The Littlest Big Race

The Littlest Big Race page 2

This article is from the excellent Dirtworld.com To read more like this go to: http://www.dirtworld.com

Article written by Elden Nelson

I didn't think about Rich for long, though (at least, not yet), because the next thing on the Brian Head Epic 100 is around eight miles of twisty, turny, sorta-techy, mostly-downhill singletrack. This is not the sort of trail you expect on a race course; this is the sort of trail you drive for a couple of hours just to ride, then whoop and holler as you alternately sprint and coast, sometimes in your big gear, sometimes in your granny, sometimes with your butt behind the saddle, sometimes with the saddle up your butt. There was about a half hour when I--no lie--forgot that I was in a race, and was just digging the ride. As I rolled through the first aid station--still had plenty of Gatorade, no need to stop--I thought, "I've got to do this trail again sometime."

Down Some More?
After the first aid station, the trail turned to a jeep road. By this I do not mean a road you could drive your Subaru Outback on. Nosirree. I mean a road you'd need a big ol' high-steppin' jeep for. Over the next ten miles or so, the trail took turns being sandy, rocky, rooty, steep uphill, steep downhill, and ledgy, with a few lava fields (imagine riding on the rim of a volcano) thrown in for good measure. These lava fields were technical enough that you had to make a decision. Slow down to a couple of miles per hour and invent a line, or get off your bike and portage. I had never ridden a lava field before and was curious what it was likes so I stayed on my bike and rode through. I even cleaned one of them. Giddyup.
Also, while the rain had not left the kind of mud that gloms onto your bike (instantly jamming the drivetrain and adding twenty pounds to your rig) it did leave a lot of standing water. Sometimes you could go around it, sometimes you had to roll on through. There were enough of these roll-through types that throughout the day, I would need to stop four times to lube my chain--and once to loan some lube to a guy who had forgotten his at the last aid station (yeah, sure he had).
I rolled on, the trees now giving me a block against the wind. Around mile 15, I caught sight of Rich. Ha! I stepped it up, caught him, and dropped him. I vowed, then and there, that no matter what else, I would at least beat him.
Then, just about the same time, Eddie--on his bright green singlespeed--caught me. I was glad for the company, though, and Eddie was a good guy to talk with. He told me that he rides his single all the time; he just doesn't care for the extra hassle and complexity of geared bikes.

"That's all well and good while we're on this massive 20-mile downhill stretch," I didn't say aloud, "but on the return trip, this fun downhill ride is going to turn into technical climbing, and you sure as hell won't be able to hang with me then. As if he had heard my dismissive thoughts, Eddie started pulling away, little by little. I didn't worry about it, knowing that I'd reel him in--and then some--on the way back. As I rode, this race was beginning to seem less and less like the Leadville 100. In the first 20 miles of the race we had already done more technical riding--and much, much more singletrack--than in Leadville. Where Leadville feels like it was designed to accomodate roadies and triathletes, the Brian Head 100 would seriously punish anyone without at least decent mountain biking skills. And I was digging how few people there were. There'd were big sections of the race where I couldn't see anybody ahead of or behind me--I was just out there alone, enjoying a big ride.
By the time I got close to the end of this big downhill, though, I was beginning to worry. A big downhill from mile 5 - 25 meant there'd be a big uphill from mile 75 - 95. And that's a lot of up, especially when the corresponding downhill is the kind you can't rest on. "Oh well," I thought, "I'll deal with it when I get there."
Toward the end of this big downhill, the road evens out and becomes fast and smooth for a couple of miles, with woop-de-doos every few hundred yards. Then, just to remind you who's boss, it turns technical and steep for a half mile or so. Here, I managed to ignore a branch just about at sleeve level. It snagged me, yanking me off my bike and onto my right side--my bike continuing on without me for thirty feet or so. I got up fast. My hip hurt, but mostly I was looking around in embarassment, hoping nobody had seen my fall.

Sweet Agony
The endless downhill finally...uh...ended, and I rolled along at a good pace for a few miles, then came to the second aid station, about thirty miles into the race.
The aid station crew was fantastic, helping me in any way possible. One filled my bottles, one cleaned my glasses (sweaty and muddy) and one grabbed some Clif bars for me. I sucked down some PowerGel, lubed my chain, and was ready to go within just a few minutes. I checked my time: I had been racing for more than 2 1/2 hours. That would be a good time, except it included most of the downhill I'd be doing that day--technical downhill just doesn't go by that fast. I did some mental math and figured the return trip on this section would take me at least four hours. In other words, nine hours was not looking very likely. A few quick ups and downs on technical singletrack (yep, more technical singletrack) led to Strawberry Point Road, a long, wide, mostly-flat dirt road I had planned to use for recovery.
It didn't work out that way.

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