Race Across The West
2011

Note: Comments in parentheses reflect information I learned after the race. Time is Pacific Daylight unless indicated otherwise.

A loud siren startled me. Checking my mirror I saw a fire engine just before it roared past. I felt a slight pang of foreboding, but quickly discounted it as mere coincidence. I was about 15 miles past time station number one in Lake Henshaw, and nearing the end of a fairly easy ten-mile climb. The source of my concern was at the end of the climb, the point where the road would tip over the edge of a precipice and drop more than 3,000 to the desert floor below. It’s called “The Glass Elevator,” a marked 8% descent that twists and turns through rock formations for nine miles down the face of the drop-off. The views out over the seemingly endless expanse of Sornoran Desert are spectacular, but there is little chance to enjoy them. The route book carries a special warning unique to the glass elevator: “Caution – dangerous descent.” During The Race Across America in 2006, Jim Kern, concerned that his cork brake pads were quickly wearing away against carbon rims, had resorted to sitting upright on his recumbent to increase wind resistance and slow himself from 55 to a more manageable 50 mph. John Schlitter demonstrated incredible descending skills in RAAM 2008 as we tried to keep up in the follow van at speeds in excess of 60 mph. Regarding this descent he advised me, “don’t let your speed get away from you – brake early and often.” We had driven up the descent on our way into Oceanside from Texas. What worried me most were the swirling winds, gusting 40 to 50 mph, which rocked my van as we made our way up through the corners.

A few miles later my foreboding turned to dread. The fire engine was parked on the side of the road, waiting. A helicopter circled overhead and an ambulance screamed toward me from where the descent began. Please don’t let that be a racer. As I started down I tried to put all of that out of my mind and concentrate on the business at hand. The initial drop was straight and appeared to end in a stair step that would scrub off the speed. The stair step was an illusion; I kept accelerating. Mindful of not letting the rims get too hot I pumped the brakes, reaching about 50 mph before reversing the trend. The road rounded a rock formation and briefly turned back directly into the wind. Even though I was still descending, the headwind was so strong that my speed dropped to 14 mph in a dozen seconds without touching the brakes. I then accelerated just as quickly as the road turned back downwind. The next eight miles the road twisted and turned while the swirling wind gusts hit from every direction. One second they would blow me across the road while entering a turn, the next they would suddenly shift or quit altogether and only a quick adjustment kept me from piling into the rock wall or guardrail. About halfway down I rounded a corner and up ahead emergency vehicles and a race support van were sitting just past the apex of a right-hander. It was what I feared. I was too busy holding my line through the confusion to see what had happened, but the sight reinforced my decision to be cautious. There were no bonus points for excess testosterone on this descent. (After the race I heard that a car had turned across the road in front of a team rider. After a life flight trip to the hospital, the rider was on his way home two days later with a badly broken leg. Given the circumstances, he was lucky.)

The Start

The team had assembled in Oceanside, California on Sunday evening before the Wednesday start. I had been blessed with a dream crew. Last year’s Race Across Oregon crew of David Bradley, Bill Spaeth, and Sharon Stevens was back for more, with David once again in the role of crew chief. They were joined by Jim Kern, Brian Nakagawa, and Phil Plath. All had extensive crewing experience and four of the six had been RAW or RAAM crew chiefs. Brian is one of the world’s best bicycle mechanics. All had tons of racing experience; Jim and Phil had each raced RAAM twice. Most importantly, we were all friends and had the bond of mutual respect and trust that forms the foundation of a great team.




The view from the team pre-race
digs in Oceanside. Just a few blocks from the starting line.

 



Phil was our chef extraordinare.



Brian and his bike shop with a view.



For the uninitiated, Oceanside in the days before the start is a bit overwhelming with hundreds of racers, crew, media, officials and race support staff busily getting everything ready. The tasks that must be accomplished seem endless, but with so much experience our crew knew just what to do. What I had to do was stay out of their way and concentrate on preparing myself. As the start day approached, all of this activity only served to make me more nervous. Scouting and riding the first part of the course was good therapy as well as absolutely essential. In order to get the racers out of Oceanside with as little local disruption as possible, the first 24 miles of the race were ridden unsupported and it was important that I could find my way without getting lost. Riding bonus miles is no way to start an 860-mile race.

The first official event I attended was the racer/crew meeting on Monday afternoon. There were a total of 76 racers and hundreds of crew taking part in solo RAAM, solo RAW, and team RAW. RAAM teams would start later in the week. When crewing for RAAM I always looked forward to this event. It was a thrill to be among so much racing talent, including the world’s best ultra-cyclists. This year, as the racers were introduced, I looked around and felt like a poser. I vowed to myself that by the end of the race I would no longer feel that way.

The Race Across the West was first run in 2008, from Oceanside to Taos, New Mexico, a distance of 1044 miles. Only a single solo racer finished within the maximum allowed time each of the first two years. In 2010 the RAAM route was changed to once again traverse the mountain passes of southern Colorado, eliminating the New Mexico portion of the route. RAW was then changed to end in Durango, Colorado, shortening the race to 860 miles with a maximum allowed time of 92 hours to achieve an official finish. The change increased the number of official solo finishers in 2010 to seven.



Race director George Thomas being interviewed by ABC sports.

 This year’s RAW solo field, like RAAM’s, was the largest ever. There were 17 racers representing 6 countries. It was also the strongest field ever, with nine of the 17 soloists having previous experience racing in RAW or RAAM. The clear favorite among the men was Swiss racer Dani Wyss, 41, three-time RAAM solo finisher and two-time champion. In fact, since 2004, he was the only man other than Jure Robic to win solo RAAM. Having been injured in a mountain biking accident, he had elected to race RAW to test his recovery before returning to RAAM next year. Joining Dani was Canadian Peter Oyler, 41. Peter had finished solo RAAM in eighth place in 2007, four places behind Wyss. The third male favorite was Mick Walsh, 49, representing Ireland. A former member of the Irish national cycling team, Mick was the 2010 Race Across Oregon champion and had finished two-man RAW as well. A strong rookie member of the field was American Gregory Robinson, 42. Gregory had finished in 7th place in both the 2008 and 2009 Furnace Creek 508 solo events.

In the 50 – 59 age category there were two men who had previous RAAM experience, Americans David Opel and Mike Dunlap. David, 54, had finished RAAM in 2010 as part of a two-man team. Mike, also 54, had DNF’d (“did not finish”) shortly before Durango while racing solo RAAM in 2010. His cycling experience included a double crossing of South Dakota, finishing 828 miles in 65 hours. Also in the 50 – 59 age group was American Chris Malloy, 58, the only other recumbent rider in the race. Chris had DNF’d during the first RAW in 2008.



Reviewing the race profile.

 Monday night the crew and I sat down to discuss my expectations for the race. My goal was to become the first recumbent to ever finish RAW. Beyond that, assuming fairly neutral conditions, I thought an 80 hour finish would be a good race, 76 hours would be a great race, and finishing in less than 72 hours or three days would be a grand slam home run in the ninth kind of race. My pacing plan assumed a total riding time of 64 hours plus 12 hours of total stopped time. This would be my first time sleeping during a race, unless you count dozing off while riding the final descent in RAO. The plan was to go as long as possible before sleeping and then get three hours of sleep, or two full REM cycles, and thereby hopefully avoid the hallucinations that I had experienced during RAO. A second three-hour sleep break was included in the plan, but I hoped it could be shortened to one and a half hours. Finally, with so many unknowns in a race this long I didn’t want to be tempted to abandon my plan and start racing other riders too soon. So I told the crew I didn’t want to know how I was doing in relation to the other competitors until after we had reached Flagstaff, AZ. Flagstaff would be a major milestone for me. It would equal the furthest distance I had ridden, we would have completed our second night of riding, and we would have our first sleep break behind us. After that, if we were near any of the other riders in my age group, we could do some head-to-head racing during the last 325 miles.

The best crew ever!

The start time was noon, but with my body still on central time, I woke up at 5:30 on the morning of the race. I tried to go back to sleep, but my nerves woke up just after I did. As the crew rushed around completing the final details, I found a quiet corner to be by myself. I called my coach of two and a half years, Kellie Moylan, to thank her for everything she had done to bring me to this moment. I then called my wife Laurie and daughter Quinn, who I would not talk to again until I saw them in Durango. I was just barely able to keep my emotions under control. The magnitude of what I was about to attempt overwhelmed me. It’s one thing to contemplate riding 860 miles. It’s quite another to race that far, through desert heat, 50,000 feet of climbing, and over elevations as high as 8,400 feet. When the time came, I put on my game face and rode to the starting line a few blocks away.

David handles one last interview.

Racers would start individually at one minute intervals. I would start at 12:23. When my turn came I mounted the start ramp. Race director and good friend George Thomas indicated where to position my front wheel to benefit the photographers. An announcer introduced me and said something about fighting Sarcoma, the cause we were riding to support, but I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. George gave me a hug and whispered some words of encouragement. The announcer began to count down. “Ten, nine …” Please don’t let me embarrass myself, or let down my crew, coach Kellie, the guys at Bacchetta, or my fellow recumbent riders. George’s hand came up in front of me, his fingers showing the count. “Five, four …”

I rolled down the ramp, through the crowd, and along the start chute. As I passed the staging area the follow van pulled out behind me. I turned and followed the chute up the short steep hill away from the beach. Thank God police controlled the intersection at the top so I wouldn’t have to attempt a "RAAM-stop" on this steep grade. Several blocks later I was directed onto the bike path that allowed us to avoid busy city streets for the next seven miles. The follow van took another route to mile 24 where they would wait for me. As the bike path ended and we were directed onto surface streets, I caught the rider ahead of me. A block later I passed him on a gentle climb. Suddenly, finally, all the drama and frenetic activity of the last few days was behind me and I was racing!

The First Night


Daytime support was via hand-offs throughtout the race.


At the end of the Glass Elevator is the small town of Borrego Springs and the traffic roundabout known as “Christmas Circle.” All race support vehicles and crew except for one follow van per solo team take an alternate route to this rendezvous point, as I had done during the three years I had crewed for RAAM. I remembered well the hours I had spent here waiting to get a glimpse of our rider. Those memories made for a very special moment when the crew cheered for me as I flew through the circle and turned south. We were 85 miles into the race and I was starting to pass a few riders. I felt good, but I was worried I was going out too fast. (I had passed through the first time station at 4:39 pm in 15th place, but I had several riders just ahead. Only 4 minutes separated me and 11th place.) My average heart rate was too high, although much of that was no doubt due to the heat. From Oceanside to the top of the Glass Elevator is mostly climbing, including a seven-mile, seven-percent grinder just before Lake Henshaw. I shouldn’t be catching other riders yet. I remembered that John Schlitter felt that he had gone out too fast in solo RAAM and paid for it the next day. As I now headed south out of Borrego Springs we would be on the desert floor for the rest of the night. Local time was 6:30 and things were starting to cool off. I needed to dial it back a little.



Rolling through Christmas Circle.

 But first we needed to execute a bit of strategy. Part of our plan was to switch to a rear disc wheel on the desert flats. There was a strong crosswind out of the west. I radioed Brian and Phil to get ready to switch to the disc after we finished a nine-percent climb out of a flood control channel and just before we turned directly downwind. The wheel switch was quick and soon I was heading east in front of a screaming tailwind. There was a slight downgrade of about one percent for six miles and then it was flat with slight undulations for another 17 miles. I was flying, maintaining speeds over 35 mph and occasionally hitting 40. To be going this fast on mostly flat terrain for so many miles was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. What a blast! Dialing it back would have to wait. The crew saw me grinning and waving and wondered if I was losing it. The grinning was from the speed, but I was waving to get the attention of drivers stopped at intersecting roads. I was afraid that they might pull out in front of me not expecting a bicycle to be approaching so quickly on a flat road. With the sun setting behind me I was also thankful that Brian had thought to put on my headlight when we switched wheels. Another interesting problem arose when I realized my water bottle was empty. I’m very comfortable taking hand-offs at pretty high speed, but this would be ridiculous. It wasn’t long before I went over a rise and saw the turn to the south up ahead. The crew set up on a slight uphill just after the turn. The wind was now a crosswind, but I was still going 27 mph as I took the hand-off.

We arrived at TS #2 in Brawley at 8:47 pm. (For the 89 miles since TS #1 we had averaged 21.4 mph overall, 21.9 on-the-bike, and moved from 15th place up to 7th.) Under nighttime rules Bill and David were following directly behind me as we left Brawley, lighting my way, protecting me from traffic, handing off some solid food and hot soup, and generally providing some much welcomed company. It had cooled off and I was soon riding through a rolling sea of sand dunes shimmering in the light of a full moon. What a great night for a bike ride! The 90 miles to TS #3 in Blythe travels northeast over a long gentle hump, starting a hundred feet below sea level and gradually climbing to 1,100 feet over 35 miles before descending back to a couple hundred feet above sea level. I knew I still needed to ease off a bit, but I was making great time. I thought I would hold off until the backside of the hump where the gradual descent would allow me to dial it back some while keeping my speed up. However, when I got over the top there wasn’t a smooth gradual downgrade, but rather more than 15 miles of short, sharp descending rollers. Such terrain is custom made for really flying on a recumbent as long as you power over the top and down the rollers so that you keep your momentum high and avoid bogging down on the upgrades. Dialing back the effort would have to wait.

Finally the road leveled off for the last 25 miles and we arrived at TS #3 in Blythe, at 1:27 am. (Since TS #2 we had averaged 19.2 mph overall, 19.7 on-the-bike, and moved from 7th place up to 4th.) After a quick stop we headed north out of Blythe. The route crossed over to the Arizona side of the Colorado River before arriving at TS #4 in Parker, 51 miles later. The terrain was desolate with lots of mostly small gentle hills. I was finally able to ease off a little but we continued to make good time. We arrived in Parker at 4:19 am. (Dani Wyss was in the lead, Peter Oyler was in second and David Opel was in third, one hour and 17 minutes ahead of me. Sometime between Brawley and Blythe I had passed Mick Walsh, Gregory Robinson, and Mike Dunlap. I don’t remember actually passing anyone, so it must have been while they were stopped. I wasn’t thinking about it much, but I assumed I was at best in the middle of the field.) Our first night of racing had been better than I could have hoped for, but the critical second day was about to begin. The coming climbs from Congress to Prescott in the afternoon heat would tell the tale of the race.

The Second Day

From Parker the route turns back southeast for a gradual 56 mile upgrade to Salome. The change in direction meant that we were now riding directly into the wind. At 6 am we had to switch back to daytime rules, which meant no more direct follow support. The follow van had to leap frog and do roadside hand-offs only. Normally during a long race the sunrise picks up my spirits, but the scenery

was featureless, the road didn’t have a shoulder, the truck traffic was increasing, and I was grinding into a headwind while squinting into the sun. Not a great way to start the day! Finally we turned northeast just before Salome, reaching TS #5 at 8:34 am. We exchanged the disc wheel for the lighter Zipp 404 and I thanked the Renn disc for the great job it had done. While we had traded the headwind for a cross to quartering tailwind, we also exchanged a slight upgrade for a continuous, gradually increasing climb. The chip seal road surface was becoming rougher and the heat was quickly becoming oppressive. Most of the highway was perfectly straight and the scenery all looked the same, i.e. hot, dry, boring, and hot. Ugh! I didn’t remember it being so far to Congress. Sharon and Jim did a great job keeping me as cool as possible. I was riding with a bag of ice on my chest and during one quick stop they massaged my legs

with ice. At last we made it arriving 7 minutes after noon. Bill told me that so far we had ridden 395 miles in 23 hours 44 minutes, including 48 minutes of stopped time. (I was holding 4th place and given how long it seemed to take to ride this section, I was shocked to find out that I covered it in the fastest time. Dani Wyss had one of the slowest times and must have stopped for a couple of hours.)



The beginning of Yarnell Grade.

 Before we started the serious climbing I stopped to pee and deal with my burning feet. I half expected to find bloody socks when the crew pulled off my shoes. It wasn’t that bad, but I did have sores on the tops of some toes. David had a brainstorm and cut some small pieces of Tegaderm to cover the sores. Problem solved.

Now came the hard part. In the 46 miles between Congress and TS #7 in Prescott were two sections that totaled about 6,000 of climbing. The first was Yarnell Grade, just over seven miles long at about 7%. It’s not all that tough, but I’d picked a very hot time of day to climb it. About halfway up I saw a van come by with two trikes on the back. It was Chris Malloy’s van. I was sad to see both trikes because that meant that he must have DNF’d. (Sometime during the night the flashing amber lights required for the top of Chris’s follow van had shorted out and caused him to abandon the race. Another advantage of having such an experience crew was that I did not have to worry about such things; our back-ups had back-ups.)

We stopped briefly at a gas station a few miles past the top of the climb. While the climb hadn’t been easy, I was feeling good. A couple of folks who had seen me on the climb pulled alongside and were asking about the bikes. I started to explain some of the advantages of riding a recumbent when I had to excuse myself and hurry to the other side of the van to throw up. Uh-oh. I’d been to this movie and I had no desire to see it again. The previous year at RAO I had a near disastrous experience during a very long climb in extreme heat. This was a bad sign. Having vomited I would immediately be low on calories and hydration. We had a gradual descent for the next 12 miles and I tried to get my calories and hydration back up, but by the time the road started to climb again I was in trouble. I couldn’t maintain power or cadence and my heart rate was running way too high. I momentarily panicked. If I had trouble climbing in the heat on the way to Prescott our back-up plan was to stop for an hour and a half sleep break and then ride through the night. Once I had a chance to calm down and think about it, I decided it was just too early for a major sleep break. When the follow van leaped frogged around the next time, I suggested that we just try a 20-minute power nap and see if that helped. Before lying down I quickly consumed some calories, water, and ibruprofen. I was having a little trouble falling asleep, but a couple of seconds later Brian was waking me and saying I had been asleep for 20 minutes. Phil gave me a Five Hour Energy and directed my butt back to the bike. The nap worked and soon my power and cadence were back up, my heart rate was holding and I was feeling good. In fact, I was having fun and riding hard. Amazing!

The next 20 miles consisted of nearly continuous switchbacks with alternating steep climbs and technical descents. The scenery was beautiful. As I completed the final descent and neared the outskirts of Prescott I remember enjoying the fragrance of the pine forest. However, fun done, there was work ahead. It was after 5 pm and we would be riding 12 miles through the heart of Prescott in rush hour traffic. This is the sort of thing that instills a significant pucker factor in a crew, but when they pull it off, it’s a major adrenaline rush. Under the new rules, in addition to all the normal difficulties, the crew would have to get me through using leap frog support only. This was going to be interesting! The streets were two and three lanes in each direction and were jammed with traffic. Brian and Phil in the follow van would try to stay as close to me as possible so they could give me directions over the radio, but had to avoid following me directly or interfering in any way with the flow of traffic. Meanwhile, David had pre-positioned the other crew members to make sure I didn’t miss key turns. We got through with no problems. Not only had they pulled it off, it had been a thing of beauty! (As we went through TS #7 the order remained the same, but David Opel in third was now 3 hours 22 minutes ahead of me. Mike Dunlap in 5th was 3 hours 41 minutes back.)

The Second Night

Once on the other side of the city we headed northeast toward Cottonwood, 41 miles away. The route would take us on a 12-mile climb over Mingus Mountain and then down a very long technical descent into Cottonwood. The climb wasn’t too bad, but it was dusk as we started the descent and I struggled to pick out my line on rough and patched roads through a myriad of 20 mph hairpins. Halfway down the road enters the narrow twisting streets of Jerome, a scenic little town which hangs on the side of the mountain. Luckily it turned 8 pm shortly before I arrived in Jerome and Brian brought the follow van up into direct follow position behind me. I was still moving pretty fast when, just in time, the van’s headlights lit up the missing street ahead of me. A block-long section of the right lane had been removed and a six-inch drop to the rocky road bed was all that was left. With nowhere to go I moved to the opposite side of the road before realizing that I was now on a head-on collision course with a car a half-block away. Oops! The follow van had slowed down and taken the direct route. With no place to go, I slowed as quickly as I could and moved as far to the right of the lane as possible without riding off the edge. The approaching car moved to my left and as close as it could to a retaining wall. We passed a few inches apart. Once out of Jerome we resumed descending on better roads into Cottonwood, arriving at 8:34 pm.



Bill beginning his sleep shift in our rolling motel.

 Flagstaff was a very long 53 miles away, almost all climbing. In fact, the route book says that this is the “toughest section west of the Mississippi River.” I was pooped. I saw an Arby’s sign and had a sudden inspiration. I asked the sleeper van to stop and get sandwiches and once they caught up to us we would stop for eats and our sleep break. About 12 miles later we found a suitable spot. It had been 33 hours since the start and excluding my 20 minute power nap it had been 40 hours since I had slept. After a quick bath with baby wipes and downing some hot food, the crew tucked me in for three hours of sleep.

All too soon I was back on the bike and headed north. I pushed pretty hard on the climb while David kept me apprised of the time. We wanted to get through Flagstaff as early as possible to avoid traffic, but also, if we made it before 6 am, we could ride through the city using direct follow support. Flagstaff lies at 7,000 feet and it became progressively colder as we neared the city. We entered the outskirts a little after 5 am and were making good time through empty streets until we came upon an Amtrak train blocking the road. While we waited Bill held the bike and I got warmed up in the van. After eight minutes we were back on our way, arriving at TS #9 at 5:34. (During the night there had been the inevitable shake-up in the order as riders stopped for sleep breaks. I had gone through Cottonwood in 3rd place, but by Flagstaff I was once again in 4th. David Opel was again in 3rd, 5 hours 4 minutes ahead of me. Gregory Robinson had taken over 5th place and was 2 hours 23 minutes back.)

The Third Day

We made good time and arrived at TS #10 in Tuba City at 9:50 am. From there it was 72 miles to TS #11 in Kayenta, most of it climbing. This was a somewhat nerve racking stretch of road. Occasionally there was a good shoulder separated from the lane by rumble strips, but the shoulder would frequently disappear and I would have to quickly cross over the rumble strips and merge with traffic, including lots of trucks and buses. It seemed to go on forever, but with a tailwind I was making good time. We arrived in Kayenta at 1:50. (I had the second fastest overall time on this section and had increased my lead over 5th to 4 hours 27 minutes.)

We had only stopped for a total of 13 minutes since leaving Flagstaff eight hours earlier. It was time for a bio break and time to find out where I stood among the field. While I took care of the former I asked the crew to pull together the stats on the latter. Since I had no idea where I stood I was shocked and pleased to find out I was in fourth. This put the remainder of the race in a new context. Trying to catch Opel would probably be futile unless he faltered in a big way. Also, given that I had now raced further and longer than ever before with just over three hours of sleep, and that I still had 180 miles to go with a lot of climbing almost all of it at altitudes higher than I had ever ridden, a big push to try to reduce the gap to 3rd might jeopardize finishing. Since Flagstaff I had been holding my own against Opel while pulling away from Robinson. I decided to keep doing what I had been doing while trying to step it up a bit. This did mean, however, that a second sleep stop was out of the question. As I headed out David said something about paybacks being hell. Huh? I took the turn north and started riding toward Monument Valley. Suddenly I realized what he meant. I was riding into a nasty headwind. I started to mutter something to myself and then stopped mid-complaint. After the tailwinds I had for much of the race, if I complained now I would be asking to be struck by lightning. I shut up and rode. It was getting cloudy and I guessed that this was a small front moving through. It could be a problem if the winds shifted back before those following me arrived, but changing conditions are just part of point-to-point racing. There was nothing to do about it but just keeping moving.

Riding among the iconic rock formations of Monument Valley was in itself a dream come true. Memories of having come through the valley while crewing on previous RAAMs came flooding back. I couldn’t quite believe that it was me doing the riding this time. After climbing out of the valley we descended to TS #12 in Mexican Hat, UT, arriving at 5:06. The next 40 miles were tough with lots of short steep climbs, but the scenery was breathtaking. From a follow van I had never before noticed the views down into the Valley of the Gods, but in the warm light of approaching sunset it was so beautiful it was everything I could do to avoid stopping to stare. It was 8:05 when we arrived at TS #13 in Montezuma Creek, UT. The headwinds had cost us a lot of time.

The Third Night

The 50 miles to Cortez, CO held bad memories. It was during this section in 2006 that we had pulled Jim Kern from the course and rushed him to the hospital. He had begun coughing up blood. We turned off the highway and onto a ranch road. At first I thought we had made a mistake; there was gravel everywhere. It turned out we were on the right road, if you could call it that. Somebody had decided to resurface the road with chip seal, although they had only completed the chip part. We were climbing in loose gravel that was often several inches deep. Bill did a great job of steering the van as close as possible to help me see. I was all over the road fighting to stay upright while trying to avoid running into the van. I kept asking David and Bill how long this went on. The answer soon became apparent – forever. Oh my God! I’m averaging six mph in this stuff. If it’s like this all the way to Cortez it could take eight hours! The needle on my grumpy meter was nearing the red zone. Finally, after struggling for an hour, the gravel ended and the road surface returned to its previous lousy condition. Thank God! The rest of the section continued the constant climbing, reaching over 6,000 feet in Cortez. It’s often the kind of gradual grade that has no visual clues that you are climbing, particularly at night. It just feels like you are working really hard and going really slow. The sleep monster was starting to stir and I was taking caffeine to keep going. By the time we reached Cortez at 1:46 am local time, I felt frustrated and worn out.

The final 46 miles of the race climbs to over 8,400 feet before descending into Durango. I was concerned about the final section. It would be cold and the air thin. Also, after my experience at RAO I was hesitant to risk falling asleep while descending. Thinking about the dramatic benefits of my power nap before Prescott and after checking with the crew to make sure I could afford the time without risk of being overtaken, I decided to take a 30 minute nap. The sleep helped, but the stop had been costly lasting a total of 50 minutes. After climbing for 30 miles we reached the summit at dawn. A quick stop for a dry jersey and a few sips of hot soup and we started down. I was wide awake but shivering in the cold. When we reached the bottom all that was left was the final 2.5 mile climb to Fort Lewis College. I rode down the chute and across the finish line at 7:19 am local time. It was a beautiful morning in Durango.

The Results

Our final time was 65 hours 56 minutes. With 8 hours 51 minutes of stopped time, our average riding speed was 15.1 mph. During the race I had slept for a total of 3 hours 50 minutes. Dani Wyss, demonstrating why he is one of the best ultra-cyclists in the world, won the race in the incredible time of 48 hours 29 minutes. Peter Oyler finished second and David Opel third. I finished fourth overall and second in the 50 to 59 age category. At 58, I was the oldest racer to finish and fastest among riders lacking previous RAAM experience. And I was the first recumbent ever to finish RAW.

The race was truly a team effort. I am very grateful for the support of John Schlitter and the guys at Bacchetta Bikes as well as Dana Lieberman, Jim Verheul, and everyone at Bent Up Cycles. There is no way I could have been prepared for this race without the invaluable guidance of my coach, Kellie Moylan. It also wouldn’t have been possible without the support of David Bradley. One could not ask for a better crew chief, and more importantly, a better friend. Kellie and David, I can’t thank you enough. And finally the performance of the crew was amazing. They made my dream their own and worked tirelessly throughout the race, taking care of me and striving for the best team finish possible. I will remember the joy of working together long after I’ve forgotten the statistics of how we finished. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for their generosity and friendship.

Links:

www.Bacchettabikes.com

www.moylantraining.com

www.sarcomahelp.org

http://www.bentupcycles.com/

Race Across Oregon 2010

(Note: For those who haven't had much exposure to ultra racing, I don't want to leave the impression that what I've described about the end of my race or what Cassie describes in the link below is typical. It's not. While ultra cycling is an extreme endurance sport, it is safe and the problems described below are not typical of ultra cycling in general or RAO in particular. Also, the last thing I want to do is leave a bad impression of RAO. It is a difficult challenge, but it is also an amazing experience for both great racers and the rest of us. It is extraordinarily well run and attended by the kind of people that you would just like to hang out with, both racers and crew. But the star of the event is the course. It is beautiful, challenging, isolated, and a bit awe inspiring. I love this race, and I plan to be a part of it every year possible, whether as a soloist, a team member, or a crew member. )

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 Heat

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.