Read Part 1

Story and photos: Randy King

CP 3 to CP 4 – A long, muddy climb

In a point-to-point mountain bike race, the choice of routes can make all the difference; through the optimal trail choice, a bold rider can build big margins. Getting to CP 4, located in a lean-to shelter plopped in the middle of a bunch of squiggly contour lines on the “Difficult”-rated Bear Pen Trail, presented this opportunity. Riders could travel via the “Extremely Difficult”-rated, and “Not Recommended”-labeled Tea Creek Trail to climb up Bear Pen to the CP and continue on to Gauley Mountain Trail and out to the Mine Road. This 5-6 mile route presented some gnarly creekside riding and crossings in its 2,000+ of vertical gain. Given the deluge, the crossings had to be gonzo. Alternatively, riders could climb up the 7 miles of Bannock Shoals, a verdant double track, and then put it in a bigger gear on the Forest Service Road for another 5 miles of gravel road climb to the entry into Gauley Mountain Trail, and the climb up to Bear Pen Trail and to the shelter. One or two loco souls soldiered up the contour-crossing Turkey Point Trail to Bear Pen. The trail runs perpendicular to the contour lines for 1,000 vertical feet!

I opted for the “safe” route, thinking that I wanted to avoid the dark depths of the Monongahela’s worst. Thus began my lowest leg of the race.  Slogging up a ten mile climb is never going to rank in the fun things to do list. Add in a deluge to slop the perpetually-damp doubletrack of Bannock Shoals and soften the gravel road, and I’m pushed to the edge of my morale.

Fortunately, no one passed me as I sat Indian-style on the wet ground, tightening the SPD cleats on my shoes. I hopped back on the bike and began the long climb. A swollen creek bellowed down the rocky valley to the left. Each pedal stroke pushed my tires into the muddy trail surface (and moved me slightly forward). I could see my front tire squishing into the muck with each crank, and it angered me. With the bike’s suspension locked out front and back, I was still losing so much momentum.

The climb up Bannock Shoals felt like it would never end. Each turn in the twisty, tree-arched trail brought only a limited vista of another stretch of grassy doubletrack disappearing into the darkness of the woods. Finally, I snapped. I roared out a primal yell at the top of my lungs. Immediately I felt better. And the next turn brought a break in the trees – the gravel Forest Service Road. The Fusco brothers were snacking at the gate marking the transition to a full road.

“Yeah, we heard you,” they responded. “We thought you had crashed.”

“I was just practicing primal scream therapy,” I said.

“Show-off.”

We continued up the gravel road, and soon the two Cannondale riders, Iggy Baron and Matt Lough, caught up to us – riding in tandem. Together we all ground out the long climb, seeking the connector from FS road 135 to Bear Pen Trail. None of us ever saw it. We eventually intersected with Mine Road and made our way to Gauley Mountain Trail for the second time that day. The puddles were much larger now, and we slopped and slid along the climbing grade. Eventually the Cannondale riders passed, and I followed shortly after, moving past the Fuscos who were struggling through a low point.

The Gualey Mountain and Bear Pen trails to CP 4 bordered on riparian.  Water flowed down the trail, creating murky puddles of mysterious depth on Gauley Mountain Trail. Bear Pen Trail, with its steeper terrain, had water flowing strongly enough to create white water foam in the places where it dropped over roots. I saw river foam in several places in this rutted trail.  Almost all of this trail section had water either standing or flowing across it. I marveled that my chain was not binding, yet I pushed several sections of the climb up from Gauley Mountain Trail, rather than risking a ride-ending chain bind or a bad leg cramp. Once atop the ridge, I put the hammer down through the root drops and around big puddles between the trees.

At CP 4 the youthful volunteer said that we had probably taken the best route. The connector between FS 135 – which we were all so bummed at having missed – was unmarked and unmaintained currently.

“Upper Bear Pen is really sketchy,” he said, having ridden in on it on his moto.

“The rocks are really slimy and wet, I almost dumped it on the creek crossing.”

CP 4 to CP 5 – The soloist

I found out that Iggy and Matt, the Cannondale riders, who were at the CP as I arrived, were Solo Male racers. Blast! I had dropped to 4th, mysteriously. Grabbing a Clif Bar for the trail, I mounted up and headed back out of Bear Pen as the Fuscos arrived at CP 4. At the steep section dropping to Gauley Mountain Trail, I encountered a traffic jam. Rolling down the rutted, rocky and loose terrain, I weaved through hiking racers (the cheaters from CP 3) and a moto coming into the CP in support of our race. Thanks to that moto rider, for his cheer of support as I railed down the slope. Little stuff like that serves as a shot of high octane in an almost-empty tank.

The ride out on Gauley went fast, as it is mostly downhill. Still, I had grown tired of the mud; everywhere the mud! Slopping through those puddles for the second time in 40 minutes, I looked forward to the relative dryness of the gravel road.

What a long, grueling roll along the ridge by myself. While my tires sank into the soggy gravel of the road, I tried to keep pushing a taller gear even as my energy drained away into the muck. No riders caught up, but I couldn’t catch Iggy and Matt either. One 100 Plus racer met me coming back to his extra CP. It was Clay Faine, another PMBAR-star from Asheville, who I would hang-out with later that evening at the survivors bash. We gave each other a shout-out – I had also encountered him as he rode out from CP 4, on the wet and gnarly Bear Pen Trail. I headed into the mist on the ridge.

Arriving at CP 5, I refilled on Gatorade, downed a bar and learned that I was seven minutes behind the Cannondales.

“You can catch ‘em on Prop’s if you hurry,” said Gil.

“Or Prop’s can catch me,” I said, soberly remembering its physical brutality.

“Yeah, or that could happen.”

I had originally thought I would take the gravel road back and bomb the Mine Road’s 1,800 vertical feet descent to finish up on pavement. However, after having slurped across the ridge on the way to CP 5, I didn’t know if I could maintain the necessary speed to out pace a normal descent of Prop’s.

And then the game changed yet again! A racer rolled up out of the mist – someone I had not seen all day. I wriggled into my CamelBak and picked up my bike with my soaked gloves.

“What class are you?” Gil asked.

“Solo Male,” the mystery rider confirmed. I mounted up and pedaled around him.

“Hey, what class are you?” he queried.

“Solo Male,” I said. “I was just trying to sneak out of here quietly.”

“Aha! And so the hunter becomes the hunted,” Gil chortled evilly.

CP 5 to Finish – The hunter becomes the hunted

Prop’s Run is a nightmare. I pride myself on my descending skills. It was all I had going for me when I started epic racing. However, Prop’s has my name and beats me every draw. I have picked up silver-dollar sized blisters on my palms from descending it at the end of a long race. I have flatted after its rock-lined water bars and dropped a place in the last minutes of the race. One of my best Wild 100 moves was the year I took the Mine Road all the way to the bottom instead of descending Prop’s.

Braveheart with mud for blood

Now I faced my worst Prop’s scenario. The soggy gravel road meant that another transverse of the ridge was too much of a gamble. My nearest pursuer was only a minute or so behind me. I knew I struggled with this descent. The pressure wouldn’t help.

I tore into the eight mile, 1,900 foot descent. Within 20 pedal strokes, I realized I had left my riding glasses at the CP. However, to go back meant losing precious time against my pursuer. I plunged on, knowing that of the entire race, these next eight miles were where glasses would mean the most. Eight miles of saturated, muddy downhill stretched away before me and my unprotected eyes. I shifted into the big ring up front.

Each horrid, rocky vee clutched at my slick tires. Mud spray-coated me front and back. Glops of black, West Virginia mud flew into my eyes and robbed my depth perception frequently until I could cry the mud free or swipe at my eyes with a muddy glove, risking a colossal wipe-out with these one-handed antics. Anger and frustration pulsed over me like the tide tearing down a sand castle. My goals were slipping away before my gritty eyes.

Riding beyond your limits is stupid. Riding beyond your limits with faulty depth perception and on an empty tank is beyond that. Still, I pushed beyond my limits as I sliced through the muck and slammed into the drainage features on Prop’s Run. Despite my effort, I soon heard the sounds of pursuit – the echo of rocks clunking as tires passed over them behind me. We raced silently like this for awhile; I knew any error of line selection on my part would open the gap for my hunter to pass. I rejoiced inwardly any moment I sensed he had fallen back for a second even. I knew he would have his moment. Mud kept preying on my left eye, and my hands relayed that my front tire was losing pressure slowly from all those poorly executed drainage crossings.

We darted up an embankment to pass one of the mires. I rattled down the roots and back onto the railroad bed. My pursuer yelled something, and I feared I had lost something from my bike or pack. I slowed, feeling guilty to just roll off if he had been nice enough to pick up my stuff.

“Hey, I have a flat!” He yelled.

“What?”

“I flatted again,” he said, rolling his bike up with a flopping front tire. My oxygen-starved and anger-squeezed brain didn’t understand what he wanted.

“This is my second flat on this wheel,” he babbled as I stared at him through bloodshot eyes.

“I gave away my other tube to Benji earlier, cause he needed it.”

“You don’t have a tube I could have do you?”

I looked at my own partially-deflated front tire. I had one tube.

“No, I don’t,” I said, making an ethical decision. “I can give you some patches.”

“I’ll probably never be able to find the leak in all this mud!” He cursed. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I was in second place all the way through checkpoint 3. Then I took Turkey Point to Checkpoint 4. I lost an hour or more.”

That solved that mystery – how I had lost only one place after being passed by the two solo males on the Cannondales. I glowed at this random draw. I gave him two glueless patches and a piece of sandpaper.

“It’s most likely a pinch flat from all these rocks,” I said. “You should be able to find it pretty easily.”

I rode away, only going about 30 yards before I stopped to add air to my own front tire. Fully inflated, I pushed off and continued my descent of Prop’s, feeling fortunate and with a little breathing room. On the “flats” across the bottom of Prop’s Run, I kept one eye on my back trail, to make sure that some devil wasn’t catching up. My heart beat lightly and free as I rolled into the lodge to the ringing cowbells and muted cheers of a few faithful onlookers. 4th place in Solo Male. Well, 3rd, if you counted that the two Cannondale riders tied for second place. Either way, I had achieved my goals! The euphoria of accomplishment swept away the pain of the last 9 hours.

2010 Wild 100 Results

All that followed: Winner’s circle

“I know you probably don’t care,” said the girlfriend of one of the Cannondale boys as hosed off my bike and waited for my turn in the showers, “But your face is covered in mud!” I snapped my own photo to commemorate the scene.

The finishers ...

Bike cleaner, self showered, I made my way over to the survivor’s feast. For awhile I hung out with the Cannondale groupies, relaxing with their banter and gibes at their friend who had DNF’d. They thought they had placed 8th or 10th, based on what the kid at CP 4 had told them. I told them they had done really well, and one of their group stepped over to the results board to confirm their placement. They left to get back home, and the Fusco brothers and friends showed up a bit later. The local brew and the plentiful buffet line slaked our thirst and lulled the hunger as well as started the healing process. We laughed at ourselves and each other, reliving the low lights and the ridiculous moments. The party went on until 9 when Gil awarded prizes. Moonshine in a Mason jar made the rounds. The mellow fellowship continued for another hour plus until the last racer – a 50+ rider – rolled in well after 10 p.m., having persevered through more than 14-hours of Slatyfork. We rang the cowbell and cheered him in. ERTC’s Mary had saved a heaping plate of food for him.

My prize was a bag of some of the most potent roasted coffee beans I have ever smelled, and a Burton hoodie. While I really don’t need another hoodie – I have a half dozen – I thought it highly appropriate, for the hoodie displayed a knife and fork clutched in two caricature fists and the admonishment – “Stay Hungry!” Indeed.

The Really Hungry ones - Solo 100 Plus

That was my big moment of self-awareness from the 2010 Wild 100. To place in a race like this you must be fit, you need luck,and you have to WANT IT. You have to be hungry for it. That’s the only thing that will get you through the long miles of gravel road, or the energy-sucking mud. Yes, you have to train and train. True, one moment’s bad luck could steal your goals. Yet, you still need to want it to achieve stretch goals.

That’s true of life too. I came home from West Virginia and entered 14 straight days of work. With each long day I told myself: if you can ride 70 miles in the mud and rain, you can do this. And so I pushed on, aiming for and achieving my goals with the same dogged determination that had carried the day in West Virginia. That’s what makes a truly epic ride: It changes you, as a rider and as a person.

Stay Hungry!

Read Part 1

©2010 Big Mountain Riding

PART 2

Story and photos: Randy King

The Wild 100 in Slatyfork, WV claims to be the longest running mountain bike event held in the same location. While the race’s name has changed at least once, the Elk River Touring Center still plays host each summer to a small group of rag tag riders who tackle the Monongahela National Forest’s gnarly singletrack and big mountains in a roughly 100 KM (62 Mile) point to point off road race. This year was my 8th entry in this classic epic mountain bike race. I harbored high hopes of a top 5 finish in the Solo Male class.

However, it wasn’t going to be easy. In 2007, I set the goal of making the Top 10. After 8.5 hours, I crossed the line two bike lengths behind the 10-place rider. In 2008 I arrived in good form, feeling strong, and set a goal of Top 5. Eight hours later, after a big navigational error, I finished in 6th place by one minute. They say you learn from failure …

A cabin at ERTC

I skipped the 2009 event due to other adventures. However, I had ridden my bike more in the 18 months preceding the 2010 event than any other 18 months of my life. Earlier that spring I had rode a personal best in the brutal Pisgah Mountain Bike Adventure Race (PMBAR). So, although I spent most of July piloting a desk, I signed up and plunged into a compressed preparation, the Weekend Warrior 101. On the first day of this effort, the rear triangle on my trusty epic race steed, Jack Rabbit Slim, broke in three places. I love the Gary Fisher HiFi; it is the best bike I’ve ever owned and a natural epic racer. However, I had broke another rear triangle. I began to fear for my goals in the 2010 Wild 100.

Warranty replacements take time and I dreaded not having a race-worthy bike in time. My local bike shop, Bikes Unlimited in Lynchburg, VA, stepped up in a big way, ensuring that I had a racing rig and working with Trek/Fisher to get me a Fuel EX frame to replace my deceased and out-of-production HiFi. Jack Parker and the crew at Bikes Unlimited are my unofficial sponsors for this race, because of all they did to make sure I had a shot at my goals!

More about the Wild 100 - race format, challenges, support, etc.

Start to CP 1 – Climbing the legendary Props Run Trail
The Wild 100 starts with one of two beastly climbs, depending on where the organizers place the first Checkpoint (CP). This year CP 1 was perched near the top of Prop’s Run Trail, an IMBA epic and legendary east coast downhill run. Following ERTC owner Gil Willis’ traditional speech – much of which would be forgotten or ignored – 40 some riders eagerly grabbed the maps as Gil’s wife, Mary, handed them out. With much rustling paper we unfolded our maps and immediately racers began folding them back up, whispering, “it’s up Prop’s.”

Mandatory pre-race meeting for the "rules"

I jumped astride my bike and pedaled out of the parking lot to tackle Prop’s Run. The trail starts out from the ERTC, weaving through the woods along the foot of the great ridge, bobbing up and down and winding its way to the old logging railroad bed that is Prop’s Run Trail. Along this winding route the leaders sped away and the chase pack jockeyed for position. Soon the grade increased and it was time to grind out an 8 mile muddy, 1,900 vertical foot climb in the misty woods of West Virginia. I passed a single speed rider and a co-ed team on the “flats” only to have them work past me once the grade grew serious. As we worked our way up, I noticed several 26″ geared hardtails passing me. Mucky trails seem to favor geared bikes, if drive trains stay functional. I took note, though and shifted into a higher gear to put the pain on the SSers.

Along the way in the mist, I knew a rider was overtaking me when I would ride over a loose rock and then moments later, hear it move again. I came to dread the sound of tires on rocks behind me. Along the climb 4 riders passed me. I did catch up to the co-ed team, as they struggled with the wet rocks that lined the dozens of drainage trenches strung out along Prop’s Run, and a single speeder from Ohio who “hate[d] this technical stuff.”

Prop’s Run is not that technical. What makes it memorable is the sheer length of its descent, and those horrid drainage dips, which turn the descent into a series of high speed, triceps-tearing push ups as the rider hits all those rocky dips at 15 miles an hour. Oh yeah, there are also the occasional side jogs where the trail leaves the old railroad bed and climbs up a bank to pass a downed tree or a mire. These detours are usually laced with angled roots and short steep pitches. It makes for a grueling climb.
Going up, my riding glasses fogged in minutes, and mud sprayed random patterns on my legs and clothes as my tires splashed through puddles and runoffs. I sucked away on my Camelbak and tried to stay in the middle ring up front. Pedaling through the pain paid off, as CP 1 appeared out of the mist, eventually. I could already smell my own stink, from sweating up that climb. One of my tactics to achieve my Top 5 goal was to minimize the time I spent at CP’s. It was easy to hang out, catching one’s breath and refilling water and looking at the map, etc., for several minutes. I pulled in, called out my number and then pulled out my map. A quick check showed that CP 2 was miles away, off of the Scenic Highway 150, nine miles south of ERTC. I stuffed my map in my reeking jersey and jumped on the bike, passing 4-6 riders who were still reading their maps and discussing options.

CP 1 to CP 2 – Crossing Gauley Mountain in a deluge
A good 1/2 mile of Prop’s Run Trail remained to be climbed before we broke out onto the gravel road. I spun away, seeing another rider checking his map. The gravel road was the place to leverage the advantage of gears, and I tried to push a tall gear. However, it felt like something was holding me back, and the map-reading rider caught me on the ride across the ridge on the gravel road. I saw from his race tag as he passed that he was also a Solo Male. I made it my goal to catch that chap. Sleeveless jersey. Number 83. I never saw him again.

Initially, I had thought I would get to CP 2 by riding down Crooked Fork trail, a fast-paced, combined double and singletrack and then cross Route 219 and loop around Gay Sharp Knob and out onto the Scenic Highway. This all would be to avoid the two horrid sections of mixed singletrack and overgrown doubletrack that were the non-paved way to cover much of the length of the mostly off-limits Scenic Highway. However, I pulled out my map while riding the gravel, and realized that the section of the Scenic Highway between Gay Sharp Knob and CP 2 was off limits. So, I aimed for the Gualey Mountain Trail, a  trail that is rideable in either direction and undulates along the mountain for five miles between Mine Road and the Scenic Highway.

Not halfway down this mixed surface trail, as I crested the climbing portion and began the gradual, 3 mile descent, the rain began. Merely calling it rain does not convey the force and frenzy of this deluge. Rain pummeled me, speckling my riding glasses lenses and blurring my vision. Water coursed down the trail wherever puddles did not form. Some of the puddles were an inch deep. Others approached axle depth.  Riding blind, saturated gloves slipping on the grips, I braced for the big one – a puddle that would grasp the front wheel and launch me over the bars.  Some of the descents I rode on feel, unable to see details like the ruts or root bars.  I thought of my camera, and my iPod and hoped they’d survive the soaking. Mud sprayed up and down my backside from the rear wheel. I slid on the seat, a cushion of muck slicking the saddle. The udder cream I’d lathered on quickly ran away with immersion, and the chafing began.

I rode out Gauley Mountain trail, seeing no one. Bursting out onto the pavement of the Scenic Highway Route 150, I ground my mud-choked chain through the gears and climbed up the road, passing two riders repairing a flat, roadside. The thick mist reduced visibility to a hundred yards. The back of my neck prickled with fear of someone speeding through the fog slamming into me without ever seeing this muddy, grayed out cyclist. I wished I had a blinkie light aboard. I hunkered down and pedaled.

At the top of the first rise I pulled off into the entrance for Red Spruce trail, the hated singletrack and doubletrack combo that organizers usually routed racers through to skip most of the pavement of the Scenic Highway. Red Spruce trail hooks back around to the Scenic Highway across the road from Red Lick North trail, and together they suck up an hour or more of the race.  As I rode into the woods, trying to eat a Clif Bar and ride simultaneously, I slipped on some downed saplings and then noticed the trail looked untouched. A map check showed that that the pink hilighter that designated permitted highway stretches was wearing off in the deluge, but did indicate I could ride to the intersection with Red Lick North trail. I battled back out of the woods, recovering a half hour or more of my life.

In 3rd place at Checkpoint 2 - note low visibility

Back on the highway of death, I rode to Red Lick North trail, where a knot of riders huddled around their maps. The veteran advantage kicked in, and I passed them and entered the energy and momentum sapping grassy doubletrack of Red Lick North. I big ringed it down the slippery grass course, happy that they had at least brushhogged it recently. One year we had to pedal through stinging nettles the entire length of this trail.  Soon I could hear the map-readers behind me, and I kept the hammer down, eyes peeled for hidden obstacles in the wet grass. During this mad rush I experienced one of those magic mountain bike moments. Railing down the descent, riding in top gear, with riders hot on my tail, my front wheel caught the hidden edge of a rut in the little dirt ribbon buried in all that grass. My bike began to slide. I thought I would wipe out under the wheels of the pack. Instinctively, I turned into the skid, and CARVED my mountain bike. In a slicing arc my bike returned to the fall line, leaving me to cherish that Zen-bliss of one’s body knowing things one’s mind did not. What a great sensation, that momentary carving!

Suddenly, flying downhill in the mist, I sped into a grassy cul-de-sac and the trail ended.  My disc brakes groaned and yowled as I brought my speeding bike to a stop, confused. I had been here before. This trail went through! What? Behind me, my pursuers slid to halts too, amid protests and querulous queries.

The trail ended in this green cul-de-sac, choked with 5-foot high weeds. Muddy tire tracks headed into the woods right in front of where I had ground to a halt, but the trail petered out in a bike length. I immediately began to quarter, seeking the trail. Others said this was the wrong trail, and turned back. I was not going to climb that wet greensward twice in one day! (We’d be returning on it.) And, I knew the trail went through. The map clearly showed that it turned to singletrack partway down. Soon only two brothers racing as a 2 Person 100+ team and I were left. We quartered about and they shouted when they found the trail.  We were soon back on track, pitying the fools who had started back up the climb.

A quick jaunt through singletrack to a muddy, newly bulldozed woods road and back out to the scenic highway.  Then it was another blind descent through the mist to CP 2.  Here the brothers, Geoff and Matt Fusco, learned they were leading the 2 Person 100+ race, and I learned I was in 3rd for Solo Males.

“Are you cold?” Gil asked, as I refilled my bottle and mixed up some more Gatorade.

“No.”

“Well, you look cold.”

“I may look scared,” I said. “Thinking about somebody doing 70 through that fog and taking me out.”

CP 2 to CP 3 – Surviving Tea Creek Mountain

My hunger renewed by the news of my standing, I headed out on the road again, wincing at my grinding, sucking chain.  Going over the gate to the dreaded Crooked Fork, I stopped to lube my chain. I made fast friends of the Fusco bro’s by proffering chain lube, for their bikes were grinding and sticking too from all the mud.

The Fuscos soon shed me like the mud off their freshly-lubed chains, as we slogged back up that horrible trail.  I kept it in the middle ring as much as I could, but they disappeared into the distance. For a team riding such unevenly matched bikes, they rode strongly together. Geoff rode a 29′er hardtail, while Matt pushed a Trek Liquid the whole distance – a bike that he thought weighed about 31 pounds.  Good on him, I say.  I would watch later in the day as that suspension bobbed away under pedal force on a gravel road climb.

Eventually, I struggled out of the trail and back onto the Scenic Highway. Although I thought the brothers had left me far behind, I caught up to them on the highway again as we rode to the Gauley Mountain Trail again. In the woods we slipped and slid over the soaked and mud slicked wood work up to the Gauley Connector trail. This snaggle-toothed beastie runs along the swampy bottom below the ridge leading up to Tea Creek Mountain and connects Gauley Mountain Trail to the bike-eating monster, Tea Creek Mountain trail. We slogged over impossibly slick roots and through more muck holes. Ahead I heard a crash and yell above the music in my headphones. Geoff had gone down on a snot-slick bridge, ending up in the creek below. I walked some tech sections I had mastered in years past, as they were so slippery when wet.

At the intersection with the trail up to TCM trail, the brothers decided to take a detour side trip for unexplained reasons – I had dropped back in the pitfall-laden Connector Trail crossing.  Unknowingly, I sneaked in front of them for the battle up Tea Creek Mountain. When I heard voices behind me, I thought it was someone else catching up, and I pushed even harder.

The climb up Tea Creek Mountain Trail starts with some steep, narrow singletrack punctuated by several super sharp climbing switchbacks. I scrambled up this section, mixing granny gear climbing with hiking and jogging. Things were so slick that jogging was dangerous … my shoes kept slipping and I feared an ankle sprain.  After the initial climb, Tea Creek Mountain Trail pursues a more gradual grade up through the mossy woods as it approaches the crown of the mountain. I tried to push the middle ring through much of this, dreading the inevitable sound of a pursuer.

The rock garden atop the legendary Tea Creek Mountain - That's the trail

Sure enough, before I attained the crown and its legendary rock garden crest, I heard my pursuers. I managed to keep ahead of them into the scattered boulders of the rock garden. Today I did not even try to ride most of it. Wet stone and close pursuit made any mistake costly. I pushed Jack Rabbit Slim through the garden, risking a few mounts and line searches.  The only good news was that the rain quelled the hornets that dwelt among the rocks and who had tagged me the past few years.

The rock garden continues into the beginning of the notorious Tea Creek Mountain descent. This downhill is a brute. To race down its sidehill, off-camber gnarliness five-hours into your big mountain ride and following a soaking rain is to soft shoe the razor’s edge. With riders behind, I wanted to build a gap.  Papa like the DH, so I let ‘er rip.

Several minutes into the 1,500 vertical feet descent, as my front wheel washed out on a wet root, my right grip hooked the embankment and I slammed into the muddy sidehill, two thoughts flitted across my lizard brain: 1. Maybe I had exceeded my Jedi skill level. 2. Wow! Am I glad I went down to the uphill side and not the downhill. Later, talking with the Fusco brothers – who were my pursuers on Tea Creek Mountain – I learned one of them had gone down on the downhill side.

“I got going too fast, lost control in the mud on one of the turns,” Matt related. “Next thing you know, I’m headed down the side of the mountain. Luckily one of the straps on my CamelBak caught in a tree and snagged me.” That strap had spared him from a tumble down the mountain side.

My friend Phil said it best, upon hearing this story: “That’s doing too much if you are saved only by strap catching in something.”

Somewhere in that epic descent my iPod popped and went silent in the middle of David Bowie’s “Rebel, Rebel.” I thought the battery had died. I rode into Tea Creek Campground alone, tearing up the precious little flat ground at the bottom of Tea Creek Mountain. In at CP 3, I swigged Gatorade and stuffed two PB&J sandwiches down the hatch.  I was worried about getting enough nutrients to prevent cramping, as I was not taking my normal Hammer Gel Electrolyte pills.

It was only when the Fusco brothers rolled into CP 3 and began questioning a rider who was working on his flat tire, that I realized he had been one of the riders who had turned back at the cul-de-sac on Red Lick North. I had been paranoid that they had rode pavement to CP 2 when we saw them as we left it. But now I had not thought about them for awhile. Apparently the guy and his friend had rode the Scenic Highway to the base of Tea Creek Mountain trail, instead of darting into the woods for the slippery trip on Gauley Mountain Trail and the Gauley Connector. At first I didn’t really care, but then I asked them what class they were in. Solo Male. Cheaters! He knew it immediately, but he would not admit to cheating. I decided to not make a stink. Instead I resolved to stay ahead of him and his amigo. I moved over to the pump to refill the CamelBak and the bottle of Gatorade mix. While I was there I washed off my drive train.

Meanwhile two other racers came into the camp, riding Cannondales and matching outfits. I assumed they were another team, and hoped the Fusco brothers would stay ahead of them. Only later did I learn they were Solo Male and riding together.

Riding out of Tea Creek Campground, I had to stop and tighten my cleat on my SPD shoe, which had worked loose with all the abuse. And that, as they say, made all the difference …

Continued in PART 2

©2010 Big Mountain Riding

The Pisgah Mountain Bike Adventure Race pits riders and bikes in its two-person team format against some of the biggest mountains in the eastern U.S., against the iffy weather of spring at elevation, against the sheer numbers (miles, climbing, time bonuses, etc.) and against themselves. Formerly, and perhaps more accurately, dubbed the Pisgah Death March, this epic celebrated its 8th year in 2010. This is the story of how two intrepid riders from Virginia set out to conquer the odds in this monster race brewed and served up just outside of Asheville, NC – home to a special type of masochistic mountain bike madness.

Story and photos by Randy King

The unofficial Big Mountain Riding team – my teammate Randy Lewis (R.L.) and I – arrived at the 2010 Pisgah Mountain Bike Adventure Race (PMBAR) at 7:20 a.m. in an off and on light rain. It was my fifth PMBAR, and R.L.’s first. It was also his first epic event. Our goals were simple and prioritized: 1. Finish. 2. Finish safely. 3. Finish before dark. 4. Finish strong. 5. Finish close to the middle of the pack.

Gathering in the dawn's early light, pre-race for the 2010 PMBAR

As the gray daylight gradually grew, we went through mandatory gear check and got our number tags.  Then we took down the bikes and geared up. We headed across the road to Davidson River Campground, since Pisgah Productions had sprung for only one porta-john this year (perhaps in the spirit of the general recession?). The 7:50 a.m. pre-race meeting was more calm than in the years of the passport format. [In 2009 the organizers switched to handing out a pre-marked Pisgah Ranger District map. Previously, teams had to supply their own maps and were handed a paper passport with postage stamp sized pictures of the terrain around each check point. They then had to mark off all off-limits roads on their maps pre-race.]  Our team started slowly – in our reading of the map and in getting going. When the race starts at 8 a.m., everybody has to ride the same first stretch of trail – the big climb up Black Mountain to Pressley Gap. So, many just take off and check their map at the Gap. Or, if they’re locals, they know how to get to the checkpoints, and just need to ascertain where they are, not figure out how to get there. We got going at about 8:15-8:20. We rode up the 1400-foot elevation gain Black Mountain climb, catching a few racers, including the first teams having issues (mechanical and physical).

Start to Squirrel Gap Check Point (Getting our flow on)

It's hustle and flow wherever you can in the epic PMBAR

We climbed to more than two miles to Hickory Knob and descended to Pressley Gap.  R.L. rode in a minute later, carrying my water bottle. Not good to lose that on the first downhill. I secured it with a bungee cord. Looking over the map, I decided to go for the fire road to Buckhorn Gap versus climbing across Black Mountain on single track. We put it in the big chain ring and raced down Maxwell Cove road to the next junction. I still wasn’t sure which check point to go to first or exactly how to get there, but we headed for Buckhorn Gap and passed some more people on the forest service road climb to the gap. One guy wanted to pace line with us. I didn’t know what that meant. Then he said we were going a little fast for them. Their team was one of the ones we started to leap frog with for the rest of the day (the cast of characters in our little drama). At Buckhorn Gap, we encountered a big bunch of teams eating and sorting out where to go next.

We snacked, including some “real” food – I had half a turkey and Swiss sandwich.  I picked a route and we took off down the hill on Buckhorn Gap Trail – a trail that started out as doubletrack and narrowed to single as we descended. We hit a junction where I planned on going left on South Mills River trail, to connect with gravel fire road again. However, I pulled out the map to check and saw several teams go right on South Mills River trail. Someone said that this was the way to go, and they were local, so we changed directions. Turned out to be one of the highlights of the ride – nice, flowing singletrack for several miles followed by a technical but rideable climb up to the junction with Squirrel Gap trail. Along the way we enjoyed the flow with two other teams in front of us. However,the pace highlighted one of the weak points of single speed bikes in big mountain riding events. The lead team were two single speeders. On this descending, flowing trail, we could have been using the big chain ring to make up speed. However, the SS’ers were stuck in coasting mode. As we crossed a creek, we got in front of them for a tech climbing section. They too remained recurring cast members.

Another team (Luis Calderon / Karlos Rodriguez) that we leap-frogged all day was with us on that flowing train as well. The one rider had his iPod connected to speakers strapped on his handlebars. As we rolled up on them, he was jamming to Ludicris and trying to get a sing-along going. “Come on, everybody,” he yelled. “Sing it: ‘Roll Out. Roll Out. Roll Out.’” Team “Speaker Box” was quite vocal, and throughout the ride we were entertained by their alternating complaints and braggadocio.

Mid-creek mishaps entertained racers at the Squirrel Gap CP

Our chosen first checkpoint (CP) sat at the junction of Squirrel Gap Trail and Cantrell Creek Trail, beside the rocky crossing of Cantrell Creek. The creek ran in two channels at the crossing, with wet rocks lining both sides and a central rock shoal wetted by passing tires. I rode into it and held together for the crossing and the climb up wet rocks to where 10 teams or so were at the unmanned CP. [Yay for me ] Many other riders were not as fortunate (including my teammate), and the CP’s entertainment consisted mostly of hearing the slide of tires on wet rocks and watching riders or bike pushers go down on the wet stones.

"The Bugs," a Singlespeed team that rocked all day long

Having attained our first CP at about 11 a.m. (approx. 3-hours into the event), we filtered water in Cantrell Creek, losing 10-minutes or so filling our CamelBaks and bottles. I do believe that going forward, I will bring only iodine pills and not a filter. A filter takes up a lot of room in the packs, weighs much more than pills and sucks up too much time. One of the reasons we kept seeing the same people all day is because of the time we spent filtering water.

“The Bugs” caught up with us at the CP. These were the two single speeders who had lead our little train on the flowing descent. Shanna Powell and Laura Goetz were dressed as a bumble bee and a red bug, complete with leotards, tutus and tights and helmet-mounted antennae. They were cheerful and repeatedly caught up with us any time we stopped for more than a few minutes to eat, filter or change a flat throughout the day.

Squirrel Gap Check Point to Bradley Creek Check Point (An uneventful crossing)

Leaving the CP, we worked our way uphill along the flanks of Laurel and Poundingstone mountains. We caught up to another of our “friends” at the crest of the mountain. This was co-ed team whose leader – the guy – kept leaving his teammate far behind on every climb. He would wait for her – sometimes for 20-minutes or so – only at the top of the climbs or right before the CP. She was cheerful throughout the day, riding alone. However they clearly violated the spirit of the event (and the rules, which say that teammates must remain within shouting distance of each other).

Chilling with the famous and popular Bradley Creek Check Point host, Mark

As we turned our wheels downhill on Poundingstone Mountain, we dropped down along Laurel Creek to Bradley Creek and our next CP. Laurel Creek trail provided some entertaining switchbacks, water bars and proved aptly named. In some sections, riding crop-like Laurel branches choked the trail and thwapped our knuckles, arms and faces as we tried to see the trail through their shiny, thick leaves. We had to follow the orange blazes here, because offshoot trails ran in all directions along the creek. At the bottom we crossed Bradley Creek’s wide and rocky flow and made our way up into a field to our second CP. This was our deepest fording, and very mild by Pisgah standards. In years past I have crossed creeks going on three-feet deep. Here, the water didn’t exceed 18-inches. One could probably have rode across.

We checked into our second CP around 12:30 p.m. At the Bradley Creek  CP we met up with our amigos again, and took pictures with the unsuspecting CP host, whom I had declared a ‘popular guy’. He was quite surprised when The Bugs wanted a photo with him. One of the riders, Mr. Leave-Her-Behind, related a story from Pisgah Productions other race, the Pisgah 36 (basically two consecutive days of PMBAR distances and elevation gain spiced with random challenges and time cut-offs – formerly and more accurately called The Most Horrible Thing Ever). He said teams had to shotgun three Pabst Blue Ribbon beers at Bradley Creek CP for the Pisgah 36.

Bradley Creek Check Point to Spencer Gap Trail Check Point (Hammer Time)

A moment to celebrate - attaining our first CP

Leaving Bradley Creek, we started up a prolonged fire road climb to Yellow Gap and Forest Service Road (FSR) 1206. “Hey, are you locking out your suspension on these climbs?” R.L. asked. I was not. How many different adjustments on my Fox suspension? Every climb from then on, I locked out the fork and the shock. It really conserved my energy. We climbed from 2450 feet to 3200 feet elevation in about 3 miles or so. Once again we shed teams on the climb like a dog after a hard winter, catching the last of five or so teams as we approached the gate at Yellow Gap. On FSR 1206, we faced a high speed gravel road descent and our first road open to vehicular traffic. We dropped down the sweeping switchbacks, riding at each one’s personal limits for risk tolerance. One tire slide out would peel off flesh in massive road rash. FSR 1206 took us right through our campground, North Mills River Recreation Area. We filled water at the campground, glad for the time-saving faucets. Going out of the campground, we faced a paved and gravel road climb up Wash Creek Road to the next CP.

This proved our strongest leg. We pushed tall gears on the climb wherever the road bed eased its grade, and we passed about ten teams on the climb to the CP at the junction of FSR 5000 and Spencer Gap Trail. I knew I was pushing a tall gear, but at one time I was surprised to look down and see I was in the big chain ring up front. All along the climb we met teams flying down the hill at high speeds. Starting out on the paved final section before the gate, we would hear the singing tires of the descenders before they hove into sight, and the air smelt of hot brakes. We attained the CP faster and easier than I thought we would. I almost missed it, as it was off to the side on a gated-off road, and almost hidden by trees. I looked up that side road to see if it had a lot of tire tracks, and saw the flicker of colored banners. The CP volunteer here had planned for a long day, and was close to the road so he could easily provide for his comforts. Cigar smoke drifted around the little open-sided tent, and a cooler held his cold beverages of choice. After checking in around 2:45 p.m., we only spent about five minutes or less at this CP.

Spencer Gap Check Point to Turkey Springs Gap Check Point (Moments of doubt and pain)

Between us and the next CP were two gravel road descents and two monster climbs. We put the bikes into the big chain rings and took off down the hill, riding into all of the teams we had passed. One poor chap was fighting off leg cramps within 200-yards of the Spencer Gap Trail CP. I took the descent slower than I thought I would, hanging with R.L. Still, I almost became the new hood ornament for a Ford F-250 climbing up Wash Creek Road. The driver voiced to me my sentiments toward him as we passed each other on the narrow gravel road. Wash Creek falls down the mountain right beside the road, and an occasional glance in that direction on the climb and descent revealed the creek to be very scenic and clear, with primitive campgrounds scattered along its banks. That’s one of the downsides to going to a great place like Pisgah National Forest for a competitive event versus a ride – you don’t have the time or the excess energy to enjoy the scenery or the extras. On the descent of Wash Creek Road I also saw a big fallen tree that had been modified for a long log ride some five feet off the ground. No time!

Looking at my watch and seeing how much of a gap we had opened on some of our leap-froggers (including the Pace Liners) with our strong climb, I began to dream aspirational fantasies like finishing by 6 p.m. – in time for the raffle drawing of the Industry 9 wheels, and a seemingly nice round number for a finishing time. I even floated the fantasy of going for all five CP’s. However, as we zoomed down the final stretch of Wash Creek Road – paved and closed to traffic – R.L. said he needed to stop in at the restroom in the campground. We both used the restroom there, refilled water at the spigots and ate. We lost about 20 minutes at North Mills River Campground on our second stop there. As R.L. wolfed down a peanut butter bagel at the water spigot, team Speaker Box rolled through and headed up FSR 1206. “Ain’t nobody that can descend gravel roads like I can,” hollered the following member of their team as they rolled past. “I’m the ____ at gravel downhills!”

Leaving the campground on FSR 1206, we faced one of the day’s biggest climbs, the daunting gravel road ascent back to Yellow Gap. Freshly fed, buoyed by our killer leg to Spencer Gap Trail, and feeling better after the bio break, we targeted a few of the teams that had just passed us at our campground stop. Unfortunately for them, team Speaker Box didn’t like gravel road climbs as much as descents. We caught them on the climb up FSR 1206, as well as another team. We were also passed by a team putting down a very motivated pace. From their speed and hunkered down look I had to ask if they were going for all five. “Yep.” they responded, and left me in the pale gray dust of the gravel road.

Attaining Yellow Gap, we snacked and watched as the two teams we had passed on the climb struggled up to the gap. The team dynamic really comes into play on big challenges. The two teams we passed were quite unevenly matched on the climb. The lead rider of the second team we caught was climbing strong, while his teammate was standing still when we passed him, taking a breather beside the gravel road. I have been in their shoes. The first two years that I  tackled the Pisgah Mountain Bike Adventure Race, my teammate Darren Wood was a much stronger climber than I. I remember struggling just to grind granny gear up the FSR 1206 climb to Yellow Gap. The stronger team member has to balance his own riding style with spending some of their extra energy on motivating their teammate and getting them to push their personal limits. Meanwhile, teams like the one that passed me on the climb on their way to all five CP’s operate like a well-oiled machine. Whether that’s because of individual drive, or because of familiarity with each other, I don’t know. However, they were only a bike distance or two apart on that climb, and moving well. While I have become a much stronger rider, and now lead the climbing for the team, I am still learning the team dynamic, and finding the right mix of drill sergeant, motivational speaker and friend.

Lingering only briefly at Yellow Gap, we pedaled off down the other side of the gap on FSR 1206. We had made the choice to go to the base of Pilot Rock via 1206, and hike-a-bike up to the next CP on Pilot Rock Trail, then turn around and descend that tech-rider’s dream. At Yellow Gap we could have turned right onto Laurel Mountain Trail, a ridge line singletrack trail leading up to Turkey Spring Gap. However, I had memories from a past PMBAR of an interminable trail that dropped and climbed over and over again and seemed to never end. My memories of Pilot Rock Trail were from descending it that same PMBAR. I remembered it as a mile or so of very technical, rocky trail. Better to bite the bullet and hike-a-bike for a little than to spend hours on singletrack, I thought. So did many others. This may have been a mistake.

PMBAR racers have to carry all their own tools and repair items

Once FSR 1206 started to climb again, R.L. had a flat in his front tire, and we stopped roadside to change it. Sure enough, our leap-frogging friends began to overtake us. Mr. Leave-Her-Behind had this cheerful observation about our situation: “It’s all good, you know. Get’s you to slow down and enjoy the ride.” He then spun off into whatever oblivion he slipped into as he left his teammate behind on another climb. We got the new tube in place and pumped up as team Speaker Box passed us.

Entering Pilot Rock Trail, things got bad quickly. We crossed a stream on foot and tackled the first climbing pitch. Mr. Leave-Her-Behind and I were able to out distance our teammates and team Speaker Box in short order as we granny-geared it through the mildly technical early part of the climb. I stopped for R.L. at the junction with the Pilot Rock Base Trail, and did not see Mr. LHB until the crest of the trail, some 40-minutes later. We continued to hike our bikes up through rock gardens and steep, rutted trail. Pilot Rock Trail turned out to be 2.5 miles of all climb, not the mile or so I had remembered. I had a flat on my front tire – very odd considering how little riding I was doing at the time. R.L. had the pump, so I pushed my bike to the crest, walking some rideable sections, so that I could get the tire off before R.L. came up.

A rare break to enjoy the views on Pilot Rock

Riders coming down frequently forced us hikers off the trail. One guy had a pep talk for us climbers. “We came over Laurel Mountain Trail. I just couldn’t face this horrible climb up Pilot Rock. It’s just such a morale crusher.” He thought it was about the same time-wise, coming over Laurel Mountain Trail. Thanks, buddy!

At the crest I got the bad news from Mr. Leave-Her-Behind. The CP was not at the crest. No, he told me cheerily. “It’s about a quarter mile downhill from here.” He must have waited for his teammate for more than 20-minutes, atop the ridge. R.L. and his teammate rode up and I pumped up the new tube while Team We Ride Apart descended to the CP. The insects were atrocious and aggressive atop the ridge, and I was bitten multiple times while I struggled with the tube change. Team Speaker Box’s lead rider came up while we finished inflating the tube.

“I was hoping a bear would come out of the woods and kill me,” he said of the Pilot Rock Trail climb. He had to wait for his teammate now. R.L. and I descended to our final CP, meeting our friends of team We Ride Apart coming back out. She was dreading the descent. “Yeah, it will be O.K.,” he drawled. “Once you get going, just let off the brakes and let it happen.” Uh, huh. Riders who don’t like descending are not known for “just letting off the brakes.”

We rode into the Turkey Springs Gap CP at about 5:30 p.m. with a storm building ominously off to the west – hence the insect frenzy.  “Where ya’ll going next?” asked the CP host.

“We’re headed home.” I said. I just wanted to get out of there and get back to base. The fun was over, and it was now a race against the dark. I was not looking forward to the descent of Pilot Rock Trail. Specifically one rock garden. I hoped I would have a safe dismount when I did run out of roll in the rocks.

Turkey Springs Gap Check Point to Finish Line (Get ‘r done)

Pilot Rock Trail is a tech rider's delight on the descent

It was time to finish the thing. We hiked our bikes back up to the ridge, and then pointed the front wheels downhill. Now it became clear why Pilot Rock Trail had seemed so short in my memory. Going down only took 20-minutes or so. We caught up with team We Ride Apart at the stream crossing at the bottom. However, we had to refill water, and we filtered right there at Bradley Creek. This meant that we lost more time. The Bugs came out of the woods and started off up the climb, as did team Speaker Box. Water filtered and 10-15 minutes lost, we started off on FSR 1206 again. I had debated about taking Buckhorn Gap Trail in, or riding further up FSR 1206 to 276 to Club Gap Trail. However, shortly after we got onto Buckhorn Gap Trail, I remembered it from a past PMBAR, and remembered how easy it was. Going for 276 would have been a bad mistake!

We raced against the darkness gathering under the trees. The final descent of Black Mountain Trail would be hairy in low light, and I did not want to stop and put on lights. I middle chain ringed much of the climb to Buckhorn Gap. Onto the gravel fire road, it was big ring time. We caught The Bugs on the climb. Going down the gravel, I reeled in team Speaker Box and another team, Paul Diemer / Gordon Jenks. I picked up the most mud of the entire race on that descent, plowing through a couple of wet spots in my haste. At the junction with Maxwell Cove I waited for R.L. and changed to clear lenses in my glasses. Team Speaker Box, who had been consulting their map in fear of missing the turn-off – a healthy fear – caught up, as did the other team we had passed. R.L. came alongside and we started our final climb of the PMBAR 2010. We reeled in team Speaker Box, now fallen silent and grim as they ground away at yet another gravel climb. Attaining Pressley Gap, we encountered a group of adventure racers or some such, who were gathered in the dusk and asking us about how long we’d be out there and how many more were behind us.

Filtering vs. iodine? Filtering takes a lot of time

Onto singletrack, we pushed our bikes up to Hickory Knob and caught up to another co-ed team and the guys I had passed on the previous gravel road descent. I waited at the top, eager for R.L. to catch up so we could light up that final downhill. I wanted to ask the co-ed team (LeAnne McCann / Jon Carmack) if they’d let us in front, but R.L. was still behind, and I couldn’t ask them to wait for him. Once he crested Hickory Knob we started down Black Mountain. I had a lot of energy and the pressing desire to get home, so I put on the afterburner.

I quickly caught up to the co-ed team, who were riding conservatively. I rode close behind them without crowding. However the guy, who was trailing, began to get nervous and skid a bit in corners. His partner yelled back, asking why he was skidding. “”Cause there is a guy right behind me,” he replied.

“We should let him buy if you’re riding beyond your control,” she hollered.”Ask him if he wants by.”

“You want by?”

“If that’s cool with you,” I said.

“He said ‘if that’s cool with you.’”

“Let him by.”

She was not happy, but they let me by. R.L., descending a minute or two behind me, caught up to them when the guy flatted. It proved to be a bit much for team morale. R.L. reported that they were yelling at each other up and down the hill when he rode past and delivered the bad news about her teammate’s flat.

I waited for R.L. at the last creek crossing, which offered three routes across. In the middle was a two log bridge with a hand rail on one side only and no deck. To the left was a steep U-out that needed some good momentum to ford. On the right someone had built a gap jump kicker. That one would require moxie, mi amigos. Things were tight in that area, and the trail came around a switchback shortly before the crossing. More power to the leapers who cleared that jump. R.L. swept the switchback and went for the U-out. What chutzpah!

Crossing the creek, we were on the victory lap. We dropped down the remaining singletrack to the junction with the doubletrack run out. We skated into the finish line at 7:52 p.m., two minutes after team We Ride Apart, who were snarled in a random gear check (the only members of our leap-frogging friends that we had not caught). We had made it before dark, and before the 12-hour mark. And we could only marvel and admire the Koerbers, who won the race by reaching all five CP’s and still finishing first, at 4:17 p.m. Within ten minutes of our finish the rain that had been building to the west all afternoon arrived, and we moved under the tents with our vegan burritos provided by Pisgah Productions. We wolfed down two, grabbed another two and headed for the car. Time to get out of those stinking clothes, and to celebrate our achievements that first day in May, 2010.

After the Finish Line

Teamwork required - The duo format of the PMBAR means team dynamics play a vital role

Team Big Mountain Riding had ridden approximately 65-miles, climbed more than 9,000-feet, and put in about 10-hours of ride time after subtracting for filtering water, bio breaks, map reading, etc. We met our goals of finishing, finishing safely, and finishing before dark. I felt I finished strong with plenty more remaining in the tank. R.L. had finished his first epic and finished it without having a moment of complete doubt and pain. He had not hit rock bottom; he had rode strong. We also met my goal of setting a personal best, both in time and in placement. We came in about 15-minutes earlier than I had ever done. And we placed 41st out of 75 starting teams.  20 teams were unable to finish the race. Despite the clear expectation-setting done by Eric and the Pisgah Productions crew – the race’s tag line is “Crushing Souls Since 2003″ – people continue to meet their match at the PMBAR. An epic event like this does have its share of mechanical and physical mishaps and meltdowns. All in all though, what a challenge. What an Adventure!

© 2010 Big Mountain Riding