I was half done. Only 3,900 feet of climbing left.
I shifted back into the big gears and hammered over the top. I'd passed a lot of cyclists going up, I knew a lot of them would catch me on the downhill. The last 8 miles into Montpelier was nice and flat. I was able to catch on with most of the group that I started the climb with. Our numbers grew as we passed cyclists who latched onto us. We were about 20 strong as we rolled into town and the first feed zone that we could take stuff from our support teams.
We took a hard right turn into Feed Zone 3. As with everything about LoToJa, the feed zones are slick operations. They're broken into 10 sections each numbered. It's suggested to use the last digit of your bib number to lessen the congestion. I locked onto section 7 and saw Bambi standing there waiting. Our eyes met. She was holding the orange drop bag. The Feed Zone reminded me of an Indy 500 pit lane as racers peeled off into their pre-chosen section. I'd anticipated just grabbing the drop bag on the fly but when I saw everyone else stopping I figured this was safer and easier. Big mistake. As I unclipped my left foot out of the pedal I felt it twinge, a precursor of a cramp. I pulled my bottles out of the cages and grabbed the full ones out of the bags. Grabbed the solid food and placed it in my jersey pockets. 
"I don't know how I'm going to continue." I mumbled to Bambi.
"Why?" concern in her voice.
"I'm cramping."
"Fight through it." She nearly demanded. "You know you can."
"I know," I said. "I'm just saying."
It had taken 3 hours 50 minutes to get to Feed Zone 3. The time check paper I'd given Bambi said 4 hours.
I was 10 minutes ahead of pace. But my legs were in the process of cramping.
"Give me a little longer than what I've written down to get to the next stop." I hollered back as I rolled out of the feed zone.
The drop bag had worked to perfection. I'd spent less than a minute replenishing my supplies. I was the first one out of the feed zone.
The next 47 miles included the last two of the three significant climbs. I was looking forward to it.

If only my legs would cooperate.

Part Seven

Squire of the Mountain

A couple rotations around the chain and thoughts of cramps were forgotten. I made my way out of the chaos of cyclists and support teams alone. I was feeling about how I planned I would be feeling at mile 76. Warmed up and ready. Not knowing the subtleties of the route I could only generalize what lay ahead. Two good climbs. A short moderate one followed by The King of The Mountain Climb. This would be the segment I'd spend the most time in and, in my mind, the one that could make or break seeing the finish line. Nobody in this race hadn't tackled climbs like these. They weren't very tough. But becoming preoccupied with them could lead you to forget there would be 85 miles left after them and slip on nutrition or energy. I had planned on eating more in the next 47 miles than I usually do in a 100 mile race. I started right away with some condensed liquid calories- basically real thick sugar water. The road started climbing almost immediately out of the zone and I adjusted my gears, cadence and focus. There was now a steady stream of cyclists, mostly in single file, all fighting gravity and fatigue. I passed some cyclists with great stories, and tried to listen to them all. A lady from Oregon who had just finished a 500 mile race across that state to qualify for Race Across America. We talked about the commitment of doing that and laughed at each other for wanting to do it. Another lady who was riding the leg for her husband because their car had been rear-ended driving to LoToJa. The problem was his bike was strapped to the back of the car and it had been shattered. He was in the process of getting a new bike and she was riding in his place until he could get fitted and back on the road. Before I knew it I was at the top of Geneva Summit and screaming down a steep decline. I shook my head and tried to imagine Lonnie Moreno attacking this stretch at break-neck speeds. 
"Welcome To Wyoming"  It was a welcome sign indeed as I crossed into the third and final state of the day. I pedaled on. A sprinkling of rain, threatening to make a mess of the afternoon, landed on my sunglasses. Not long after the descent I caught up to a guy and lady, had a brief chat and moved on. As I pedaled on I could sense I was no loner alone. A quick look back confirmed that they'd grabbed my wheel and were tagging along. I pushed on and soon realized they had no intention of sharing the work. It started to annoy me until I realized that if they were there or not I'd still be working this hard so I pushed on. 
We pedaled on, passing individual riders as we went. 
"What happened to the King of The Mountain?" The guy asked me from behind.
It woke me up, I had fazed out and forgot there was another climb ahead. I looked up at the horizon and the mountain range looming shortly ahead. 
"Oh, it's still ahead. We just haven't got there yet."
"Oh..." was the reply.
I don't think he was as excited as I was for it to get here.
A quick look back and there was a group of cyclists on the horizon behind me. They weren't there the last time. That meant only one thing: they were gaining. I pedaled for another minute with my two shadows behind me and looked back again.
Yep, closer.
I hate getting caught. 
There was no need looking back again, it was just a matter of time.
One, two, three, four... no more. Jump now!
I grabbed the draft of the fourth and final in the group and immediately felt the relief.
It caught my shadows by surprise and they quickly fell into the background. It was my turn to suck someone's wheel for a while. The difference was that I asked these guys' permission to hang on and get my legs back. 
It wasn't the nicest thing I did. Not long up the road we went around a bend and was staring at a "KOM 1km". My legs were fresh from resting in the draft, The four were obviously friends and they began discussing whether they were going to give the King of the Mountain a "go".
I didn't wait to hear the answer. As the "KOM Starts Now" sign came into view I stood up and went around them. I don't know if they gave it a go or not, I never saw them again. 
I'd stared at this 4 mile section more than any other part of the course. I'd looked at the times. I'd looked at the gradient. It seemed like I could give it a "go". I'd planned on it. 
A kilometer in and I knew it wasn't. I just didn't have it in my legs. It quickly changed from "attack this mountain" to "get over this and the hard part is over." I reached for a water bottle and took a nice big swig. 
17 minutes later I was at the top of the Salt River Pass. 

Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you. 

At the top of the summit was a neutral feed zone. I had plenty of water and fuel. 17 miles of downhill and Bambi would be holding my second drop bag.
As the town of Afton came into view a scene unfolded before me that I didn't want to see. There were people standing in the road and cars alongside the road with doors open. As the scene got closer it was confirmed: bikes all over the road and cyclists on the ground with people leaning over them. Some cyclists just sitting in the street, next to their bikes, shaking their heads. And before long flashing lights heading toward me from the little town ahead. There's a street at the edge of Afton called "Hospital Lane". It couldn't have been in a better spot. Emergency crews were minutes away.
The congestion had allowed me to catch a group of cyclists and I rolled into the feed zone with a big group  and the controlled chaos began again. I replaced empty bottles with full one and empty pockets with calories. But I had a request. 
"I want solid real food at the next stop."
We had discussed this possibility the night before.
"I don't know, just something easy like a PB&J" I said as I pulled out.

Here's another in a long line of reasons that make cycling beautiful: before I'd cleared the feed zone Bambi had asked if anyone knew where she could get stuff to make a sandwich. People were too busy giving her ones they'd prepared for their riders to answer her question.

I looked at my time. I'd been on the bike 6 hours 40 minutes. 122 miles. I was 10 minutes off my predicted pace. I felt confident that I'd make it up before the next Feed Zone 33 miles ahead. The numbers just didn't make sense.

Part Eight

"The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul"

Afton, Wy to Alpine, Wy: 33 miles, mostly downhill and flat. 
The numbers just didn't make sense. I looked at this section more than even the mountainous section over the past two weeks. I couldn't grasp it in my mind. Over the last 8 years everyone's numbers dropped here. Speed, cadence, power, everything important. It looked set up for a "HammerFest". Put the nose on the wheel and hands in the drops and get through it. But everyone's numbers dropped here, from the winners to the last place rider. It had to be a lull. People were tired, the motivation had dropped, nutrition had suffered over the mountains. I was going to change that. Out of respect for the numbers I'd written down 2 hours 10 minutes for the section. But no way I was going to go that slow. This was where I made up huge amounts of time. Heck, it was the only section where Bambi would be driving on the same roads as I was racing. By the time she got the car out of the congestion and confusion of the Afton feed zone, I might already be in Alpine. Maybe I'd just take a nap and wait for her. Nah, I was craving real food. I'd buy a BBQ, assemble it, make a burger and then maybe she'd be there. 

First Rule of Cycling: You never have a tailwind, it's either a headwind or you're having a good day.

Actually there are worse things than a headwind. For example: Afton, Wy to Alpine, Wy: 33 miles mostly downhill and flat... with a crosswind.
And I was tackling it alone. 
I'm not really built for a crosswind. 
Luckily it wasn't a bad wind. Less than 10mph but after 125 miles in the saddle a sneeze might blow me off my bike. 
I looked down at my speedometer. 
I reminded myself not to look at my speedometer anymore. 
If this kept up, I'd traverse the mountainous section at a faster average than this flat section. 
At least there was real food waiting for me at the end. I hoped it didn't go bad before I got there. 
About 8 miles out of town Bambi went by. It was the first time I'd seen her on the route. She couldn't hand me stuff, couldn't slow down to encourage me, couldn't stop, but just the sight of her on the route was uplifting. She's does so much and puts up with my crap. I just love seeing her when I'm riding. Plus it gave me something cute to chase. 
Speaking about something cute to chase there was something ahead of me. Undeniable. I knew it was but I has to get closer to see. Then I could laugh. I was reeling in John's "rabbit" from Rockwell. I'd chatted with her at a check point in that race and said hi as I went by. She recognized me and we talked for about a mile about her cycling season. But John couldn't quite reel her in during Rockwell, I wasn't going to fall prey to it here. On a slight incline I stood up and took off. Now I had something to run from. And like I always say "You can ride faster scared than you can mad."
I couldn't seem to quite catch on with a group, or, for that matter, even a solo cyclist. Either their pace was faster or slower than I felt comfortable at. I would pass a line of single riders stretched out and couldn't get any to jump on and join me and then I would get passed by a group that I just couldn't hang with. And the wind kept chipping away at my average speed little by little. And my legs were getting bored. I looked at my altimeter and there was less than 1,000 feet of climbing left. Most of it would be just over the rolling terrain. I began regretting my decision to ride an easy pace up the KOM climb. 
The farther we progressed in the race the more friendly other cyclists became. It's usually the opposite way around, everyone wants to talk at the start but no one wants to chat toward the end. The more people I passed and passed me the more they began initiating the conversations instead of me. But this segment was a solo ride in every sense of the term. It was me, on my bike, riding to escape. The bike computer's constant chatter my main companion. It was becoming harder and harder to maintain my optimum heart rate. My computer sending constant warnings that my heart rate was too low. It seems to happen right around a hundred miles and I don't know if it's me or if it's common in cycling. My power, cadence and speed stay the same but my heart rate drops. Being a numbers guy you think it would excite me to ride a hundred miles and have a heart rate beeping at less than 110bpm's but the contrary happens, I become increasingly concerned. Am I really pushing as hard as I can, is there something wrong with my systems? I play a game of trying to get the computer to shut up by getting my heart over the 110 threshold. It usually only takes a moderate hill to get it over but I always question myself. My other numbers were looking good. My cadence was still at about 85, my speed was still over an 18mph average, and the course was looking flatter and flatter the more it rolled on. Less that 800 feet of climbing lay ahead. 
I looked up and saw the Grand Teton Mountains on the horizon. That shocked me. I usually don't see stuff around me when I ride. I looked down at my computer. There at the bottom of my view ENJOY THE DAY. 
I sat up and looked. This was pretty country. The Tetons were indeed "grand"; the clouds still blanketing the sky framed their ominous height. The race would end at the base of them. I'd like to come back and ride across them someday. 
As I saw the edge of the town of Alpine come into view my mind replayed the layout of the town and where the Feed Zone was. I'd consumed less than half the calories I'd packed from Afton. I'd only need to exchange bottles and roll on but I was planning on stopping. The only reason I wasn't going to stop was if I'd hung onto the front leaders of my race group, and they'd slipped away a long time ago. I wanted to sink my teeth into "human food", I'd had enough of condensed calories and liquid fuel. The support crew parking lot came into view about a mile out, I knew it would be a hard right turn and the feed zone would be immediately there. The first two supported zones had the crews on the left so as I rolled around the turn I faded to that side and was caught by surprise as this one was on the right. A quick adjustment and I was in section 7 with Bambi waiting. I dropped my bottles and replaced them.

"It's all downhill from here, right?" I asked, trying to confirm what I knew wasn't correct.
"I think that's what you said." Was her voice's reply. 
Her eyes replied, "You've lost it haven't you?"

 In her hand was one of the two PB&J sandwiches that people had given her. I looked at it and couldn't put it in my mouth. The thought of solid food at this point was gut tightening. My blood was busy keeping my muscles moving, it didn't have time to wait around in the stomach. There wasn't enough blood in my stomach to digest the solid, yummy looking sandwiches and my systems knew it. I felt bad because I figured she'd gone to a lot of work getting them (later I'd learn worse, that people had offered her their prepared food and I'd wasted their rider's opportunity to eat it.) 
"How are you doing?" she asked during this exchange.
"The Teton's are gorgeous"
It was as if she'd seen a ghost. "You saw mountains?"
A grin and three words, "Enjoy the day."

Back to the task at hand - fueling me - without question she asked if I wanted something else. Of course I did, I wanted a diet Pepsi and there was a convenience store right across the street. She started walking over. I looked at the store, I looked down the road, at the store, down the road...  
"You're taking too long." I hollered across the street as I clipped back into my pedals
Hey, if you're going to be a jerk, be the best jerk you can be.  
I had 47 miles left with my calculations, but as I hit the end of the feed zone a volunteer yelled that there was 45 miles left. I wanted to argue but 45 sounded a lot better. 
A quick check of my bike computer showed that I was right on pace to my pre-race time check. 8 hours 40 minutes. 
I could do this. 45 miles. I do that every morning. Let's get this done...

Part Nine

11 Hours 3 minutes 35 seconds

Bambi had been looking at the Race Bible all day long. In it was the race profile. The profile of the final section looked uphill all the way. But I had two things on my side. One: My altimeter was saying there was less than 800 feet of ascension left. Two: I'd looked at, then rode enough race profiles to understand you had to stretch the 8 inch paper profile out to 45 miles in your mind. It was more uphill than downhill because we would be looming in the shadow of the Teton Range very shortly but it was a flat 45 miles at best. 
I'd left each of the support feed zones alone. I had obviously outsmarted people there and even as a rookie in the race was better prepared and organized than most. My goal is to ride any race without stopping. I don't understand long breaks. 
As I left this feed zone, the longest I'd ever stopped in my career, I looked back and saw someone catching me with ease. It was unnerving. It was also a low down, dirty trick. One I'd fell prey to numerous times throughout the day. Inside the race of individual riders was two types of relay races. One with two member, the other with a team of five members. What was gaining on me was the fifth member of a 5 man relay team. He was fresh and looking to hammer it home for his team. As he came up on me he asked if I was part of a relay or if I'd done the race by myself.
"Just me." I replied.
"Wow, you're looking strong." He complimented. 
It was a comment that lifted my spirits. If I wasn't feeling strong at least I was looking strong.
"Why don't we see if we can catch some people." He offered.
Two bikes are always stronger than one.
"I don't know if I can keep up," I answered honestly. "I'm not feeling as strong as I look."
"I'll pull for a while."
It was an offer I couldn't refuse. 
I sat behind him as he gradually upped the pace.
Moments after leaving the town we were skirting alongside the Snake River. Sitting behind him allowed me to take in the view.
"This is gorgeous." I commented.
When my mechanic at my bike shop had learned that I had decided to get back into LoToJa all he said was that riding along the Snake River at the end was worth everything. He wasn't lying. 
There were rafters, fishermen and campers through the canyon floor and a string of cyclists along the edge. It was as strong an argument for the outdoors spirit as you could make, without a word spoken.
"Where you from?" He asked.
"Vegas." I said, then waved my arms around. "So yeah."
"It's a different type of pretty up here for sure."
He wasn't kidding.
"Where you from." I asked. It was my turn to learn a little about him
"35 miles that way." he pointed out in front of him. "I live in Jackson. My wife dropped me off last night. I'm just riding home."
That just wasn't fair. I had a 10 hour drive home after this. He was headed for his couch.
I looked down at my computer. 25 miles an hour. 92RPM's 
160 miles into the day and I was going as fast as I had the first 10 miles. 
It didn't last long. 
Try as I might, I just couldn't hold the pace and little by little his back wheel slipped away. But it had bought me a lot of time. His draft and willingness to work for a complete stranger had made the final section a lot easier. I pushed on, constantly doing minute calculations adjusting my final time on the fly. Speed, RPM's, heart rate, wattage spurring me on, trying hard to remember my promise to "enjoy the day" as the Snake River turned toward a different path and disappeared from view.
At the top of a little grade was the final neutral feed zone. At the end of it was a sign.
Albert Einstein was a cyclist. Indeed All Things Are Relative. 
The sign read: 26 MILES TO GO.
Just a marathon left, was my only thought. 178 miles behind me, just a marathon ahead. It's our view of our position that determines our attitude.
The amount of volunteers for an event of this magnitude is astounding. Every turn, every change of direction, every intersection, every stop sign and stop light there was someone there pointing the way, stopping traffic, driving us forward. Not only was I bent on encouraging every cyclist I came into contact with but either vocally, or with a gesture when I was too tired to speak, I think I thanked every volunteer for their time, effort and energy. 
We snaked through a couple more towns, I have no idea what they were called and hung a left onto a stunning end for any ride or race. A nice long country lane straight out of a story book. Farm houses and ranch building in the field. Lining both sides of the unlined lane were tall shade trees. The ever present Tetons watching guard in the background.
At the end of the lane was one more small town. The route led onto a bike path and under the highway before merging back onto the road. On one side a volunteer warning of the almost right angle turn and cheering on that there was only 10 miles left. Emerging under the tunnel there was another volunteer cheering that there was only 9 miles left. I think I'm pretty fast guys, but one of you is lying to me. 
The route turned onto one final road that pointed the way to Jackson Hole's Teton Village. Small groups of supporters and onlookers were starting to pop up, cowbells in hands. I'd written on Bambi's time check paper: 11 hours 5 minutes. The constant calculations running through my head were saying it was going to be close.
A sign appeared alongside the road. As it got closer it became more inviting: 
5km TO GO
There was a time where I had to do the calculation consciously to convert kilometers to miles. Then the conversion became natural like a second language. Now it's different. I don't think in miles anymore. I only convert them for your convenience. I looked at the sign. It didn't mean 3 miles 188.07 yards left. It merely meant I had 5km to go.
As is more superstition than anything, it's part of my ritual to not cross the line with my water bottles. I jettisoned them just after the sign and pushed with what I had left in my legs.
4km TO GO
I thought about the many people who had made the day possible when it looked like it was doomed to go undone. I thought about my friends who had taken time to think about me, send me messages, and pray for my safety. I thought they'd all be proud to have been a part of it. I'd ridden differently than I had ever raced. I'd ridden to pay them back for their kindness.
3km TO GO. 
A fitting end to an unpredictable season. A new respect for the different types of cyclists, I'd stepped out of my comfort zone and entered races not suited to my specialty. I'd raced sprinters in stage races, grinders in flat course routes, speed demons in time trials and cyclists that were better climbers than me.
2km TO GO
I thought about three guys who made 31 hours some of the best hours on a bike. 
One who had started and finished before me, I couldn't wait to see his time, I knew because I hadn't caught him that it was a personal best. 

One who had trained long and hard for this day and in the end made the smart choice for his health and his family to sit it out. After riding the course I know he'd had done better than he thought he would have. 

One who was hanging on the small morsels of info he could get about his two former teammates racing the longest one day sanctioned race in America and cheering them on in spirit. 

Spectators and supporters were lining the course, cowbells echoing in the distance announcing the next sign would be a red one signifying "1km TO GO", and beyond that the first view of the Finish Arch, and just beyond that, hidden in the crowd, would be Bambi's smile.
I put my head down and listened- felt- the music of the cowbells and looked at my bike...


Thursday, June 20, 2013


 Six Hours

Fifteen Minutes 

48 Seconds


3:00am August 11, 2012: The alarm wakes me up. My body wakes up differently on race days than any other day. It's a controlled wakening of all my systems that I have a hard time explaining. It's as if my body systematically turns on it's different senses one at a time going through an "all-go" procedure to make sure everything is at it's peak sensory level. 
The race doesn't start until 6:45am but I have to start getting fuel into my body now. My body won't be able to eat enough during the race to keep up with the calories burned and if I go into "calorie deficit" during the race; it's over and there's no recovering. The food is exactly the same every race. 3 hours before = 3 tortillas each filled with 1 Tablespoon peanut butter and 1 teaspoon jelly. 
There's no chance of falling back to sleep but I save my energy by trying to lay in bed as much as possible but there's things that need double checked and the start line is an hour's drive away. There's 3 things that you can't borrow at the starting line: a helmet, shoes and a bike. Those get checked first, then the "kit" which is everything you carry: jersey, shorts, sunglasses, food, water bottles, etc. Each has it's place and order so I know if something is missing. I'll carry all my food so that I only have to stop for water. Tools needed before the race and those that will get carried during the race are checked.

5:00am: time for 2 more tortillas, 600mg ibuprofen, and an Emergen-C pack. 
The bike and equipment is loaded and the drive to Park City looms ahead. It's an hour that I get to focus and go over race thoughts. If you've been around me the week before a race you know how intense I get; the hour before is probably unbearable. 

6:00am, Kimball Junction, Utah. It's 52 degrees but I make the decision not to wear UnderArmor or arm warmers, I'd have to stop somewhere and remove them as the day warmed up. The elites will launch at 6:45am and almost every minute from 6:00 to 6:45 is structured. Unload the bike; check tire pressure, brakes, gears, seat, chain, bike computer, etc. A bike jersey has 3 pockets in the lower back and all my fuel, ibuprofen and an extra Co2 canister needs to be stuffed there. Underneath the seat is a small compartment where an extra tube, pump and Co2 is stowed. 
Next I check in, I'm pre-registered but I like to make sure everything is ready. Then it's on the bike to check all the components of the bike. I run through all 20 gears, check the brakes, check my pedals, do some maneuvering and stretch a little. It's also time to size up the competition: do I know anyone, recognize team jerseys, who looks nervous, calm, scared? Who is using what type of gear set-up? What type of wheels? Where are the biggest calves? When all else fails follow the biggest calves. 

6:35am, Time to stake your claim at the starting line. I have a favorite place: about 18 feet off the line and on the inside of the first major turn. Today it's a hard right turn right out of the starting gate so I line up accordingly and then don't budge. 

6:44am and it's quiet. The race isn't going to start on time. I'm focused which means I'm  cranky but I have to calm myself. My mind isn't worried about the racers around me, I'm worried about the pros coming behind us and they'll start on time. Every minute we're delayed is a minute in their favor. 

6:51am. The gun sounds. There's the sweet sound of hundreds of shoes clipping into race pedals. The pedals on race bikes are unlike your childhood bike pedals. I'm locked onto my bike and in essence my shoe is the pedal. It allows me to, not only, push down but also lift up, slide back and kick forward which generates 4 times as much power as a "childhood" bike. 
Once out of the starting gate and clear of the parking lot we are joined at the front by a 3 car police escort. The first 4 miles of the race skirts the edge of town and the escort will get us safely on the open road. 
The big, main pack of bikes in a race is called a "peloton". On this day the riders at the front of the peloton have set a fairly moderate pace of 22mph. It's slightly uphill but it feels slow. I've made a decision that I'm going to just "sit in" for as long as possible. Inside the peloton you expend far less energy as you would by working at the front. The "drag" of those bikes pulls you along. By "sitting in" I don't have to work as hard to go as fast. 
It's tough to describe what it feels like to be in a peloton. But imagine going 25 mph and being able to reach out and touch six different riders at any one time. That's how close it is. Your senses are magnified; who's shifting, who's standing, who's drinking or eating? Things like this will slow down or speed up a rider and you have to dance a delicate waltz inside the peloton of holding your line but being aware of who isn't holding theirs. 
But I know this course and I know the peloton will shatter all too quickly. 11 miles into the race is a Class 2 climb. Hills, or climbs, are categorized in cycling by difficulty decided on by the steepness, length and to a lesser degree placement in the route. Class 4 is the easiest up to Class 1 being the steepest, longest hills. Then there are what are called "hors catégorie" or "beyond classification" which means cars aren't really expected to make the summit. This first climbing test of the day comes quick. At the base I look around. There's about 45 riders in front of me and a long file of bikes snaked behind me that stretches out of view. The air is calm and crisp. It's broken by the sounds of chains making their way up the cassette (or back gears) to the easier, lighter gears. My legs tell me to hold off,  don't shift just yet. By doing this I gain a little speed on a lot of the other cyclist. My trade off is suffering. By not shifting into an easier gear as those around me I'm using a little more energy now. But I remember riding with a group of pros and complaining that my legs were hurting. One of them berated me, calling me arrogant to think I was the only one whose legs were hurting. Cycling is about suffering. Climbing is about trusting that you'll be able to recover once you reach the peak. I keep rotating my legs and move up the hill.  
There's a big tradition in bicycle racing to leave messages in chalk on the road in support of your favorite rider, for a team or other reasons. I'll get to see a lot of those today with the pros coming up behind us. The first sign of these messages appear on this Class 2 climb. Sprawled out in big white words is this first message. 
THIS... ISN'T... THE... HARD... PART......... THAT... IS ... above this is a huge arrow pointing off to the right.
 My eyes follow off in the southwest direction of the arrow but I'm already laughing, knowing what's there. Across the Jordanelle Reservoir  looming above the horizon is Mt. Timpanogas. The first HC climb of the day. I look back up the hill I'm on. This is what crushes cyclist's souls: thinking about the next climb, not the one they're on. I pedal on. Mt. Timpanogas is 40 miles away.  I'm in the middle of The Jordanelle climb. Timpanogas will have to wait. At the summit I begin shifting back down into the heavier harder gears. The reward for going up a hill is getting to go down a hill.
I take a quick drink. On the bike I drink every 12 minutes. There's no debating this. I drink in 12 minute intervals whether I'm thirsty or not. It's 36 minutes into the ride, it's still cool out,  I'm not sweating but it's time to drink.  
I'm 7 minutes faster to this point than I was last year. I know this because this is where I crashed out last year. My senses jump to attention. There's a little fear in my heart. I've picked my way through the group and at the top of the climb I'm sitting 17th. Last year I was sitting 5th here. It gives me some confidence in the riders that will be around me on this descent. This is a higher level of cyclists than last year. The crest of a hill on a bike is very rewarding but I live with a problem. I've  just gained about 25 spots on this climb but now I have to hold it on the descent. It's not as easy as it used to be. I'm weighing 142 pounds at the start of this race which makes the climbing a lot easier but the descending tougher. As one person told me: you can't expect to go down like a bowling ball when you go up like a feather. That means I have to be a little more aerodynamic than the heavier cyclists. I have to get lower, more slipstream, hide from the wind on my bike. I come completely off my seat and lay on the top tube of the bike frame, my butt tucked under the front of the seat.  My arms tuck in underneath my body. My neck lays over my handlebars and my chin sits directly over the front wheel. In this position it's tough to reach the brake levers safely or easily; no worry, I won't be using them.
Next time you're going 45mph in a car open up the door and look down. Then to experience the crash from last year, jump out wearing only your underwear. I shouldn't be thinking about the crash last year- It was a freak accident, I'm better, the guys around me are better, the problem that caused it has been fixed- but in honesty I'm thinking about it and a grin lights up my face as I wiz past the exact site. I've made it. I'm a little safer. I'm going too fast to add any speed by pedaling but during regular intervals I'll rotate the pedals a few times to move my legs and keep the blood from pooling in them. For the next few minutes I'm just a passenger on the bike but there's no time for sightseeing. The two inches in front of my wheel are all that matter. I'm aware of my surroundings, the bikes, the road surface, the debris and my adjustments around and through these things are made by little more than tightening one side of my body, sticking out and elbow, and other very slight movements. The handlebars are to hang on to, you never steer with them.
As the base of the hill approaches I ready myself to switch from passenger to engine. My focus turns to the speedometer. And I watch the numbers fall at a steady rate: 48...47...44.4 (the sign of death in Asian cultures) ... 40 ...tense up Eric get ready... 39.... It's close! 38.... BOOM! Time to start rotating the legs again.
I look up, there's a long straight stretch and a town at the end. It's pretty flat but still rolls downhill. I'll keep the speed up knowing that I'm getting some help from gravity. The police escort is still out in front of us, we'll be able to scream through town without the worry of vehicles crossing our path.

The last time I visited the little town of Kamas, Utah it was to put my bike back together and clean the blood off my abrasions. It's different this year and more rewarding. At the city limits there's a group of people along the road. Yes, they're there to get a good spot for the pro race but a mile away I can hear the cowbells and yelling. They're treating our race just the same. This could end up being a fun day. Halfway through town, at probably the only stop light, the police pull over, we're on our own now. There's an aid station at the local school, none of the elite cyclist will stop here, it's only 17.4 miles into the race. Bottles are still full, no need to get off the bike but it gives me a check point. I'm averaging 19 miles an hour at this point. Still under an hour, still ahead of what I'd projected. The doubt creeps in; am I going too fast, expending too much energy? I tell myself to trust in the training, pedal on. I'm my biggest critic and biggest fan at the same time. 

20 mile marker: The directors of the race have set out big signs every 5 miles to let you know how far along you are in the race. 20 miles means I'm 1/5 of the way done. It's a big moment. I run through an "all-systems" check. I'm doing just under 17mph, I'm averaging 19mph, I've been on the bike 1:03.28, heart rate is 154bpm, still plenty of water in my bottles, quick look down at the tires show they're still holding pressure.
I've gambled on my tires today, especially with the chance of thunderstorms over the Wasatch Mountain Range. My tires are 23mm wide, under an inch wide. They are supposed to hold 130psi but I always run them at 135psi. Today I've gambled and inflated them to 140psi. It's left me with a concern. They're not designed to be inflated this high. If they burst, I can change a flat in about 2 minutes but that's a loss of a half mile in distance. The higher pressure allows less friction on the road, it also gives a rougher ride, and if the road turns wet, it gives less control.
More immediate concerns. We've wound our way through the little town and at the southeast edge make a hard right turn and start heading west, and right into a headwind. I'm pretty natural at being able to estimate wind speed. From the rustling of the leaves on the trees, to how the grass and weeds dance along the road, to the stray piece of paper bouncing down the asphalt, I've set the wind at around 12mph; more of an annoyance than an obstacle. It means shifting into a lighter gear and, strangely, working with your competition. It's time for a pace line.
In a pace line you're working with other cyclists to keep a higher speed. The cyclist in the front blocks the wind for the others then, after a given time, falls off and takes his place in back where he is pulled in the draft of the other's until he works his way back up to the front and pays his debt for the small rest by working for everyone else. It's a beautiful thing to watch and takes lots of practice to do right. It's a true "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" situation. Although all of us in the pace line are trying to win the race, it pays off to work together against the wind to maintain a higher overall speed. And the wind is every cyclist's worst enemy.  The pace line works great for about 6 miles and then it happens. One of the worst, if not the worst, feelings for a cyclist; 2 inches... 4 inches... I'm seeing it happen and there's nothing I can do about it ... 5 inches starts feeling like a mile... 6 inches... I'm losing the wheel in front of me little by little and soon with it the benefits of the drafting. 9 inches... It's happening faster and all I can do is keep pedaling and hope a false hope. 1 foot turns into 2 feet then 3 feet... it's over, I'm out of the pace line. These "Cat 1" riders are better than me on the flatter terrain. I knew it, I'd planned on it, I'd prepped myself to expect. It doesn't mean I have to like it.
Racers, like hills, are classified in categories. Cat 1 & 2's are your up and coming pros or pros that are done competing for pay. I'm a Cat 3 which is a sponsored rider without true ambitions of being a pro. In essence the top amateur level. Then there are Cat 4's & 5's that are avid cyclists that race every once and a while.
As I fall off the pace line I know it's because everyone in front of me are Cat 1 & 2. I look around and I'm in no-man's-land. There's a group behind me in the distance and the 20, or so, Cat 1's pulling away from me. It's right where I expected to be. For the next while I'll do all I can to out run the group of cyclist coming up on me, filled with Cat 1, 2 & 3's. Generally speaking 15 riders are faster than one, I'm at a disadvantage and they have me in their sights. Their game is to see if they can catch me, mine is to not be caught. I have one advantage: there's some climbs coming up fast, and I'll pick me on a hill over anyone. I move my hands down on the drop bars, I have a new game for my pursuers: let's see who can get to the next mountain first!

Being alone during a race is the true competition. No one there to drive you on, no one there to hold you to your commitments. Sometimes I wish someone would secretly record me during these times. I start arguing with myself out loud. "just stop, no one will care." "okay, at that sign we'll quit." "if you kicked your spokes in, everyone would think it was just bad luck." "the mechanic will know you kicked them in yourself." "just keep pedaling you chicken." "okay, I'll pedal to that next sign and then I'm done." "shut up, you're not going to stop at that sign." ".... I'm going to seriously consider it." It goes on like this constantly.
I take a quick look back at the group behind me without seeming like I'm looking back. You can't have them thinking you're concerned.
Dang, they're closer.  
It's not time to panic.
Another quick look back. It's like a horror movie, every time I look back they're closer.
The road is starting to pitch up but the real climb is still a ways off.  Trust in the training. I keep pedaling. Concentrate on my pedal stroke. Push down; slide back; lift up; kick forward... repeat. It's the lifting up that separates a real cyclist and someone who rides a bike. Because my foot is locked on to the bike I'm able to lift up and generate more power through the rotation of the pedal stroke. Gravity starts forcing me to shift gears. I'm going up the steep part of the climb about a half mile before the chasing group. This hill isn't classified but it's tough. It's just as high as the first climb but because it's not one long ascent it isn't classified. It's done in steps; climb, level off, climb, level off until the summit. It's not long before I'm down to 13mph. I'm feeling good and keeping my pedaling smooth and breathing under control. I glance back and notice a group of 5 riders have broken off the chase group. And they're catching me. As they come up beside me I fall into the group. There's some Cat 3's in here, the first ones I've seen. I'm able to stay up with them and we crest the final summit together. I get to fight for my position on the ride down the other side. Quickly my speed is over 40mph and again I'm just a passenger on the bike. Once again as soon as gravity takes over the other cyclist start pulling away. I console myself in the knowledge that the race finishes on top of a climb so if I can keep close I have a chance. By the bottom of the descent a couple other cyclists have passed me. There's five Cat 3's and 20 Cat 1&2's ahead of me. And it's mostly flat and downhill to Mt. Timpanogas. 
The route goes through the towns of Heber and Midway and there's more crowds building. The cowbells, the screaming, the words of encouragement are intoxicating. I could seriously get used to this. I hear a few screams of "Beat The Pros"... I'm trying guys, I'm trying. Inside the town of Heber is another aid station where people are waiting to fill bottles and give food. I check and do the calculations. It's time to make a decision: fill up here or in 17 miles at the base of Timpanogas. If you combine both bottles I still have about 3/4 of a bottle total. It's warming up but still cool. The road angles downhill for the most part to Timpanogas; I decide to pedal on. As I pass the aid station I notice 6 riders pulled over. None of the Cat 3's are there.
1:56.48. Time to eat. As much as I make myself drink every 12 minutes, I make myself eat every hour. I reach into my back pocket it's time for meal #2. I eat on the roll. When it's done I take another sip and get back to business. I've been on the bike for 2 hours, my back needs stretched, my legs need stretched, my butt needs a break but it has to wait.  I won't do this until I can coast without losing much speed. As soon as I find a nice steady downhill slope I begin the stretching: I roll my neck, shake each hand a little, level my feet out, stand up and stretch my legs. It takes less than 30 seconds but it's all the break I'll take. 15 miles of relatively flat terrain lay ahead along with five Cat 3's I have to chase down. The wind is picking up and I try to use it to my ability. My light body weight might not have much of an effect on flat roads but I try to use my thin body frame to my advantage. "Ride skinny," I tell myself, "hide from the wind." 
This is my way of reminding myself to concentrate on an aerodynamic position on the bike. The other cyclists are getting bored, tired. They're sitting up on their bikes catching more wind. I put my hands in the drops, or lower part of the handlebars, keep my elbows tucked against my body, and my knees angled in. I've trained all winter to ride this whole race in this less comfortable position, it's time to put it to use. 
The five mile markers tick away: 40... 45... 50 and then the signs begin appearing. The road over Mt Timpanogas is called "The Alpine Loop" and the signs on the highway are announcing it's arrival. Before I know it I can see the blue canopy of the aid station. I've got to fill my water bottles. It's warming up and over the last 2 years I've heard nothing good about this road. I've driven the Alpine Loop a couple times in a car but you can't appreciate a road from a car. All the little impurities, subtle pitches, steep switchbacks mean nothing in a motorized vehicle. They do when you're the motor. 
I pull over. There's about 10 cyclists refueling. All I need is water. I don't even get off my bike. The volunteers are awesome. They already have water opened and ready. I unscrew my tops and two people are pouring water in. I still have enough food and don't accept anymore. Over the next 9 miles every ounce I carry will slow me down. 

2:45.36 I'm 15 minutes ahead of schedule. I push off and look up The Alpine Loop,
up Mt Timpanogas...
Up Mt Doom. 
"Watch out for 'the wall'." That's the only advice I've got about this climb. About a half mile away from the aid station I'm already out of gears, my heart rate is at 162bpm. Dear Lord, I hope this is "The Wall". The grade on this part of the road averages 11% and has portions that reach 14%. The mountain I train on in Vegas is 7 to 8%. There are no "Hors Catégory" climbs in Vegas. Legs: let me introduce you to Utah. Within a mile of the aid station 2 cyclists pass me, both Cat 3's. We chat as they pass, I ask them if they've done this climb before. They answer yes. I ask for any advice or tricks for ascending it. 
"once you get past The Wall it actually levels off but your legs are toast by then so it won't feel like it."
Oh, thank God, this is the wall. I'm now in 8th but this is not about winning right now, it's about surviving. My mind clears of everything. I'm not thinking about the race, I'm not thinking about my bike, I'm not thinking about the summit. I'm watching my heart rate now. And trying to survive. The fine line I balance on going up a steep, long hill like this teeters on my heart rate. Go as fast as you can without "red lining" your heart rate. If I go above 185bpm for long I'll "pop" and pretty much end my day; end 2 years of hard work. Pedal, suffer, watch the heart rate, survive. The wall lasts about 3 miles. The mile marker says: Mile 55. They're starting to annoy me. I contemplate kicking it over as I go by. Then when I pass it I contemplate turning around, going back and kicking it over. But I have 6 more miles to the summit and I'm pretty sure I don't want to repeat any of it.
The crowds are staking their claims to the best parts of the mountain. There are some certifiable crazy cycling fans. In some parts of the world cycling is like football here. Standing alongside the road is a guy dressed up as a devil. He's holding a cold bottle of water. As I close in on him I hear the offer, "Your soul for a bottle of water." It seems like a reasonable offer. I swoop in and grab it. The crowd cheers and laughs. I pour it over my head and pedal on. Above "The Wall" the road reaches the elevation of cottonwood trees, it's probably very beautiful but I'm concentrating on the road surface. I'm scanning for the easiest line up. Are there little dips? Is one side smoother asphalt? Can I cut this corner? What line is best around this switchback? I'm doing 9.5mph, every advantage will make a little difference. I start picking off some of the riders ahead of me and dropping them. Two more catch me and pass me. 
Visualization is a very strong training tool. Last year after the wreck I drive this road to commit it to memory. I've ridden it 100 times in my mind. As the steep parts and tough switchbacks appear I remember them. They aren't as intimidating. It's warming up even at this altitude. My heart rate has been above 170 for over 30 minutes. I unzip my jersey and take a drink. I recognize a long switchback. I'm close to the top. It's felt like forever. The road levels off some. I'm able to shift into a few heavier gears. Another switchback and a sign: Mile 60. Only mile 60?!? Son of a... Are you serious? 
A few more switchbacks and I see a beautiful sign. "KOM 1km". The pros will race up this mountain to contest King Of Mountain points. This is their warning to start racing. To me it means 1000 more meters and I'm done with this Hell. I can see the summit. The day started with 4 classified climbs on the course, I'm done with 2. I have a nice long descent into the Provo Valley. It's time to push it for 500 meters. The crowd gathering at the KOM line cheer in appreciation. I slap the sign as I crest. 
There's an aid station, but I'm not about to stop. I look down at my bottles, they're both about 1/4 full and I won't be reaching for them on the descent. 2 years ago in this race a rider was using a car to draft behind on the way down. The vehicle didn't know he was there. Around one of the sharp hairpin turns the car misjudged it and slammed on the brakes. The cyclist went through the back window and was pronounced dead on the spot. I guess that when the paramedics arrived and had to ask where his head was, the cause of death was easy to diagnose. I decide to play it a little safe. It costs me a couple more spots but I'll live to ride another day. 
No catching me today boys. I check my watch, the pros have just launched. I'm 20 minutes ahead of schedule. Somewhere down this side of Mt Timpanogas my bike computer will register a speed of 56.6mph. I was taking it easy. 
At the base of the mountain it feels like I'm riding in sand. After maintaining speeds over 40mph for 11 miles it seems slow to be back down to 20mph. It takes a few minutes to get my legs accustomed to the pressure of pushing on the pedals. There's a group of 8 riders just ahead and I push to close the gap. A town approaches and as I get close to the city limits I see a cop car at an intersection. He's stopping traffic for the race. I make a hard right turn onto Main Street, Alpine UT.  and almost gasp.
The town has come out in full force to cheer us on. Lined up 6 deep on each side and stretching at least a mile is a crowd going nuts. Cowbell, clappers, whistles, screams. For 1 mile I'm a pro and I can't wipe the grin off my face. We all instinctively pick up the pace and head into our dream. There's a time to race and a time to be grateful. In the crowd are lots of kids. I pull out of the group of cyclists and swing toward the sidewalk lined with people. High fives all the way down the street. By the time we're directed off main street and out of town I'm 50 meters behind the group I entered with. It was well worth it then, it's still well worth it now.
Outside of Alpine is the third of four classified climbs. It's called Suncrest. It separates Provo Valley and the Salt Lake Valley. The locals know it as Point of the Mountain.  On the far west side of this mountain they race motorcycles up the dirt part and call it The Widowmaker. I think that's a more appropriate name. For two years I've said this hill will decide the race. It's a "Class 1" climb and it's between the two HC climbs. You've just gotten done with Timpanogas and you're beginning to think of Little Cottonwood Canyon when all of a sudden there's this mountain in your way. And it's intimidating. Some hills are just scary to look at and this one fits that description. From the edge of Alpine you can see the whole mountain and, worse, you can see that the road goes all the way to the top. You can't fool yourself by saying the road goes along it or beside it. The highest thing on this mountain is the asphalt of the road. 
My predictions were right. I catch and pass the group I entered the town with. I pass some Cat 1 riders struggling, I pass some of the Cat 3 riders.  The back side of Potosi, the mountain I train on every day, is eerily similar to this road. Every day up Potosi I told myself, "this is how your legs will feel going up The Widowmaker." I was wrong, they feel better. By the time I crest the summit I've passed 15 riders. No one passed me. I high five some fans at the top and head down into the Salt Lake Valley. 
Mile 80. I've been on my bike 4 hours 35 minutes. I look at my bottles, precious few sips left. I have to stop at this aid station. They aren't as organized here and there's a line of cyclists and it's taking longer to fill the bottles. I decide to only fill one to cut time. There's another station at the base of the canyon. I didn't want to stop there but I'll gamble.
The race book lists Little Cottonwood Canyon as a 9.8 mile climb but what it doesn't say is that it's a good steep climb through foothills of the Wasatch Mountains and the town of Draper to get to the base of the canyon. The crowds are starting to fill in and cheer. As I pass one big group I ask, "It's all downhill from here, right?". Hey, you gotta get laughs wherever you can. I'm starting to pass more cyclists. This climb through the foothills of the valley is demoralizing. Cycling lesson for life: concentrate on the task at hand. As we snake through town I see the pizza place we ate at last year after watching the finish. 
The race starts here. Mile 85.
A hard right turn and Little Cottonwood Canyon stares us directly in the face. And it's a steep climb to get there. The group that had formed down Suncrest, at the aid station and through Draper is 11 strong. At the top of this climb  it's fallen to 6. The remaining Cat 3 riders are grouped together. There's 3 of us. We're not in a pace line, we're not working together. We're surviving. 
I send a quick text to Bambi who's waiting at the finish line. It simply reads: Mile 90. 
I'm running out of water. I'm wondering if anyone else is going to stop at the aid station 2 miles ahead. I've played my cards, I have to stop and fill both bottles regardless of what anyone else does. 
As we turn onto Little Cottonwood Canyon Road I see the aid station. As I get closer I see little angels dressed in green volunteer shirts. There's about 12 kids from a local Boys & Girls Club helping at this station. They're lined along the road holding out bottles of water. I've said many times before that cycling is about seeing an opportunity and jumping on it without hesitating. An idea pops into my head. A stupid idea I've never heard of. A stupid idea that might, just might, keep me on my bike. I slow my pace, ease close, reach out and grab a bottle. 
Anyone can do that.  
Quickly, I shove it in my pocket and reach back and grab another bottle. Just as quickly it's in a pocket. A third time I reach out and grab a bottle. 
That was the easy part. 
Holding my handlebars and one bottle in my left hand, I reach down and unscrew my water bottle. Putting the cap in my mouth I unscrew the bottle of water in my left hand and reach down and pour it into my bike bottle. 
One down, one to go. 
I'm pedaling slower but I haven't had to stop. I fumble through the next water exchange and pick up my pace. I open the third bottle, drink half and pour the other half over my head. The other cyclist didn't stop. I've fallen behind the group but I'm not concerned, I've saved seconds by not getting off the bike. 
"This doesn't seem so bad." Is my first thought from a bike, riding up Little Cottonwood Canyon. Once you're on the road heading up to Snowbird Ski Resort it actually levels off some from skirting the foothills. I pick up the pace and chase after the five riders I was with. But on this terrain I'm at a speed disadvantage so the chase is to just minimize my losses. 
9 miles left to my goal. I pass a couple riders with their heads drooped. I can't comprehend being defeated at this point. In fact my legs twinge a little as if they're going to cramp. They have every reason to. I've asked more of them already than any other race, ever. At this point in the race I've climbed more than any other race and I have the biggest climb I've ever done left in front of me. I tell my legs- you've got 9 more miles then you can explode. I go around a bend in the road and get my first glimpse of the real Cottonwood Canyon. It's all it's been cracked up to be. This is going to be a beast. What I don't see is the group of riders that I'm chasing. There's two Cat 3's in there. I've got to catch them soon. The road turns steep immediately. And just as quick I'm out of gears. My heart rate leaps to 180+bpm but it's a now or never situation. Time to give it everything. 

5:02.45 I've been on my bike for over 5 hours. I'm still a little faster than I'd predicted and still feeling good on the bike. My heart rate is high, but I'm in control still. I've predicted that it will take me an hour to make this climb. I've set 6:05.00 as my goal. I'm feeling confident that I can beat that. I pedal on, reminding myself to keep my pedal stroke smooth and consistent. 
If you ride a good line through a switchback you have about 2 pedal rotations to grab a quick rest but it seems a moot point on this road. Every switchback seems to bring a steeper grade. Every bend reveals a longer tougher section. Every turn introduces a new reason to quit. I look down at my bike computer. The speedometer embarrasses me. I'm going slower than I've ever gone in a race. My heart rate is skyrocketing above the red line. My body is screaming for water I have to ration.   There comes a point in every race where you legs just give up, where your mind wants to pull over, get off the bike and sit down. It's here. And  it's here with a vengeance. There's only one choice: I turn the computer screen off. I shut my heart rate monitor down. No more need for numbers. It's time to fight myself. The crowds are starting to get thick up this climb that will determine the outcome of the pros Tour of Utah. They've raced everyday this week and this climb is expected to reveal the winner. It's also designed to break the best riders in the world. Later today, seven pros will abandon the race right here. 25% of the amateurs will be caught here. None of that matters. I'm not in a race; I'm no longer trying to beat the pros. I'm simply testing myself: can I beat this mountain. 
I'll never forget the crowds on this mountain. They made it easier and harder to ride at the same time. I wanted to give them all a show, but had to stay within my limits. They came with water for the pros but saw cyclists struggling in a race and shared what they had. More than once a fan ran alongside me, encouraging me. I'm trying to capture every second of it but my mind is focused on moving the pedals. 
With 4 miles left I catch one of the five cyclists. He's not one of the Cat 3's but he lets me know they're not far past him. It gives me a boost in my confidence but not my speed. The farther up this beast, the steeper it pitches. 
One of the signs I've been looking for comes into view: Tanner's Flat 1/4 mile. 
Tanner's Flat is where the road is the steepest and the last long straight stretch on the course. It's the best place to watch the race. It's where the crazies camp out the night before. It's where the unofficial Tour of Utah party is. Imagine being able to have a tailgate party on the goal line at the Super Bowl for free. That's what this is equivalent to. I round the corner. I'm no longer suffering on Little Cottonwood Canyon. I'm in my heaven called Tanner's Flat. I'm still suffering, but I've dreamed about what this would feel like since I started watching the Tour de France as a kid. The crowds are so deep you can't see where the shoulder ends and the road starts. There's enough space for about three bikes to pass through. Two bikes comfortably. Then I see a gift. The crowd at the top of the stretch is making way for 2 bikes. On top of the bikes are the only Cat 3 riders in front of me. 
I've got to calm myself and it's tough. The energy of the crowd makes me want to stand up and pedal hard. But if I do that now, I'll pop and end my day 3 miles from the finish line. As I ride through the crowd someone hands me a cold bottle of water. I drink half and pour half over my head. Someone runs alongside me and pours water down my back. There's a gorilla handing out bananas. I'm sure I've lost it, but there's a gorilla handing out bananas. Superman is here too. I find Waldo. The crowds are deafening. Another water bottle in my face. I grab it, take a few sips and toss it. At the end of the stretch a guy makes eye contact with me. He runs alongside me. "want a push?". Oh how I want a push. My legs beg for a push. No one would know that I was aided. It's too crowded. There's no officials around. It would help me catch my competition. I don't have the strength to talk....
I shake my head no.
One person would know and I have to look at him in the mirror tomorrow. 
At the "4km" sign there's a lady dressed as an angel holding up four fingers, "you've climbed 4 major climbs, you've got 4 kilometers to go. You can do it!"
Lady, I'm not sure I can.
I'm bridging the gap to the two Cat 3's and the distance is closing fast. I catch them at the 3km sign. There's a couple kids along the road. I unclip both water bottles and toss them to them. I'll jettison all the extra weight I have left here. I don't need any fuel or water. I've planned this. The last part of the race will be ridden as light as possible. Every ounce of unnecessary weight is tossed.
I stay right behind them. I've caught them and now it's their turn to counteract. We pedal together for what seems like an hour before the "2km" sign appears. Then one of them makes a move. My legs don't react and he continues to pull away.  
2000 meters away from the finish line. I sit and watch him pull away on a climb. In all my dreams I was the one pulling away. But in the countless hours of training I was learning to stay within myself and race my race.
The guy left with me crumbles. Seeing someone pull away like that crushes him and it's as if he almost comes to a stop.
I go under the 1km banner "the red arch", alone. In cycling the "1km to go" sign is a red arch stretching across the road. 164,000 meters down; 1,000 to go. Just over half a mile.  I've fallen behind by about 400 meters. He's smoking it. He deserves first. Second place in this race is good. I've done what I can. I should be proud. 
500 meters left. The sign is just ahead. Then I see something I'd not planned on. At the "500 meters to go" mark the race turns down into the Snowbird Ski Resort parking lot. The climbing is over. It's all downhill from here. The crowds are lining the finish line. About 500 meters of crowds. I can give them a show. If I die here I can roll down to the finish line. I slam my chain into the hardest gear and push with everything I've got left. 
At 400 meters I look up to get my bearings. I see the last Cat 3 at the 200 meters sign. I can  catch him... maybe.
I push for another 100 meters. My brain does the calculations: not enough distance left.
No need to crash here unnecessarily. I start to sit up. Then he sits up and starts coasting.
As quickly as I've sat up I reach back down to the drops.
Turns out the race wasn't 102.6 miles; it's 200 meters. The pros didn't give me a head start; I gave him a 100 meter head start. I hear the announcer say- he's giving it a go! as I scream by the table.

My nose is over my front wheel and his bike comes into my limited view...
I'm at his back wheel...
The finish line is closing in...
I'm a half bike length back...
You won't know unless you try...
My front wheel is rolling through his...
Pedals matching pedals...

A life put on hold. Two years of training for one race. Two major wrecks. Being run over by a car. Cheated out of a victory in a big race. 4:00am every single morning. Saturday mornings traded away to sore legs. Lost friends who couldn't understand. Friends gained who respect dedication.  Injuries, doubts, defeats. Victories, faith, lessons learned. sacrifices made. Blood, broken bones, concussions. Smiles, encouragement from people I hadn't talked to in 20 years, memories. 28,000 miles in heat, cold, rain, wind; many when no other cyclists were out on the road.  A life made better. 

Somewhere hidden in all that I found 60 millimeters.