If there's one thing a state park should do before an event, it's restock the toilet paper in the bathroom. I used to always keep a roll in my truck, and I guess I need to keep one in the hatchback. Fortunately one of the racers found a handful for a few of us to share.
The Hard Nox 50 started off on foot with a short jog to the bike. I'm not much of a runner anymore, especially in bike shoes, but I figured I had plenty of time to catch up on the bike. The first twelve miles or so were spent doing just that - rubbing tires in the singletrack and passing when it opened up. Halfway through the first lap, I'd made it to fourth. A few miles later, I was in second with third on fourth on my tail. Up until this point, I was riding extremely well. I was hauling ass and felt great. I could hear the guys behind me breathing much harder than I was. I felt sure that I could outlast them. I'm going to be optimistic and say that at that pace I could've gotten first.
But after about an hour and a half, I hit a wall. It started with a big-ass snake lying in the middle of a switchback, which broke my concentration and forced me to step off the bike. Not the best time to be putting a foot down. As I watched third and fourth pass me and suffer up the hill in misery, I thought to myself, "That doesn't look fun." I didn't really feel like chasing after them again. A series of demoralizing climbs - where the trail builders forgot what switchbacks were - further dampened my mood. I switched from race-pace to endurance-pace to finish the first lap.
I crossed the line, started the second lap, and came to realize that eating a Clif Bar when your mouth is dry is nearly impossible. I used almost half a water bottle to flush it down. A few miles into lap two, I would've sworn that this entire course was uphill. Big climbs followed by short descents; where it evens out, I still don't know. Now in seventh, I stopped at the sag halfway through to refill my water bottle and speed up my rebound for the upcoming roots - hard to say if it really helped.
I kept on cruising even though it wasn't really fun anymore. I was tired of racing and started thinking about the off season when I can focus more on fun and less on speed. It was hot when I hit the steep climbs again. I even walked one of them and was pleasantly surprised at how easy it is to push a light bike up a hill. I stopped again a few miles from the finish to refill at a water fountain. I could've made it, but I was already pretty dehydrated at that point.
I crossed the finish in seventh overall and fifth in my age group. There was a fast old guy and a really fast barely-old guy. Eventhough I did pretty well, I'm still disappointed for not riding as well as I could've. My time was even a few minutes slower than last year, but I've accepted it as the price I pay during recovery from the TNGA. Staying fuelled up for an endurance ride is easy; I can eat just about anything. But staying fuelled up to maintain race-pace is something that eludes me. You can bet I'll figure it out before next year though.
9.05.2016
9.01.2016
TNGA: Part 3
Day Four
I saw two riders come and go during the night. I woke frequently and checked the time. At 3:30am I was fairly alert after 6.5 hours of sleep. I noticed the concrete was still pretty warm even though it was late and cool out. That's when I developed the theory that there was some exothermic decomposition going on in the pit. So, my thanks go out to the people of Dalton for crapping in the pit toilet and keeping me warm through the night. Seeing as I was awake and feeling pretty good, I figured this was as good a time as any to keep on riding. I was hopeful that I might be able to finish mid-morning.
I say I was feeling good, that is, until I got back on the bike and realized that my legs were dead. It was all I could do to soft-pedal. The slightest incline would reduce me to grinding away in my granny-gear, and anything significant, I walked up. At 5:30am I got sleepy again and laid down on a gravel road for a few minutes, keeping my helmet on as a pillow. I wore down the battery on my helmet light, switched to my handlebar light, and slowly made my way through an overgrown section of The Snake. I made it to the next trailhead just as the sun was coming up.
The next two sections seemed to take forever. I stopped to eat and rest a lot. I walked up most of the hills. Every time I attempted to put out any amount of power, my legs collapsed under the burn of lactic acid, I presume from all the hike-a-biking the day before.
Eventually I made it to the ridge that led to Highway 27, where I knew there was a gas station that I desperately needed, since I was now out of water. I followed the gravel road down to the highway only to find that my GPS said I was off route. I briefly hoped it was wrong again, but I knew what the topography should look like. And I knew I was not in the right place. This was frustrating, but I made my way to the gas station to take a break. I ate a chicken sandwich, half a hamburger, drank a Sprite and half a Gatorade. I filled up my water bottle thinking that would be enough to get me to the finish, "2" hours away. It might've on a normal day but not when I'm already dehydrated and it's 95 degrees. And not when it actually takes 3 hours.
I pedalled to where the trail should've dumped me out and somehow found the will to backtrack the singletrack that I missed. It only took about 15 minutes to correct the mistake, but it was soul-crushing to pedal any extra when I already felt like I was dying.
I climbed up the last ridge, watching my GPS track closely, making sure I didn't miss another turn. Some nice singletrack put me out on the next highway. I felt like I was home free. I quickly ran out of water as I started the "Rail-Trail to Hell" in the mid-day sun. My body knew it was almost over and started shutting down prematurely. Everything started to hurt. The last few miles might've been the most painful, but I kept grinding away, knowing I was almost to Alabama. Just before drying up into dust, I reached the finish, marked by a lonely gas station and a ride waiting to go back to Mulberry Gap.
Conclusion
Am I glad I did it? Definitely. Would I do it again? Eh, maybe. I can't help but strategize about how I'd do things differently. I'd definitely like to do more bikepacking but maybe under more relaxed conditions. My body took a beating from the North Georgia mountains; I developed some slight nerve damage along the side of my right hand and in my left big toe. I can't tell if the feeling is coming back or if I'm just getting used to the numbness. On the positive side, I'm no longer afraid of the dark or long distances. I also have a new appreciation for everyday comforts like showers and beds. I feel like I can ride anywhere, anytime, and regular life seems a little bit easier. It's always about the journey.
I saw two riders come and go during the night. I woke frequently and checked the time. At 3:30am I was fairly alert after 6.5 hours of sleep. I noticed the concrete was still pretty warm even though it was late and cool out. That's when I developed the theory that there was some exothermic decomposition going on in the pit. So, my thanks go out to the people of Dalton for crapping in the pit toilet and keeping me warm through the night. Seeing as I was awake and feeling pretty good, I figured this was as good a time as any to keep on riding. I was hopeful that I might be able to finish mid-morning.
I say I was feeling good, that is, until I got back on the bike and realized that my legs were dead. It was all I could do to soft-pedal. The slightest incline would reduce me to grinding away in my granny-gear, and anything significant, I walked up. At 5:30am I got sleepy again and laid down on a gravel road for a few minutes, keeping my helmet on as a pillow. I wore down the battery on my helmet light, switched to my handlebar light, and slowly made my way through an overgrown section of The Snake. I made it to the next trailhead just as the sun was coming up.
The next two sections seemed to take forever. I stopped to eat and rest a lot. I walked up most of the hills. Every time I attempted to put out any amount of power, my legs collapsed under the burn of lactic acid, I presume from all the hike-a-biking the day before.
Eventually I made it to the ridge that led to Highway 27, where I knew there was a gas station that I desperately needed, since I was now out of water. I followed the gravel road down to the highway only to find that my GPS said I was off route. I briefly hoped it was wrong again, but I knew what the topography should look like. And I knew I was not in the right place. This was frustrating, but I made my way to the gas station to take a break. I ate a chicken sandwich, half a hamburger, drank a Sprite and half a Gatorade. I filled up my water bottle thinking that would be enough to get me to the finish, "2" hours away. It might've on a normal day but not when I'm already dehydrated and it's 95 degrees. And not when it actually takes 3 hours.
I pedalled to where the trail should've dumped me out and somehow found the will to backtrack the singletrack that I missed. It only took about 15 minutes to correct the mistake, but it was soul-crushing to pedal any extra when I already felt like I was dying.
I climbed up the last ridge, watching my GPS track closely, making sure I didn't miss another turn. Some nice singletrack put me out on the next highway. I felt like I was home free. I quickly ran out of water as I started the "Rail-Trail to Hell" in the mid-day sun. My body knew it was almost over and started shutting down prematurely. Everything started to hurt. The last few miles might've been the most painful, but I kept grinding away, knowing I was almost to Alabama. Just before drying up into dust, I reached the finish, marked by a lonely gas station and a ride waiting to go back to Mulberry Gap.
Conclusion
Am I glad I did it? Definitely. Would I do it again? Eh, maybe. I can't help but strategize about how I'd do things differently. I'd definitely like to do more bikepacking but maybe under more relaxed conditions. My body took a beating from the North Georgia mountains; I developed some slight nerve damage along the side of my right hand and in my left big toe. I can't tell if the feeling is coming back or if I'm just getting used to the numbness. On the positive side, I'm no longer afraid of the dark or long distances. I also have a new appreciation for everyday comforts like showers and beds. I feel like I can ride anywhere, anytime, and regular life seems a little bit easier. It's always about the journey.
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