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

This is what some folks call fun - Big Mountain Riding

Today my fingers betrayed my body, signing me up for the 2010 Pisgah Mountain Bike Adventure Race.

This is a Big Mountain Riding classic, an event I’ve finished three times, and one that almost finished me at least twice. It is a two-person team event, so I’ve convinced a friend to join me in this mad endeavor. Well, after 10-hours of technical riding, friend may not be the most accurate description of our relationship.

Going forward I will highlight our preparations for this beast-mother of an epic, and will debrief it after the fact. To get started, here is the required gear list for the back country adventure:

Required Gear:

1. Helmet. (1 per racer)~~~Racers must wear helmets ANY TIME they are riding their bikes. Uphill, Downhill, Gravel Road or Pavement. Racers not wearing a helmet while riding will be DQ’d.
2. Rain Jacket (1 per racer)~~~ (Plastic Trash bag doesn’t count as a Jacket) Even if it’s 70 degrees and sunny, don’t mess around. I don’t expect anyone to spend the night in the woods… but if you do, you’ll want a jacket. I promise.
3. Water Filter or Iodine (1 per team) ~~~ For the sake of your stomach, and those that will be around you after the race, DO NOT DRINK DIRECTLY FROM RIVERS OR CREEKS.
4. Emergency blanket (1 per racer)~~~ See above
5. Timepiece (1 per team) Watch, cycling computer, telephone, any device with the correct time.
6. First Aid Kit w/ Gauze, Tape, Ace Bandage, etc. (1 per team)~~~ Be prepared for anything!
7. Whistle (1 per team)
8. Lighter (1 per team)~~~ see #2
9. Compass or GPS unit (1 per team)~~~ What good is a map without a compass?
10. Red ‘Blinkie’ rear light (1 per racer)~~~ Riders must burn a tail-light anytime they are on pavement or gravel roads, day or night.
11. Emergency Light Source (Flashlight, LED, etc.) (1 per racer)~~~ There is a good chance your team will be arriving at the start/finish after dark. Bring appropriate lighting to get off the trail.

Can’t you tell how much fun this is going to be just from scanning the list?

©2010 Big Mountain Riding

"They's folks as ain't come back from them hills, sonny."- From ride 23 'n 23

I haven’t been on my bike in a week and a half. I’m taking some time off following December 30. That’s when I rode home in the light of the full moon, finishing off the 30 ‘n 30 Challenge. The next day we hosed off my brother-in-law’s bike and gave it the TLC it had long needed. The day after that I arrived back in Virginia, to freezing temps and snow on the shaded side of everything.

Happy cows come from California

The Big Mountain Riding 30 ‘n 30 Challenge threw down the gauntlet for 30 rides of at least 30-minutes in 30 days. Unfortunately, the challenge started on Nov. 30. I pedaled in the snow; I pedaled in freezing rain. I pedaled in the dark and against the wind. I pedaled on Christmas Eve and Christmas. I pedaled on opposite sides of the country, in six trail systems and two neighborhoods. By traveling to California to see family for Christmas, I dodged the biggest snow in 10-years at home. I rode with my 50-something friends, I rode with my 12-year old nephew; I rode a lot by myself. Animals encountered included deer, rabbits, turkeys, buzzards, hawks, owls, cows and coyotes. I rode pavement, sidewalks, gravel roads, drainage ditches, doubletrack, singletrack, cow trails and cross country. I broke a few regulations along the way, and alarmed a few cows. Damages incurred included a new fork for my bike Jack Rabbit Slim, brakes for my brother-in-law’s bike, poison oak and a head cold for me.

In the 30-days, I rode +/- 150 miles and put in a work week on the bike, logging 39-hours in close proximity to my trusty steeds. Among my California relatives I’m the guy who rides bikes, and this holiday season solidified that stereotype.

Moments I will remember include: catching a coyote on his way home from a night of naughtiness in Hayward, CA’s Garin Park, railing the teeter-totter at Danville, VA’s Anglers Ridge, taking my nephew on his first mountain bike ride, encountering a red-tail hawk on the hillside at Lynchburg’s Blackwater Creek, the eye-watering full-speed doubletrack descent into Garin Park from Bailey Ranch Road, soldiering through the ice rain at Candler’s Mountain at dusk, the final ride home with my moon shadow stretching behind me like the 30 ‘n 30 challenge.

"Some of dem trails down in der woods is's slick as snot." - From ride 17 'n 17

This challenge provided a hearty serving of both learning and self-awareness.

1. It takes time and willpower to ride every day. Sounds obvious, but as the daylight bleeds away around 5 p.m. in December, procrastinators will run out of time. And time aside, you’ve got to push yourself to go out and ride. Nike has it right. Just do it.

2. Bikes are beautiful. What an instrument for speed and harmony. It’s an extension of your body, but not part of you.  And on a sweeping curve of a narrow trail through the woods … what could provide more feeling of flow?

3. We’re trashing our planet – even if we aren’t killing it. Ironically – given that I was only able to access these hills for 30-minute sound bites because of all the roads and cars – I was saddened by all the garbage and scars we leave on this land. Roads reaching into every solitary place, litter lining even the smallest of foot paths. We are creatures of destruction.

4. Mountain bikers live on variety, so vary your rides. Riding every day means some duplication. However, most of us would quickly lose interest if we continually had to ride the same trail in the same conditions. Seasons change, leaves and trees fall, rain makes mud, sun makes dust. All this and so much more means that even the same trail differs on different days. I sought out various trail systems and different routes, yet I wish I would have ridden even more places, like VA’s Sherando Lake SP and CA’s Lake Chabot RP.

5. Take care of yourself and your stuff to extend the miles. One of the biggest lessons of the challenge was when we looked up the manual online and took apart the Manitou Axel fork on my brother-in-law’s bike. With a few hours of time and a $10 bottle of fork oil, we revived that fork and saved a couple hundred bucks. A little more frequent cleaning and more lubing can cut down on those costly repair bills. In the same way, stretching, eating right and cross training means more and more enjoyable miles. This was brought home on my first day in Garin Park after a year of eating better, more exercise and more time on the bike. I immediately noticed the increase in skill and power.

Now that the 30 ‘n 30 Challenge is complete, I am already thinking of the next challenge. Initially, I had thought of just letting the 30 ‘n 30 roll into the 365 ‘n 365. However, I chickened out and am looking for something different. Hmm. Ideas anyone?

"Must think it ain't hard enough as is, 'cause they done built a bunch of crap in the woods." From Ride 13 'n 13

© Big Mountain Riding

Se llama "flow," mis amigos

“When facing a single tree, if you look at a single one of its red leaves, you will not see the others. When the eye is not set on any one leaf, and you face the tree with nothing at all in  mind, any number of leaves are visible to the eye without limit.” Takuan Sōhō, The Mysterious Record of Immovable Wisdom.

By: Randy King

Photos: Doug King & Randy King

Yesterday I experienced one of those signature moments in a mountain biking year. Descending LU’s ruff-n-tuff Pscycle Pathe in duo, I rode the rough line most of the way. Bouncing over exposed bedrock and dicing through eroded leftovers, I railed the thing. This alone is a great sensation. However, as I hit the run-out at the bottom, my rear wheel struck a loose rock at high speed. The back end vaulted up, swung right and came forward fast. In the split second interval before a spectacular crash, I realized what had happened, evaluated what was to come, and changed my fate. Slamming my chest down to the handlebars, I twisted the grips to the left slightly and leaned into the carving front wheel. The back wheel landed almost perpendicular to my front wheel and miraculously, the bike straightened out and I rode it out.  I shouted out a great “Whoa!” and heard my companion yell “nice save.”

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction” Newton’s third law of motion.

Bridge work

At the bottom, waiting for our third amigo, I basked in the thudding-heart glow of having created art-in-motion – a glimpse of greatness. A glimpse of the Zen state No-Thought-No-Mind.

I believe it is why we, grown adults, ride bikes in the woods. It is for moments like these, and for the spontaneous mash-up of skills, luck and improbable execution that can carry the day when all seems lost.

“When you elevate your gaze, you literally elevate your perception of the trail. Instead of noticing individual objects – little round rock, big pointy rock, huge wet rock – you sense the overall flow of the trail – left, right, up and down.” Brian Lopes, Mastering Mountain Bike Skills

Don’t miss – Of Zen and Mountain Biking Part II & Part III (Coming Soon)

For Stanley, Christa, Darren and Dig, who tolerated my early bike-borne Zen ravings.

© Big Mountain Riding