Background
In August of 2008, after crewing for John Schlitter’s solo crossing in the Race Across AMerica and after qualifying for RAAM in my first 24 hour race earlier in the year, it was time to reassess future goals and get motivated again. Attempting The Race Across the West solo in 2010 seemed a reasonably ridiculous goal and what better way to get ready for RAW than to attempt an equally ridiculous Race Across Oregon solo in 2009. I would need a crew and the best are often booked up a year or more in advance. I emailed Adrienne Johnson. I had been part of Adrienne’s crew for JS and Phil Plath’s two-man RAAM team in 2007. She lives in Portland, knows RAO well, and is a great crew chief. I slotted in as first alternate on her 2009 RAO list. My decision had been impulsive and I was actually relieved that I was not first on the list.
In October Adrienne let me know that I had moved up to first on the list. She then assembled what would be arguably the most experienced three-person crew in the sport by adding David Bradley and Lee Mitchell to the team. I responded by getting equally serious and began training with Kellie Moylan, JS’s coach. Meanwhile, my wife Laurie and I were adopting a little girl from China and had been waiting for nearly four years for our referral. A few days after Christmas we received the best gift ever, a picture of our future daughter. We travelled to China in March to meet her and bring her home.
I flew to Portland in mid-May for the RAO training camp. The camp, led by race organizers George Thomas and Terri Gooch, gives riders the opportunity to ride the RAO course over a four-day period. It’s a great way to test one’s fitness for RAO and a fantastic experience combining a very challenging course with the beauty of riding in Oregon in the springtime. (I highly recommend it regardless of whether or not you have any interest in racing RAO.) I was the first recumbent rider to attend the annual camp and I found out later that good-natured bets were being taken on whether or not I would make it up the first hill at the edge of town. (It’s the first part of the neutral zone of the race and while not terribly steep, its continuous switchbacks are still pretty impressive.) I completed the camp, but time away from training during the spring had consequences. I injured my knee early in the camp and by the end it was in pretty bad shape. I visited an orthopedist when I returned to Houston and although we tried to work through it with physical therapy, the IT Band injury I had sustained wouldn’t heal without substantial time off the bike. RAO 2009 was off the table.
After recovering from the injury and riding The Texas Time Trial 24 hour race in September, we began to prepare for RAO 2010. There needed to be changes in the crew. Adrienne was pregnant and would be pre-occupied with the resulting more important matters. David Bradley, after months spent in Houston undergoing cancer treatment and surgery, was once again available and would take over as crew chief. David would be joined by his Raven Lunatic team partner, Bill Spaeth. The third slot would be filled by Sharon Stevens from Dallas, a strong ultra racer who had crewed for the 2009 RAO two-man recumbent team of Greg Gross and Chris Young. Together our team would ride for the cause of defeating Sarcoma, the cancer David has been fighting. We did a 24-hour test ride on the course in May. It was my first experience riding with a follow vehicle and doing nighttime descents. Another 6 weeks of hard workouts, a 3 week taper, and a long drive from Houston to Hood River brought me to the starting line for RAO 2010.
The Start
Five minutes into the race my confidence was seriously tested. The first leg of the race includes a 35 mile, 5,000 foot climb up Mount Hood. Snow covered roads caused us to detour around this section during the 2009 RAO camp, so I had only ridden the opening short climb with the hairpins noted above. George Thomas had mentioned in the racer’s meeting that this neutral section of the race contained the steepest climbs on the course, some short 18% grades. I thought he was kidding about the grade. At 5am on Saturday George led the 16 solo racers out of Hood River and up the switchbacks of the first hill. I was doing fine until after the top of the switchbacks when we started a series of short but very steep climbs. My heart rate was in the red, I was putting out nearly 400 watts, and the pack of soloists was still leaving me in the dust. So much for my plan to avoid burning matches early in the race. After finding myself alone I came around a corner and there was George waiting for me. Anybody who knows George knows he is just that kind of guy. We rode together and talked. The grade leveled off and we caught up to the soloists ahead of us as we finished the neutral zone. After everyone stopped for a “natural break,” we turned onto the climb of Hwy 35 and the race was on.
Kellie had insisted on the importance of a moderate pace up this first long climb. After long discussions and initial resistance, I had come to see the wisdom of her approach and agreed to be sensible. As a result, I knew what was going to happen and I was mentally prepared for it. What I was not prepared for was how quickly it happened. Within a mile all the other soloists but one had disappeared ahead of me. The remaining woman behind me was closing fast. I found out later that she had to stop and remove some thorns from her chamois that she picked up during the “natural break.” (Ultra racing is such a glamorous sport!) Soon she too had disappeared ahead of me. I tried not to panic and stay with the power numbers that Kellie and I had agreed to. If things went well and if the previous year were any guide, I had a chance to close the gap with some of the other soloists later in the race. In the meantime I had only one thing to hang on to, my pacing plan.
The Plan
After I had initially committed to doing RAO, I needed some way to find out if my ego was bigger than my quads. Was it possible for a flatlander to ride 535 miles with over 40,000 feet of climbing and finish in less than 48 hours? My limited racing experience wasn’t much help in coming up with a pacing plan for a course with so much climbing. So, using De Lorme Topo software, I broke the course down into small sections having relatively constant grades. I used the climbing and descending data from these sections (about 150 of them) and a series of spreadsheets to arrive at average climbing and descending speeds for each section. I then used the power tap data from the training camp and test ride to refine the pacing assumptions and to test the correlation of the power numbers I would use during the race with the overall timeline of the pacing plan. I also used my knowledge of the course to correct for De Lorme’s tendency to overstate the amount of climbing. (Uncorrected, De Lorme shows 55,000 feet of climbing for the course. I think a closer estimate of the actual climbing is about 43,000 to 45,000 feet.) The final result was a timeline against which we could measure our progress during the race and calculate how we were doing relative to finishing before the deadline. It listed the time I should pass landmarks every hour or so. My final pacing plan totaled 42.5 hours of riding time. I’m very conscious of the impact of stopping during a race and I had succeeded at keeping my average stopped time during my most recent 24-hour race to less than one minute per hour of riding time. I didn’t know what to expect for stopped time during RAO, but the plan left a cushion of 5.5 hours to allow for stopping, headwinds, and the unexpected. (To keep things simple during the race we just tracked total time versus total riding pace. To achieve an official finish we would need to not exceed riding pace plus 5.5 hours. The numbers listed separately below for riding time and stopped time were totaled after the race.)
An official finish was my only goal. Only three recumbent riders had finished the race solo in the eleven-year history of the race, and they were all younger and much better riders than me. The other soloists in the race were also out of my league. They included Cat II road racers, the returning RAO women’s champion, and a professional racer who was also an Olympian and has a resume that includes national championships. There were two riders older than me, one of which had already completed RAO solo as well as five Furnace Creek 508’s and the other who had completed RAAM solo in 2009. This race would be about me and the clock.
A Good Beginning
As I climbed Highway 35 up Mount Hood with no other racers in sight it was time to put all that theory to the test. A little over an hour and a half into the race I reached the first check point where the crew was waiting. As I stopped for a one minute pee break I asked how I was doing. I was six minutes ahead of pace. So far so good. From this point until 7:30 in the evening, the crew was only allowed to provide leap-frog support. They would drive ahead, wait for me to pass, do hand-offs from the side of the road, then drive ahead again and repeat the process. Two hours later I reached the summit of the climb up Mount Hood, three minutes ahead of pace. (I was six minutes ahead of riding pace including about five minutes waiting for a stop light in a construction zone. Additionally, I had stops totaling three minutes to pee and shed layers of clothes.)
After a short fast descent on Hwy 35, the course turns onto a forest development road for the remaining descent to time station #1 in Tygh Valley, 74 miles into the race. The road surface isn’t great with frequent frost heaves and several nasty cattle grate crossings. I felt like I was doing well, but having to slow down to cross the cattle grates was irritating. Prior to the race I had let the crew know that I preferred stationary hand-offs. David and Bill apparently were more used to running hand-offs and voiced some concern about doing them if I was going very fast. I said not to worry about the speed. They seemed a bit dubious, but agreed. David had set up for a hand-off about 20 feet prior to the fourth and final cattle grate thinking I would be slowing down. I was tired of slowing down. As I approached for the hand-off his eyes widened with surprise. THWACK! I took the bottle and flew across the cattle grate at 24 mph! Pretty sweet.
On the short descent to Tygh Valley I was concerned as the rear wheel felt really loose in the turns, but I made it down okay, through the time station, and continued out the other side of the little town. I was 8 minutes ahead of pace (14 minutes ahead on riding time with 6 minutes of stopped time). It was then I realized I was about to pay for my smart-ass move at the final cattle grate. I stopped and checked the rear tire. There was barely enough air in it to keep me off the rim if I was careful. The crew had stopped to check in at the time station. I rode slowly calling on the radio but the crew was too far away. After what seemed like an eternity but was in reality only a few minutes, they caught up, did a quick wheel change, and I was off on the descent down to the Deshutes River.
The climb back out of the river gorge at Sherar’s Falls is just over 4 miles long. The road snakes its way up the side of the gorge and with no place to pull off this is the one climb on the course where no support is allowed. It was late morning and the heat was already becoming oppressive. We switched to insulated water bottles and a bandana made to hold ice. I would ride with ice around my neck and lying on my chest for the rest of the afternoon. Once on top, the remaining distance to the second time station in Moro consisted of shorter climbs, large rollers, and some relatively mild headwinds. We arrived at the time station at 2:25, 121 miles into the race, and dead even with pace (17 minutes ahead of riding pace plus 17 minutes of stopped time).
The 86 miles from Moro to the third time station in Heppner involves repeated descents into river gorges and climbs back up to the grasslands and wind farms on top. The longest of these climbs starts at the John Day River and winds its way up through a canyon for nine miles. After emerging from the canyon it levels off for a mile and a half, and then continues at a shallow but increasing grade for another eleven miles. If I stayed on pace, the first nine miles would take 1 hour and 19 minutes. After a quick stop to replenish the ice in my bandana, I started up from the river. The sloped sides of the canyon are not particularly steep or tall, but they succeeded in blocking any wind and trapping in the heat of the afternoon. One rider later said his GPS recorded a reading of 113 degrees. Part way up I began to struggle. My average power was falling while my heart rate started to rise out of control. Finally I had to stop, get off the bike, and throw up on the side of the road for the first time ever in a race. More accurately, it was just dry heaves. Even though I was drinking as much as I possibly could, there was almost nothing in my stomach. My arms had stopped sweating and I had goose bumps on my legs. Not good signs. The crew helped me to the van and laid me out on the floor with my feet resting on the rear seat and above my heart. David put a towel soaked with ice water on my chest and then a layer of ice on the towel. I was surprised that I was having this much trouble with the heat. After all, the heat index in Texas during my workouts was often well over 100 degrees. David made the point that doing a few hours of intervals in that heat and then heading home to the A/C was a lot different than this. Point taken.
Eight minutes later I was back on the bike and climbing with renewed strength and a much lower heart rate. Kellie had warned me that during RAO I would face a series of walls, each of which could end my race. “Take them one at a time,” she had said, “and don’t stop believing in yourself.” With that in mind I radioed the crew and thanked them for getting me over the first wall. Twice more before I had reached the end of the 21-mile climb I had to stop and throw up. We had to repeat lying in the van with ice on my chest a second time. I was also riding with leg cramps. Finally, we reached the town of Condon a little after 6:30. The sun was starting down and the heat was fading, but it had taken its toll. We were now at pace plus 47 minutes (11 minutes behind riding pace plus total stopped time of 36 minutes).
An hour later we stopped to switch over to night follow, adding lights, changing helmets, etc. We also took the time to change to dry kit and add a layer. The afternoon was behind me and instead of just surviving I was racing again. The final descent into Heppner has a section with some hairpin turns. Having very little experience descending it’s not my strong suit, but tonight I was feeling good and let it rip. For those who have never descended at night through turns with a follow vehicle, it’s a bit like high speed dancing with a minivan as a partner. David was driving and anticipating my line would dive inside to light the way. Having David complement me on the descent and then suggest that I dial it back a little made me feel pretty good.
The First Night
We arrived in Heppner at 10:19, just over 17 hours and 207 miles into the race. As we arrived we were now at pace plus 1:04 (14 minutes behind riding pace plus 50 minutes of total stopped time). Psychologically Heppner was a major milestone. During the recent May test ride this was the point from which we had started and rode most of the way to the finish. We anticipated a longer stop because this was the last place we could get gas for the night and the last chance for all of us to use a real restroom. The crew had made some hot soup for me. The benefits of the stop were significant as I felt rejuvenated as we left Heppner, but the cost had been high. It had taken 24 minutes, what would be the longest stop of the race. As we left we were now at pace plus 1:28.
The night riding would take us east over several climbs, Franklin Hill being the most significant at four miles long and a constant six percent grade. We would then turn south on Hwy 395, over the forested Battle Mountain, and down through a winding canyon to the wide spot in the road know as Dale and time station #4. I had ridden this section twice in daylight and it is among the most beautiful parts of the course. Tonight it would just be dark and lonely. The course in general is extremely isolated with almost no vehicle traffic even in the daytime. I would occasionally think I saw a glimpse of a follow van’s flashing lights ahead on a climb, but it just turned out to be wishful thinking. Sometime during the night the crew told me that we had passed a couple of solo riders. They had pulled off the course in Condon and I had not seen them when we rode through. I put them out of my mind and concentrated on riding against pace.
It was 5:20am and getting light out as we rode past time station #4 in Dale. We were now at pace plus 2:06 (29 minutes slower than riding pace plus 1:37 of total stopped time). We were just past halfway in the race with the more difficult half still left to ride. The afternoon again promised to be very hot. At this rate an official finish was starting to look less likely. I was feeling a little down as I pointed this out to David, but I said that an unofficial finish was better than no finish. David agreed and Bill and Sharon said they were with me no matter how long it took. Things suddenly looked brighter as the road once again began to climb.
The Second Day
The Meadow Brook climb is seven miles long followed by the steeper four miles up to Ritter Butte Summit. Once on top a series of short climbs and descents took us through Long Creek and then on up to Monument Summit. A long twisty descent through beautiful painted rock canyons led to the river valley below. The next 40 miles are rolling hills and the longest relatively flat section of the race. We were having a great morning, keeping stops to a minimum and riding even with pace. Just before noon near the end of this section I got a glimpse of a solo rider for the first time since the beginning of the race. It was Joan Deitchman. I passed her and once again felt like I was part of a race. She too must have been feeling isolated as she commented on how good it felt to see another rider.
A mile or two later we reached the foot of the Butte Creek climb. I was tempted to try to stay in front of Joan even though I doubted I could, but I knew what was coming. This was the beginning of the most difficult section of the course. During the next 56 miles there are four major climbs with grades between five and eight percent. The ten miles up to Butte Creek Summit is followed by the six mile Fossil climb. Then comes the nine miles of Clarno Grade followed by the four mile climb starting in Antelope. Each of these climbs is uninterrupted climbing from bottom to top, without even a foot of relief from the constant grade. I thought if I could just get past this section I would be able to finish the race. With finishing as my priority and aware of my dwindling reserves, I watched as Joan slowly pulled away from me on the long straight climb up to Butte Creek Summit. The temperature rose to above 100, but I rode through it much better than I had the previous afternoon. Six hours later we crested the Antelope climb at pace plus 3:08, limiting our loss during the previous 13 hours to seven minutes against riding pace plus stops totaling 55 minutes. An official finish was once again looking pretty good. We descended to time station #5 in Shaniko and stopped to switch over to night riding gear. Another solo rider was at the time station when we arrived. I was puzzled because he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. We quickly finished our stop and started out toward Maupin. (After the race I learned that the rider was Max Hogan who had arrived eight minutes before me and would DNF).
Hallucinations
Before RAO the longest I had ridden continuously was 24 hours. I had never experienced the side effects of sleep deprivation. Sometime during Sunday afternoon I began to notice my eyes playing tricks on me. At first these were easy to dismiss, such as a fence post that looked like a rider in the distance. As the afternoon wore on they approached more closely. One haunting image involved a small pile of tires in the ditch along the left side of the road. A little girl of six or seven was sitting on the tires. She had straight blond hair cut about an inch above her shoulders and was wearing a simple pale green dress. She was barefoot and staring pensively down the road. I was just about to yell a greeting and wave when she suddenly dissolved into the weeds behind the tires from which my mind had constructed her. I was sad to see her go.
For a time I rather enjoyed having the hallucinations. They mostly involved my mind misinterpreting the depth perception in what I was seeing and it kept me occupied trying to see through them to the tree limbs or bushes from which they were made. As they became increasingly frequent they also became more complex. I saw the support vehicles of other riders on the side of the road, complete with bikes on the roofs and crew members walking around the vans. They also became a bit more aggressive. One was a light grey phantom, shaped like a banner perhaps 10 or 15 feet in length. It had black eyes and a dark smile and was floating over the road. As I approached it moved lower and further across the road blocking my way. I moved to the left and was about to swerve into the oncoming lane to avoid it when it dissolved back to what it really was, the light grey gravel stretching into the distance along the right side of road with a few strategically placed dark rocks. The hallucinations were to be my companions for the last 12 hours of the race. I don’t remember discussing them with the crew during the race. They didn’t worry me and I didn’t want them to worry the crew. It wasn’t until the end of the race that they became dangerous and determined to keep me from finishing.
The Final Climbs
After leaving Shaniko, the route to Maupin is a long drawn out mostly gentle descent interrupted by a few hills. There was some headwind, but it was not excessive and as the heat of the day wore off I felt like I was really riding well. The crew seemed to agree with me and we were all in high spirits. There was a whiff of “ode d’barn” in the air and even though we had over a hundred miles and three major climbs ahead of us, we were becoming increasingly confident of an official finish. We did not realize it then but I was losing riding time to pace. This was in part due to the headwind, but more importantly it reflected an error in the pace calculations. I had factored in accumulated fatigue only in the climbing pace calculations since most of the descents were steep enough that fatigue would have little effect. This portion of the course, particularly with a headwind, was one of the few exceptions. Even though I was riding well considering I had 435 miles in my legs, I was losing considerable time to pace.
A steep and very technical descent leads down into the Deschutes River Gorge and the town of Maupin. The climb back out goes right through town and is four miles at six to seven percent grade. For the first time in the race I began having a little trouble thinking clearly. As we climbed through town I couldn’t remember where to turn despite having ridden this portion of the course twice in the past. After a short fast descent, we arrived at the base of the seven-mile climb to Tygh Ridge. I was once again having “hot foot” pain in the bottom of my feet. During the day we had tried various remedies including changing shoe insoles, but the only thing that worked was rubbing my feet with ice. We had tried it once before and I got immediate relief that lasted a couple of hours. I hated to stop but this climb was going to take an hour and I thought it was worth the time to relieve the pain before we started up. I was increasingly becoming less aware of the overall context of the race. My mental acuity was often limited to the immediate problem of covering the next twenty or thirty feet in front of the bicycle. As we started climbing I don’t think any of us fully appreciated how much time we had lost. Counting the stop in Shaniko and the most recent stop as well as the riding time lost in between, we were now at pace plus 3:51 (57 minutes behind riding pace plus stops totaling 2:54).
After a long grinding climb we had an eight-mile descent to where we would begin the last climb of the race. I remember thinking that the descent wasn’t very long and I could make it without stopping to add warmer clothes. Big mistake. Soon I was shaking so badly that I was on the verge of losing control of the bike. Stopping during a descent would cause me to lose a lot of time, but a crash would be worse. My front brake squealed loudly as I stopped. As Bill cleaned the braking surface of the wheel, I put on some warm clothes and downed some hot soup. At ten minutes we would make this the last long stop of the race, but having been on a descent it had probably cost me at least twice that much time.
Forest Road 44 slopes up gradually for the first six miles before reaching the base of the 14.5 mile climb. The grade is typically between five and six percent, but occasionally is over eight. It is also interrupted by several short sections where the climb levels off or even steps down. It would take at least two hours to reach the summit. I only recall bits and pieces of the climb. The race had begun to take on the character of a bad dream. Despite riding equal to pace with only a couple of stops of a minute or two each, the climb seemed endless. My pedaling became choppy and I remember that I kept apologizing to the crew for not being able to hold my line. We had only recently started using eye drops to combat the dry air. We should have started using them much earlier in the race. My blurry vision was getting worse and together with the hallucinations reinforced the dreamlike character of the climb. There are several false summits and as we approached each crest I would push harder thinking I was finally there, only to discover as we rolled over the top that the road was about to kick up again for another half mile. When we were finally sure that we had reached the summit I stopped to quickly put on a jacket and warm gloves. Unfortunately there were still two more short climbs before the road finally turned down for good. We breathed a sigh of relief. It was almost all downhill from here.
The Last Descent
The bad dream was about to become a nightmare. Forest Road 44 descends for seven miles before it intersects Hwy 35. It’s a fairly steep technical descent on a narrow rough road through the forest. It is interrupted by several short climbs, the longest climbing for half a mile. As we started down I was being cautious. I remembered from riding this section once before in daylight that a sharp 90-degree corner would come up without much warning, but everything looked different at night and I wasn’t sure when it would happen. My vision was deteriorating and everything was increasingly blurry. As if that wasn’t enough, the hallucinations decided to make a last stand at keeping me from finishing. The width of the road appeared to be constantly fluctuating. Bushes would suddenly jump out from the edge of the road so that the van and I were being squeezed onto a single lane without defined edges. Each time we rounded a corner there was a solid wall of trees where the road should be. I would ride toward them until they disappeared. Each curve that I thought was the last turned out not to be. If I could just hang on until we reached Hwy 35 things would be okay.
Finally we rounded the curve I had been waiting for and the intersection lay ahead. (I didn’t say anything to the crew about the problems I had been experiencing. I wasn’t about to stop and since the rest of the descent was easier, I thought if I just stayed focused I would be fine.) As we turned onto the highway we were 25 miles from the finish line. After descending for about 25 minutes there would be a two mile long climb before the descent resumed. The descent is not particularly steep. For most of it I needed to pedal to get above 36 mph. In fact, this descent was on my mind when I decided to put on a 55 tooth chain ring shortly before the race. It would allow me to reach 43 mph or so before spinning out. I had been looking forward to really ripping these last miles before the finish. There was a construction zone with a traffic light in a mile or so and I didn’t want to push hard until we were through it. I was really cold, but that wasn’t surprising given the large amount of snow on the hillsides along the highway. I thought that was strange because I didn’t remember the snow being there when we climbed this section at the beginning of the race. For the first time I failed to realize that something I was seeing wasn’t real. But the snow was just part of the scenery and not cause for concern. I was having a little problem with double vision, but I focused on riding a couple of feet left of the fog line and I was doing okay.
It was then that something truly frightening happened. Time became disjointed and jerky. In an instant I would jump 50 yards down the road, and just when my mind would catch up, it would happen again. I finally realized what was happening to me. I was repeatedly falling asleep for several seconds at a time. I became aware that I wasn’t pedaling. I couldn’t think through what to do. Stopping wasn’t an option, but I couldn’t convince myself to start pedaling again. The work of going faster would have probably helped keep me awake, but descending faster while falling asleep was not something I could make myself do. Even at this speed a crash would definitely mean not finishing the race, and might buy me a one-way helicopter ride. I didn’t know how much of the 25-minute descent was left before we started the two mile long climb. As I continued to nod off, the only thing I could think to do was to try and hang on until I reached the climb.
Finally I felt the road level off and I started to slow. I waved for the van to pull alongside and asked Sharon for two pieces of Jolt gum. When she handed me the second piece I fumbled and dropped it. I held onto the next one. Within a minute or two I was fully awake. My legs were sore and stiff and it took me a few seconds to be able to turn the pedals, but then I started climbing as hard as I could. As I went over the top of the climb and began descending again I suddenly realized that I didn’t remember how far it was to the finish line. I had an overwhelming sense that I was running out of time. I didn’t ask the crew where we were since it was too difficult to use the radio and be heard while descending. Each time we rounded a curve and I didn’t see some glimpse of the lights from Hood River I became more frantic. Despite having ridden almost the entire race without seeing other competitors, for the first time I felt utterly alone.
At last we rounded a curve and saw the lights of Hood River below us. David talked me through what to do. Full stop at the 4-way … then straight over the bridge and down around the curve to the stop sign … then under the freeway … full stop and then right turn … straight ahead … and then I heard him say, “left turn, and you’re there.” As I turned I heard cheering and saw George and Terri holding a red ribbon across the road. At 4:30 in the morning there were a dozen or more people waiting for me including Adrienne and Robert Johnson and baby Axel, Sandy Earle, Joan Deitchman, and most importantly, my wife Laurie and little daughter Quinn. It was one of the most amazing moments of my life.
Epilogue
I didn’t learn about the other competitors until the post race breakfast banquet a few hours later. Six of the thirteen male soloists finished as did all three women. Mick Walsh and Leah Goldstein had finished in the 39th hour. They were followed by Karen Armstrong in the 41st hour, Ian Fillinger and Paul Danhaus in the 42nd, and Lap Lai and Laurence Kluck in the 45th. Joan Deitchman finished in the 46th hour, a little under an hour ahead of me. I was the last to finish, the “Lantern Rouge.” My official time was 47:24:54. There are a lot of lessons for improvement to be learned from this race, not least of which is the importance of taking some caffeine before a major descent late in a long race, even if you are not feeling sleepy. But those things are for another day and another race. As for this one, David, Sharon, Bill and I gave it everything we had. It was certainly not my best finish, but it was my best race.
RAO can be unforgiving to even the best racers. It was particularly sad to learn that Keith Kohan and Tom Letsinger had not finished. Keith is an incredibly strong recumbent rider who had finished solo the previous year. I had met Tom and Cassie Nobbs, his crew chief and significant other, at the RAO camp in 2009. Tom had been very helpful with advice about the course and Cassie, a physical therapist, had worked on my knee each night and enabled me to finish the camp. You can read the cautionary story about Tom’s DNF on the final climb at http://cassiept.blogspot.com/2010/08/rao-hindsight-is-2020.html .
During the race I appreciated what a great job my crew was doing, but it wasn’t until a couple days later when I had caught up on my sleep that the enormity of what they had done fully hit me. They did a perfect job for 48 straight hours and did it throughout with good natured humor and patience. What kept me going for all those hours while not seeing other riders was the feeling that I wasn’t a soloist with a crew, but rather part of a four-person team. Before the race David told me, “We will get you to the finish line. You might not look so good, but we will get you there.” He was right on both counts.
