The Littlest Big Race by Eldon Nelson    Back to The Littlest Big Race       Home

What do you call a road trip when nobody will go with you? The fact that I'm asking that question should be enough to tip you off that last September I couldn't persuade a single riding buddy to come with me and race the inaugural Brian Head Epic 100, a (naturally enough) 100-mile mountain bike race put on by Team Big Bear in (again, naturally enough) Brian Head, Utah. 

My friends had their reasons for not going, most stemming from one of three facts: 
1. It had been raining in Utah for a couple of weeks; a mountain century in the mud sounded like as much fun as affixing jumper cables to your nipples. 
2. Brian Head is a way-up-there ski resort on a steep mountain. When you're not descending very fast, you're climbing very slow. 
3. I am an idiot for wanting to do a 100 mile race virtually nobody will attend. 

My arguments, variations of "Come on, it'll be fun," "This'll be a good test of how strong we really are," and "I'm not that big an idiot," fell on deaf ears. Bunch of damn crybabies. 
So the day before the race, I climbed into my car and drove to Brian Head, alone. The whole trip, the only time it stopped raining was when it hailed. The only good thing about the trip so far was that--since I was alone--I could listen to my 80's music without being ridiculed. Hey, break out the Duran Duran; it's sing-along time. 
When I pulled up to the ski lodge for check in and registration, I ran into Kenny, a local endurance jock here for the race. He was looking at the sky, and he was not smiling. "This," he said, "sucks." I could see his point. It was still raining and there was a half-inch of slush on the ground. Not exactly great epic racing conditions. 
"I'm not doing this," said Kenny. "I've asked for my money back; I'm going to go ride Gooseberry (an outstanding ride outside of St. George, UT) tomorow instead. You can come along if you want." Now, Kenny can clean my clock on any endurance event--if he didn't think the course was do-able, what chance did I have? I should just go do the fun ride. 
"Nah, I think I'll give the race a try anyway," I said. Have I mentioned that I am an idiot? 

The Night Before 
Any 100-mile mountain bike race is going to draw comparisons with the Leadville 100, the most famous mountain century of them all. And the Brian Head Epic 100 is clearly patterned on the Leadville race, right down to the way it kicks off the night before with a pasta dinner. There was a big difference, though: at the Leadville Trail 100, there are hundreds and hundreds of people; at the Brian Head feed, on the other hand there were just about forty, twenty of us there to do the actual race. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who had trouble convincing others to come. 
If you're a big-shot racer, the small group at this race probably would have bothered you--where's the competition? For me, it just meant my first--and probably only--chance at a top-twenty finish. 
I sat myself down across from a guy from Boulder. His name was Eddie, and he was planning to do the race on his Bianchi BOSS--a single speed, for the love of Mike. "Have you taken a look at the elevation profile?" I asked. This ride is straight up and down, and I figured I wouldn't want to be around Eddie when his knees exploded, sending cartilage shrapnel in every direction. 
Eddie did not seem concerned. 
"Well, do you have any goals for a finishing time?" I asked. You see, I wasn't really interested in how Eddie hoped to do in the race; I just wanted him to ask me how I hoped to do, so I could tell him that I hoped to finish in under nine hours, thereby earning the Silver Chalice award (another nod to the Leadville 100, where those who finish under nine hours win a huge rodeo belt buckle). "No, not really," said Eddie. "I just want to get across the finish line." I mentally crossed Eddie off my list of people to worry about beating me. 
After dinner, Tom, one of the Team Big Bear guys, stood up and told us what we needed to know: "Expect it to be windy and cold. There's considerable mud on the course. We plan, though, to do the race no matter what. See you tomorrow at 7:00am." 
Swell.

Big Up, Big Down 
Durning the night, a strong wind kicked up, magically blowing all the clouds away. Saturday dawned bright and clear...and windy as hell. As soon as I stepped out of the hotel, I realized I had made some dressing errors and quickly pulled a pair of tights over my knickers and a long sleeve jersey over my short sleeve jersey and arm warmers. That's all I had brought, so it'd have to do. 
One cool thing about having only twenty or so people in a race is that the event can be downright homey. As the racers stood around the start/finish line, Tom did a headcount and took a few group photos. 7:00 came and went, but not everyone was there, so we waited a few minutes. Tom then shouted "Go!" (hey, a starting gun would've awakened the locals) and we rolled off. 
The first three miles of the race were on some steep-ass pavement. Wanting to generate some body heat before I went hypothermic, I dialed up a big gear and started mashing hard. This had an amazing effect: for the first time in my racing life, I was up front. Yes, I led the race...for a whopping 45 seconds. Then the guys who are fast for real flew by, leaving me in fourth or fifth place. 
Next, we turned on to a wide dirt road...and kept climbing. The wind was blowing hard, but I was feeling good, thinking about the fact that climbing the first five miles of this modified-out-and-back course meant that the final five miles would be descending. 
Riding on this wide road, a few of us took a moment to get to introduce ourselves. One guy essentially said "Hi, I'm Rich and I do adventure races," and then proceeded to hide from the wind by sucking my rear wheel. 
Now, I'm all for working together on these big rides; it improves everybody's chances of finishing. So, after I had pulled for a minute or so, I veered to the left, Rich's cue to continue on straight and let me tuck in behind him for a minute. No dice. Rich stayed right behind me. OK, maybe he just didn't get the hint. I pulled a minute more and veered right. Again, he stayed on my wheel. 
The wind was getting fierce now, and I was tired of doing all the work. I turned around and said, "Hey, be a pal; take a turn pulling." Rich grunted and sucked wheel. 
And so it went until we reached Brian Head Peak, where the wind was so fierce and cold it nearly brought me to a dead stop. Five miles into the race, and I was cooked. We then turned around and headed downhill, with the wind. Rich took this opportunity to pass me. I daresay I didn't think many nice thoughts about Rich the rest of the day. 
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 for 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. 
The headwind on this road was a brute. I took it personally--this wasn't just wind, this was wind from hell, sent by Satan himself just to piss me off. It worked. 
Obviously, I wasn't entirely rational anymore. 
Then, right at mile forty, a volunteer pointed me off the road and onto the Virgin River Rim Trail. Now, before I recount my experience on this section of the course, let me first say that this may be some of the nicest singletrack I have ever seen. It twists. It turns. It climbs and drops and switches back. You're in the trees on packed, smooth soil. It has views of cliffs (the Vermillion Castles) and mountains that just about knocked me off my bike. I will absolutely positively go back and ride this trail--and I understand that there's miles and miles of this primo stuff--when I can enjoy it. 
Okay, with that out of the way, I can now say that during the race, this section of trail punished me in a way I have never encountered on a bike. There was steep, blood-spurting-out-your-ears granny gear climbing, and lots of it. The descents that followed never seemed to last very long, and they were hard enough that you couldn't recover anyway. So I started compiling a list of very mean things I would say to the organizers when I finished this race. I would lead off with "I hate you." I'd then follow up with, "I hate this course." I'd probably then continue on with, "I hate you a lot ," just to underscore my original point. 
The only solace I could take was that the difficulty of the climbing here meant that I'd have to be catching Eddie soon. I mean, after all, if I was granny-gearing, he must be off his bike and walking, right? For some reason, though, he managed to stay ahead. Oh well, just a matter of time. 
The third aid station came at the fifty-mile mark, and brought--hallelujah--a gentle two-mile downhill, mild enough that I could eat a sandwich while riding. This was followed by about six miles of uphill, as if the organizers were saying, "Don't think we're going soft on you, bub." A couple of miles of fast downhill dumped me back onto Strawberry Point Road. I was exhausted and had forty miles--most uphill--left to go. 

Please Just Kill Me 
I had been churning on the Strawberry Point Road for maybe fifteen minutes--feeling like I was going at a damn fine pace--when I heard someone come behind me. This was the first racer I had encountered in more than half an hour, so I was looking forward to having someone to talk with. 
"You hanging in there?" Rich asked. 
Rich. Damn it. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lied. Rich pulled ahead like he was fresh as a daisy. Or something like that. I tried to pace him, but just couldn't do it. So much for my vow. 
Over the next few miles, three more people passed me, seemingly without effort. I, on the other hand, was in a world of pain. Evidently, I should've paid more attention to the "endurance" aspect of "endurance race." 
The fourth aid station came and went, leaving me with thirty miles go go, two-thirds of it uphill and often technical. 
Miles 75 - 95 of the Brian Head Epic 100 will always stick in my head as the hardest thing I've ever done. The only relief I got from the steep, technical climbs was less-steep, less-technical climbs. 
As a bonus, my left knee started aching sharply. Then I slipped on a wet root going down one of the rare downhill pitches, and fell on my right hip, again. This time it hurt like hell, but I just laughed. This, I thought, would complement the pain in my left knee nicely. 
And so began my new Cadence Mantra of Pain. As I pushed down with my left foot I'd grunt "knee." Then down with my right foot: "hip." Knee-hip-knee-hip-knee-hip. Oh, what fun. 
Another guy caught up to me, but didn't seem in a hurry to pass. We rode together for a while. I asked him if he'd ever done a 100-mile race before. He hadn't. I told him he'd picked a lulu as a first. We talked for a few more minutes, then he rode away, leaving me to grunt "knee, hip, knee, hip" to myself again. 
8 1/2 hours had gone by. As I rode, sometimes as slow as 4mph, I kept doing the math, trying to figure out when I'd finally cross the finish line. My estimates kept getting later and later. Ten hours seemed about right at one point. Then, as the road kept getting steeper, I switched to eleven. At one point I even considered the possibility that I wouldn't finish the race by the twelve-hour cutoff. I kept sucking down Powergel and hoped for the best. 

Final Push 
Amazingly, I made it to the last aid station, meaning I had just eight more miles of climbing to go, followed by five miles of fast downhill coasting to the finish line. I rode with another guy for a big chunk of this section, both of us agreeing that if we survived this, neither of us would ever ride another bike again. 
As I turned onto the final 3-mile section of singletrack, a blast of wind hit me, bringing me to a dead stop before I downshifted and managed to s-l-o-w-l-y start turning the cranks again. Up there above the treeline, exposed and cold with the mother of all headwinds, I checked my speedometer: 3mph. That, my friends, is not fast. 
It was fast enough, though, that I managed to pass a couple of other guys and--finally--struggle to the top of the Brian Head Peak. That's mile 95, and it's all downhill to the finish line. I was so happy I started to cry. Yes, I'm a man and I started to cry. Wanna make something of it? 
Thinking back, I realize how clever those wily Team Big Bear guys are in organizing the course the way they did. Make a race incredibly punishing, but make the final few minutes of it a cinch, so you have a little while to recover and roll across the line happy. Coasting at 45mph, I forgot all the nasty things I had to say about the promoters and instead thought about the fact that I had successfully ridden a race an order of magnitude harder than anything I had ever done before. So after I rolled across the finish line and Dave of Team Big Bear popped the cork on a champagne bottle for me (as he did for each finisher) and gave me a finisher's jersey, I sat down in the gravel and said, "You bastards. That's one hell of a race." In fact, Team Big Bear has created a course that makes the Leadville 100 look like a sissy ride. 

Afterward 
I hung around the finish line until everyone came across, cheering them on and helping myself to the barbecue Team Big Bear was serving up. I found Eddie and asked how he did. "Oh, I did okay," he said. 
"Okay?" someone shouted. "He placed second!" Yup, Eddie on his singlespeed caught fire after the first aid station and just flew the rest of the race, one of only three people to finish under nine hours. 8:30, in fact. 
I also confronted Rich, who explained why he rode my wheel up to Brian Head Peak at the beginning of the race. It turns out that he wanted to pull, but just didn't have the juice; he had spent a big chunk of the previous night fixing a mechanical and hadn't had much time for sleep... or even for breakfast that morning. In the second half of the race he started feeling better and really pulled things together, finishing first in our class (Men 30-39). 
So I guess I spent the entire race pissed at a very nice guy--the guy, in fact, who designed the cool jersey I had just been handed. 
Which means, of course, that I'm the one who's really a jerk. Figures. 
As for me, I finished in 10:33, which was good enough for third place in the Men 30-39 group. Sure, there were only nine of us in the category. 
But I ain't giving up the medal. 

Elden Nelson lives and rides in Utah County, UT, where he has out-the-door access to singletrack the likes of which you would expect to see if Moab and Boulder had a love child. Elden will be racing the Brian Head Epic 100, Cascade Creampuff 100, and Leadville 100 this year, so if you see him, please pick him up and put him back on his bike.
20:03 28/03/01