training

Tom’s body spasmed as if someone had walked across his grave. Shivering and totally spent, he cupped his hands around the steaming black coffee, and slumped forward over the battered table in the empty Tuba City McDonald’s, deep within the Navajo Nation.

The fast food trifecta of burger, shake and fries had temporarily satiated his hunger and re-invigorated his tastebuds after all the gels and sports drinks on the bike. Tom followed a healthy diet while training, treating his body like a minor temple; but on multi-day races, running an impossible calorie deficit, he was a fast-food junkie equivalent of a lapsed alcoholic on a 48 hour Vegas bender.

The java jolt was now kicking in as the much needed caffeine coursed through his body working its magic. Tom had also been invigorated by the 101 questions he had fielded from a fellow diner. The Navajo old timer had been genuinely curious, amazed, and drunk in equal parts. Hearing his own voice as he answered the questions; and seeing the impact of his shared story provided Tom some much needed perspective. On this cold desert night, he wasn’t just in the middle of freaking nowhere; he was also in the middle of something singularly epic, possibly transformative even. He reasoned that no matter what happens next he had already accomplished more than most could only dream. That was something. Something big.

After 48 hours of continuous racing east from Oceanside, California; the fastest 4-man team was already celebrating at the finish line in Durango, Colorado. The smaller slower moving field of solo racers was stretched out like a 300 mile disjointed ribbon of ants, from the Utah state line all the way back to Prescott, Arizona.

Father Time had been advancing inexorably since leaving the start line at Oceanside pier which had receded from the rear view mirror some 600 miles ago. In a non-stop ultra race you are always on the clock. If the rider wasn’t moving forward they were being pulled back by both fellow competitors, and the most feared foe of all, Defeat. Tom didn’t want to be the lantern rouge or cannon fodder for a Did Not Finish (DNF) designation

DNFs were regarded with the same fear loathing as the id tags tied to your big toe in a city morgue – something best avoided at all costs. In his mind’s eye he could see the damn ‘Stoppage Clock’ mounted on the crew vehicle (Mothership) dashboard. A silent witness to time wasted.

Alone again with his thoughts, Tom lifted his eyes from the coffee. Outside the window he saw the brightly illuminated gas station forecourt, and beyond that the small mostly vacant strip mall. The Mothership was docked in the half shadows. The weary crew; Frank, Pete and Jenny, were getting some much needed shut-eye. Beyond the low wall surrounding the parking lot, his gaze was drawn inexorably to the dark ribbon of highway stretching into the long night that awaited him. It reminded Tom of open ocean night diving, and the sense of an infinite black abyss. The sight of the highway and what it represented instantly yanked him from his fast food reverie. The polarity of his world view flipped: From warm glass half full, to a cold glass half empty!

The 600 miles in his legs had not been trouble-free. Tom was a rookie at this race, and it had been a baptism of fire. He had expected the usual rollercoaster of emotions he experienced during 500 mile ultras, but those races paled in comparison to this monster. He felt like Jason in the classic Greek fable or Frodo in the Tolkien fantasy. At the successful completion of one seemingly impossible challenge, the main protagonist immediately finds himself pitted toe to toe with the next mythological beast and unfathomable conundrum.

Tom was a positive person; you had to be to sign up for these crazy challenges. There had definitely been episodes of pure joy on this epic sojourn: The beauty and spectacle of the racers lining up by the Oceanside pier accompanied by the crashing surf, swirling gulls, salt sea spray, and fly past by the squadron pelicans. The gobsmackingly beautiful desert panorama and heart-stopping 4,000 ft descent down the “Great Glass Elevator’ into Borrego Springs. Throwing off the dark cloak of night and being met with a majestic sunrise as he summited Mingus Mountain overlooking Jerome this morning. These were Kodachrome moments for the soul: Fleeting images in space and time which fueled his passion for this extreme sport; and kept him coming back for more.

Right now however, as he stared out the window the light from these emotional highs was eclipsed by the opposing and overwhelming magnitude of the trials he had overcome to get to this point in the race. If this were Snakes & Ladders he was always landing on a snakehead; or Monopoly, his board piece was repeatedly being sent Straight to Jail.

Trial by wind had been the most recent test of will. Riding through a malevolent sandstorm, Tom had been forced to counter balance the bike at a 30 degree pitch to the screaming crosswind. He off-weighted the bike, dropped his shoulder, and did his best imitation of a rugby full-back stealing himself against the charging attack.

The dust mask thankfully kept the sand out off his airways, but it also severely restricted his airflow.

Enveloped in a red/yellow blizzard he played chicken with the big rigs that buzzed him on the shoulderless highway, while watching the endless sheets of sand slice though his spokes on their reverse commute westwards towards the Pacific, and a beach where this insane race had started.

Before wind it had been fire. As a Scot growing up on the Caithness coast Tom was not naturally acclimated to heat. He had been forced to re-train his body, and it hadn’t been pretty. There is a ‘Death’ in Death Valley for a reason – and Tom knew why. Riding in the Mojave Desert in triple digit temperatures would have been unthinkable two years ago, but now it didn’t phase him.

This was of little consolation when on the second day of racing his Garmin happily reported a temperature of 125 degrees . This was one of the hottest years in race history. His crew had leapfrogged him every five minutes for four hours straight, dumping ice water on his head, and feeding him frozen grapes. Exhausted and mentally drained he reached the next control point where he crawled his way out of the cauldron. That section alone had forced a third of the field to quit. Tom was still in the race, but the trials by wind and fire had knocked him severely off schedule, and left deep cracks in his self-confidence..

The clock was ticking. The desert highway beckoned. Defeat was stalking him out there in the black abyss. Tom didn’t suppose for one minute that when he stepped outside and resumed his place on the board game once more, that the heavy chip sealed highway would deliver anything but more obstacles over the 260 miles that stood between him and the finish line. More metaphorical snake bites and jail time.

He had come so far, but still had so far to go. Weariness continued to dog him. Tom knew the caffeine rush would be short lived. His body and soul craved deep sleep. With the time already lost, succumbing now to the siren call and beckoning arms of a deep slumber would kill his year-long dream. He couldn’t let down his incredible crew; they had sacrificed so much, got him so far against unbelievably long odds, and had so much invested in his crossing the finish line. Time was not on his side, he had to leave the warm womb of the restaurant, get out in the cold dark night and pedal east.

Taking a deep breath he reminded himself to keep breaking down the seemingly insurmountable into smaller goals; something to fixate on, and maintain his nocturnal momentum. If he could just make it 80 miles through the frigid night to Kayenta, he would be at the gateway to Monument Valley. It had been 25 years since he and Jenny had last seen the majestic rusted buttes and mesas. Marveling at a spectacular Elephant Butte sunrise on their honeymoon.

Monument Valley would herald the Utah state line, the San Juan River,the Colorado state line, and the penultimate control, Cortez. Tom’s friends from Colorado were throwing a homecoming reception in Cortez, and would cheer him over Hesperus Mountain and on to the finish line in Durango.

Washing down the remnants of the now cold fries, with the dregs of coffee, he rose from the table and exited the restaurant. Fearful of the cold and fatigue that would once again gnaw at his bones, he was uncertain how the rest of the night would play out. As he pedaled beyond the arc of the city lights he plunged once more into the black abyss of the night. As the Mothership pulled in behind him to offer a little more candlepower, Tom stared up at the Milky Way. “Back on the trail of the Golden Fleece “, he muttered. “Kayenta or bust!”.

Race Across Oregon 2014

Race Across Oregon (RAO)

After 490 miles, 40,000 ft of climbing, and 90 miles of non-stop headwinds, the last thing I wanted to see was another 5 mile, 8% climb into a headwind, but that’s where I found myself during the 521 mile 48 hr, non-stop Race Across Oregon in August. Time to crank up Iron Maiden, stand on the pedals, hold the front wheel on the white line of the shoulder, and never look more than 2 feet up the road for fear of being overcome by the task at hand. I finished 4th with a time of 37:32. Thanks to Mio LINK and continuous HR data, this was my first sub 40 hr 500 mile race. Training with heart works!

Hoodoo 500 2014

Hoodoo 500

Four weeks later I am at 10,500 ft at the top of Cedar Breaks National Monument, eating Spaghetti-Os and looking forward to a 20 mile descent and then 80 miles of headwind to the finish of the 520 mile Hoodoo 500. Mother Nature seems to be playing a cruel mistress on my ultra race season this summer. As with RAO, once I smelled the barn door I managed to crank it up, and place 4th again!

Check out my Hoodoo 500 YouTube video at this link.

Grand Staircase National Monument

Cedar Breaks

Silver State 508

My ultra season comes to a close in October when I compete in the Silver State 508 on a 2-man team. Praying for tailwinds, and training with heart! Wish me luck!