I had no idea what I was getting into. Like most of life, that was a good thing. It was another one of those questionable things, you know, the ones where you sit on the fence for a while thinking 'Should I?' or 'Shouldn't I?' ... 'Should I?'. 'Shouldn't I?'. The Appalachian Mountains in Maryland were supposed to be beautiful (I like beautiful, and I LOVE mountains!) ... the ride was supposed to be a challenge (who doesn't like a challenge?) ... the last 3/4 of a mile of the 102 mile route was a 13% incline (uh-oh). 3/4 of a mile I can do. 13% I can do. But those two together at the very end of a very long and grueling day? There was no sense worrying about the other 101 1/4 miles until my brain could wrap itself around that last 3/4 ...
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| The Savage Century route. Did I mention the last 3/4 mile? |
The fence is a horrible, uncomfortable, miserable place to be. When I end up there I want off as quickly as possible. I play out both scenarios in my head and see which one feels better - go, and risk the most brutal 102mi ride of my life, possibly (probably?) crash and burn and have to get scraped up by a SAG vehicle, and slink back to my friends with my head hanging low in disgrace ... or simply don't go - and never know if I could have done it or not.
Not really much of a decision, is it?
I registered for the end-of-June ride in January and started looking for the steepest scariest longest climbs available in my flat little home state. Some buddies and I came up with a ride we've trademarked 'Hell of the Hills' - HotH for short - encorporating a myriad of steep climbs in the southern part of our area, where the glaciers didn't quite reach. We did the HotH ride in constant rain and in blazing heat (doesn't make a difference, it hurts equally in both). I went for a weekend ride in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina with friends in Just Tri, one of the premier local tri teams - some of the most driven (and most fun) group of athletes I've ever known. I found the hilliest road in our area and went up and down, and up and down, again and again and again.
It wasn't even remotely close to what I was about to encounter. None of it.
The Garrett County Gran Fondo Savage Century is 12,700 feet of climbing over 102 miles. This isn't even the Queen route of the event - The Diabolical Double is 125 miles and 16,500 feet of climbing (now THAT would've just been nonsense). The two routes share 73 miles. Where the Diabolical Double adds more ridiculous climbing, the Savage Century gives you a few recovery miles along the gorgeous Savage River before nailing you with more ridiculous climbing of its own (no, you don't get 29 miles of easy flatness - but even a few easier miles could potentially allow oxygen to make its way back to your brain, and blood to pump all the way to your toes).
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| A wee bit of respite along the Savage River. Photo credit: John F Martin Jr |
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| The Westernport Wall. Up at the tippy top there are (small) sections of brick - if you make it up on your bike during the Savageman Triathlon you get a brick with your name on it. I had to work hard just to WALK up the thing. I'd need a pack of hungry wolves after me to even stand a chance on a bike (and I'd probably be dinner). |
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| The bricks. We also found the bricks of a couple other hometown superstars: Kathleen Hughes and Ryan Glaze. Note: there aren't that many bricks to look through. |
After a quick stop at High Mountain Sports (great little shop, if you're ever in McHenry County, MD - we stopped because I had found a weird defect in my rear tire the night before, totally by accident. While cleaning my bike I noticed the bead was pulling away from the wall of the tire. I'm no expert on bike maintenance, but that just seemed incredibly wrong - imagine what kind of peaceful dreams a tire busting apart at the seams might give a person who's totally-in-over-her-head the night before a big ride with hellacious climbs followed by screaming descents? (btw, the tire manufacturer later replaced it for free - for the record, tires are NOT supposed to do that)) we went to packet pickup, put our numbers on our bikes and helmets, and that was that - everyone knows once the numbers are on there's no turning back.
We enjoyed the free (FREE, as in "included in your registration fee so you might as well go") athlete dinner (multiple expertly-run buffet lines - everything you could want with no waiting) and then those of us who had never done this ride before contemplated driving up the final climb (that 3/4 mile one that I may have already mentioned) to the finish line just to try to wrap our heads around it. I was 'strenuously' warned not to. By multiple previous riders. Multiple times. So, after finishing dinner I hopped into the car that was driving up to the top. When you're in a plush SUV cruising up a long climb it's really not that harrowing at all ... it looks kind of puny and it actually eased my mind (or more correctly, fed my delusion that the ride wouldn't be that bad). We got back to the hotel, I checked for the third time that my gear was all set out and ready to go, and then I laid still, wide eyed, drifting off every now-and-then, until morning.
The start was pretty interesting. I've never done a bike ride with an actual 'starting line' so that was an experience. Similar to a marathon or triathlon start ... but different. Add in the foggy mist that occurs at the tops of mountains in the early morning hours and you felt a little like Christopher Columbus contemplating sailing off the edge of the known world. We took our position near the back and waited for the gun to go off.
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| The Start/Finish ... at the top of the mountain. Photo credit: John F Martin, Jr |
Like most events, everyone took off like bats out of hell. It was quite a site. It's incredibly exciting stuff and a little hard to contain yourself. But, I'm one of those people that actually needs (needs!) a warmup (apparently one of only a handful in existence). I also can easily flame and burn out early ... so my plan for the day was simple: spin as easy as humanly possible up every single climb. It's actually doable if you concentrate really hard!
The first 25 miles was only rollers, a lot of downhill and no real climbs, with perfect pavement and lots of lovely shade. The thick foggy mist promptly coated your glasses making you more or less blind - which seemed like a fairly big problem at the time, but given the rest of the day this turned out to be a pretty minor issue. Several of the bats had stopped to wipe off their glasses, and still feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed I enjoyed flinging out chipper comments to strangers, such as 'Ahh c'mon, you don't really need to see!', as I rolled by (of course these folks would run me down and leave me in their wake just as soon as they could see again, but the day was young and I hadn't been properly humbled yet). Interestingly there were several folks with flats and other mechanical problems in this early stretch, but for the most part, the entire pack flew to the first aid station.
A few of our folks were lounging (well not quite, but they were chatting comfortably, kicked back on a picnic table) at the aid station, enjoying a steel drum band (and when I say band I mean band - not one or two, but 20 steel drum players, jamming wildly under the park shelter). We bounced along with the reggae beat up to the Coke and cookies, inhaled, chatted briefly to our lounging friends, and then took off. This is where the climbs began ... for the next 11 hours.
From here on out it's bit of blur. Whatever mental processes store memories were apparently busy with more critical tasks such as directing oxygen to brain cells, and firing appropriate muscles to make the pedals turn just one more time ... and you wouldn't even dream of stopping to take a picture to remember anything by. I was still all-in with the 'ride as easy as possible' plan (knowing it was probably my only chance of survival) ... but around mile 4 of the first big climb the 'easy' part was out the door. Now it was simply 'ride'. There are 10 or 12 climbs on this ride that have official names and are timed - things like 'Killer Miller', 'Bowman Hill', and 'Devil's Half Acre' ... but there are countless OTHER climbs that don't even warrant names. Back in my mid-western town those climbs would ALL have had scary names of their very own. We'd start up something horrifying and I'd breathlessly ask, "What's this one called?". JFM's response would be "Nothing" along with a kind chuckle. When we actually got to the first named climb I stopped asking: there was no mistaking the ones that earned names. It was brutal and at times so close to impossible it was simply comical (except that laughing takes energy, so the chuckling mostly occurred silently in my head ... at least I hope it did).
And it went on. And on. And on.
Countless times I watched people fly up beside me at the base of a climb. At first it was difficult not to get discouraged - holy hell - I'm here putting everything I have into this, plus a little more from I-don't-even-know-where, dropping every gear I have as fast as I can as it got soooo steep soooo fast that it was necessary just to be able to keep my legs turning over, and here I am, going 4mph, while this guy just comes screeeeeaming up beside me like he's wearing Wile E Coyote's jet pack. Except that time after time the jet pack would sputter and unexpectedly run out of fuel, and inevitably you'd hear either that horrible grinding of chain that comes with gears changing under incredible tension ... or you'd see the fall starting out of the corner of your eye, receding at a steady 4mph, while thinking please! Please! PLEASE! don't tilt in my direction. The falling happens in slow motion (what isn't in slow motion when you're going 4mph?), you see it start, hear some primal guttural sounds, then the thud of body and clang of bike hitting pavement, typically followed by a quiet voice saying 'Dude? You ok?' ... and a different, slightly muffled (as if perhaps it's speaking towards the ground) voice mutter back 'Uhh. Yeah'. It wasn't funny ... and yet, it was, because you knew how easily it could have been you. Pretty quickly, 4mph UPRIGHT starts to feel amazingly good.
I originally had 2 goals for this ride. One was to start and finish. The other, which was admittedly a stretch goal, was to never get off my bike. In my head I held fast to the first goal. A few weeks before the ride I had let the 2nd one go - odds of me having to walk at least one of these crazy climbs were pretty astronomical. But, somewhere around mile 60 it occurred to me that I actually hadn't been off my bike yet. I'd gone up climbs at a snail's pace (field studies have shown you can stay upright at 2.9mph). Past gorgeously built fit guys in gorgeous red and white Castelli kits that matched their equally gorgeous bikes (in all fairness, they obviously didn't have as gorgeous of gearing as I did). Past people carrying their shoes and walking in their socks. Past people sitting on the side of road switching out of their bike shoes and into the flip-flops that they were carrying in a jersey pocket ... but I hadn't walked a single step. Why didn't this occur to me before now? Because when you're focusing - and I don't mean focusing on the day, or the current hour, or the current climb - I mean focusing on the next 3 feet - it's pretty difficult to think of anything else.
I only have a handful of basic, steadfast, rules. 'The Golden Rule' is one (the only thing I got out of CCD as a kid, other than 'priests are even scarier up close' and 'it's best to steer clear of nuns carrying rulers'). The 'Half Way' rule is another: If you're greater than 50% done with something you might as well finish it. The Half Way rule is more powerful than you might think - it's actually what got me through grad school, and it's gotten me through more than a few tough spots (well, you're 9 miles through an 18 miler, might as well just finish it at this point ... well, you're half way up this mountain, might as well go on up and see what's at the top). If you're remotely good at math you've probably figured out that mile 60 of a 102 mile ride is something greater than 50%. The Half Way rule had already invoked itself before I even knew it.
I can't explain the ride in words. Or photos, because it never crossed my mind to take any (whopping 3 foot focus, remember). I don't think 1000 words or 1000 photos could've painted the picture properly anyway. If you want to 'know' then you'll just have to go do the ride and experience it yourself (funny how that works, isn't it?). The weekend before this ride I had done a 2 day 105mile running relay with a team of 5 friends - when it was over I said it was the hardest thing I'd ever done (running almost 20 miles over 2 days, alone, in the deep dark of the night, exhausted from no sleep, and running as hard as I could so as to not disappoint my teammates). It dropped to a distant 2nd less than a week later. There's no warning appropriate enough for this ride. Had I KNOWN what the climbs were like, had I somehow SEEN 'Killer Miller' (even the relatively easy beginning of it where the cows really do stare at you (JQ, you weren't lying!) and you can almost hear them saying 'Pssst, Joe! Look! ANOTHER one is trying it!') before my rubber wheels actually touched its pavement ... I would have backed slowly away from this ride like it was a rattlesnake, and once I was a safe distance away I would've kept running until sundown just to be sure. Weeks later, as I finally get around to writing this, I still shake my head in disbelief. The word that still pops instantly into my head: unreal.
That last climb - the 3/4 mile one that I'd been trying to comprehend since January. The one that I thought didn't look 'so bad' the night before ... Yes, I made it up on the bike, Yes, at a snail's pace (one wonderfully enthusiastic spectator ran - or more accurately, walked briskly - next to me, with his bright blue vuvuzela in hand screaming 'Ok! OK! Don't look at me! DO. NOT. LOOK. AT. ME! I know it hurts! I know you're suffering! But you're doing AWWWWWWESOME! JUST. KEEP. GOING! DOOOOON'T STOP!' ... I'm pretty sure I smiled and breathed out 'Thanks' ... at least I meant to ... and I'm positive that I laughed like a giddy schoolgirl inside). The last pedal stroke of that climb was the best one of the entire day: it took me 18 minutes to get to it. I started a little ahead of JFM at the base, so once I topped it I slowed down and waited - the finish line was almost in sight - and for some sick twisted reason, which I still don't quite understand, I wanted to enjoy every moment of those last few painful minutes. I was laughing when I crossed the finish line.
After the ride our group went out for dinner and beers (and water, lots and lots of water). As usual, the stories started pouring in: one person (who shall remain anonymous, but whose name starts with a 'Mike' and ends with a 'Weber') had run out of fluids, got a little dehydrated, and was recovering with a nap at the second aid station (I figure once you've earned all those bricks you've earned the right to take a nap any damn time or place you please), only to be woken by Todd, who just happened to spot him lying on the grass - they stuck together the rest of the day and had a spectacular ride. There were stories of a bevy of beautiful bikini-clad women seen walking along the side of the road near the end of the ride (there are mixed reports as to whether they were real or just a hopeful mirage)... a few of the boys relayed stories of a nicely built female rider who used nature's facilities in plain view of her new-found, and somewhat shocked though unable to look away, male riding buddies. And, as always, even more stories that you had to be there to be privy to (Rule #3: What happens on a ride ...).
Weeks later, this ride remains the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm sure it will be surpassed at some point, by something I don't even know exists yet. I can't wait. The folks that rode this year were immediately talking about next year ... new goals (I already have a 3rd goal myself, the one that always occurs after you've done something once ...), new people to recruit ("So-and-so would've looooved this ride, don't you think!?". You know who you are), and preliminary plans for road trips and 'training rides' leading up to next year's event.
I've had several folks tell me they may join the ride next year. I'd never in a million years suggest that someone I LIKE go on this ride - I won't take responsibility for that, or risk ending a friendship - but if you decide for yourself that you want to experience something special, something 'unreal', all the info for this marvelously run event is available here: Win the Fight: Garrett County Grand Fondo.
Enjoy every excruciating and exquisite moment! Maybe we'll see you there ...
The first 25 miles was only rollers, a lot of downhill and no real climbs, with perfect pavement and lots of lovely shade. The thick foggy mist promptly coated your glasses making you more or less blind - which seemed like a fairly big problem at the time, but given the rest of the day this turned out to be a pretty minor issue. Several of the bats had stopped to wipe off their glasses, and still feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed I enjoyed flinging out chipper comments to strangers, such as 'Ahh c'mon, you don't really need to see!', as I rolled by (of course these folks would run me down and leave me in their wake just as soon as they could see again, but the day was young and I hadn't been properly humbled yet). Interestingly there were several folks with flats and other mechanical problems in this early stretch, but for the most part, the entire pack flew to the first aid station.
A few of our folks were lounging (well not quite, but they were chatting comfortably, kicked back on a picnic table) at the aid station, enjoying a steel drum band (and when I say band I mean band - not one or two, but 20 steel drum players, jamming wildly under the park shelter). We bounced along with the reggae beat up to the Coke and cookies, inhaled, chatted briefly to our lounging friends, and then took off. This is where the climbs began ... for the next 11 hours.
From here on out it's bit of blur. Whatever mental processes store memories were apparently busy with more critical tasks such as directing oxygen to brain cells, and firing appropriate muscles to make the pedals turn just one more time ... and you wouldn't even dream of stopping to take a picture to remember anything by. I was still all-in with the 'ride as easy as possible' plan (knowing it was probably my only chance of survival) ... but around mile 4 of the first big climb the 'easy' part was out the door. Now it was simply 'ride'. There are 10 or 12 climbs on this ride that have official names and are timed - things like 'Killer Miller', 'Bowman Hill', and 'Devil's Half Acre' ... but there are countless OTHER climbs that don't even warrant names. Back in my mid-western town those climbs would ALL have had scary names of their very own. We'd start up something horrifying and I'd breathlessly ask, "What's this one called?". JFM's response would be "Nothing" along with a kind chuckle. When we actually got to the first named climb I stopped asking: there was no mistaking the ones that earned names. It was brutal and at times so close to impossible it was simply comical (except that laughing takes energy, so the chuckling mostly occurred silently in my head ... at least I hope it did).
And it went on. And on. And on.
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| What's around the bend? I'll give you a hint - it goes up. Photo credit: John F Martin, Jr |
I originally had 2 goals for this ride. One was to start and finish. The other, which was admittedly a stretch goal, was to never get off my bike. In my head I held fast to the first goal. A few weeks before the ride I had let the 2nd one go - odds of me having to walk at least one of these crazy climbs were pretty astronomical. But, somewhere around mile 60 it occurred to me that I actually hadn't been off my bike yet. I'd gone up climbs at a snail's pace (field studies have shown you can stay upright at 2.9mph). Past gorgeously built fit guys in gorgeous red and white Castelli kits that matched their equally gorgeous bikes (in all fairness, they obviously didn't have as gorgeous of gearing as I did). Past people carrying their shoes and walking in their socks. Past people sitting on the side of road switching out of their bike shoes and into the flip-flops that they were carrying in a jersey pocket ... but I hadn't walked a single step. Why didn't this occur to me before now? Because when you're focusing - and I don't mean focusing on the day, or the current hour, or the current climb - I mean focusing on the next 3 feet - it's pretty difficult to think of anything else.
I only have a handful of basic, steadfast, rules. 'The Golden Rule' is one (the only thing I got out of CCD as a kid, other than 'priests are even scarier up close' and 'it's best to steer clear of nuns carrying rulers'). The 'Half Way' rule is another: If you're greater than 50% done with something you might as well finish it. The Half Way rule is more powerful than you might think - it's actually what got me through grad school, and it's gotten me through more than a few tough spots (well, you're 9 miles through an 18 miler, might as well just finish it at this point ... well, you're half way up this mountain, might as well go on up and see what's at the top). If you're remotely good at math you've probably figured out that mile 60 of a 102 mile ride is something greater than 50%. The Half Way rule had already invoked itself before I even knew it.
I can't explain the ride in words. Or photos, because it never crossed my mind to take any (whopping 3 foot focus, remember). I don't think 1000 words or 1000 photos could've painted the picture properly anyway. If you want to 'know' then you'll just have to go do the ride and experience it yourself (funny how that works, isn't it?). The weekend before this ride I had done a 2 day 105mile running relay with a team of 5 friends - when it was over I said it was the hardest thing I'd ever done (running almost 20 miles over 2 days, alone, in the deep dark of the night, exhausted from no sleep, and running as hard as I could so as to not disappoint my teammates). It dropped to a distant 2nd less than a week later. There's no warning appropriate enough for this ride. Had I KNOWN what the climbs were like, had I somehow SEEN 'Killer Miller' (even the relatively easy beginning of it where the cows really do stare at you (JQ, you weren't lying!) and you can almost hear them saying 'Pssst, Joe! Look! ANOTHER one is trying it!') before my rubber wheels actually touched its pavement ... I would have backed slowly away from this ride like it was a rattlesnake, and once I was a safe distance away I would've kept running until sundown just to be sure. Weeks later, as I finally get around to writing this, I still shake my head in disbelief. The word that still pops instantly into my head: unreal.
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| Partway up the final 3/4 mile climb to the finish. I think we all felt like this guy, whether or not we stopped to show it. |
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| Somewhere around mile 101.9. This is not the first time JFM has given me this look. I'm guessing it won't be the last. Photo credit: Mike Weber (after his nap) |
Weeks later, this ride remains the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm sure it will be surpassed at some point, by something I don't even know exists yet. I can't wait. The folks that rode this year were immediately talking about next year ... new goals (I already have a 3rd goal myself, the one that always occurs after you've done something once ...), new people to recruit ("So-and-so would've looooved this ride, don't you think!?". You know who you are), and preliminary plans for road trips and 'training rides' leading up to next year's event.
I've had several folks tell me they may join the ride next year. I'd never in a million years suggest that someone I LIKE go on this ride - I won't take responsibility for that, or risk ending a friendship - but if you decide for yourself that you want to experience something special, something 'unreal', all the info for this marvelously run event is available here: Win the Fight: Garrett County Grand Fondo.
Enjoy every excruciating and exquisite moment! Maybe we'll see you there ...
I don't know about joining you on this ride, but I'll join you on the training rides.
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