Noble Chiropractic: A Journey to Personal Best (and Beyond)

               I’m pretty confident the first time I went to Dr. Steve Noble’s office his exact words were “You have room for improvement.” Which in the moment felt less-than-amazing, but in hindsight it was better for everyone involved. I first met Dr. Noble in the Fall of 2019, when I was fresh off a semi-disappointing mountain bike race season where nothing seemed to click; results were just not consistent, my headspace was all over the board, and I was struggling with the question of whether or not to continue dedicating my life to the sport. We planned to reconvene soon thereafter for an introductory power test and some work following.

               Eventually December rolled around, and it was time to start thinking about training for the 2020 season. Re-motivated and ready to put in the work again, it was to the room at Noble Chiropractic that I would become so familiar with in the coming months. That first day we did a test of Functional Threshold Power (FTP), which is a measurement of maximal sustained effort an athlete can produce. Paired with weight you get a power to weight ratio, which is basically the be-all-end-all number for cyclists. After a warmup and 20 minutes of full-on suffering the numbers were in, and not exactly what I had hoped for. All said and done I came out with an FTP of 275 and a power/weight of 4.36… A respectable amount, but as Dr. Noble had mentioned earlier: room for improvement.

               Maybe the most abrupt improvement I ever saw with Dr. Noble was directly following that initial power test. After sitting on the ground and recovering for a minute, Dr. Noble went to work with his magic. Focusing largely on my exhausted legs he slowly began correcting imbalances left and right, up and down, and really all over the place. Immediately things began to feel… different. It’s hard to describe, but there’s a sense of stability, control, and untapped power that was hidden somewhere in my fatigued body. So naturally, it was time for a test. A simple box was setup and we proceeded with some assessments of agility and stability: running back and forth while stepping up and over the box, and single leg dips. Probably the most incredible fact was that I could complete the tests with tired legs, but even more so was that I could keep improving. After every round Dr. Noble would correct something else, then my reaction time would once again improve, and my knee would be far more stable throughout the dips. Set after set we kept going, and even though I felt physically drained, there always seemed to be an ability to go again, do better, and keep improving. It was exciting to see such quick results, but also a bit frustrating that all this potential was locked away somewhere in me this whole time. I left that session feeling excited, motivated, and couldn’t wait to get back in the lab.

               For the next few weeks Dr. Noble and I worked together every week; slowly correcting imbalances, removing energy blocks, and improving my headspace. Immediately I noticed a shift throughout my everyday life, primarily during training applications. During this time of the year, I was transitioning through the offseason and into base miles in preparation for the coming race season. Whether it was better control and precision while trail running, a feeling of consistency throughout four plus-hour rides, or stability in the gym, there was an overall sense of improvement in training. I could feel my baseline slowly rising with each session, and therefore the upper limit of my abilities was also growing. These newfound physical abilities also had the secondary impact on my overall confidence… and this may have been the biggest change I noticed throughout this whole experience.

One primary example of increased confidence came through mountain biking: especially while descending. I have always been a bit timid during fast descents, especially after crashing hard and snapping all the tendons in my thumb a few years ago. As with a company car, there seemed to be a limiter buried deep within my mind causing me to reflexively slow down when the speeds became too high. This was incredibly frustrating, and I had begun to go down the rabbit hole of subconsciously believing I wasn’t a good descender, and therefore limiting myself throughout training and racing. An old saying in XC racing is “Races are won on the climbs and lost on the descents” and I was losing more races that I was winning… obviously something needed to change. I found this change while working with Dr. Noble.

Going downhill on a cross-country mountain bike is an exhilarating (and often terrifying) experience… and I wouldn’t be surprised if this raw feeling of speed and adrenaline is what brought many of us to the sport in the first place. Making split-second decisions about line choice, minute adjustments to body positioning, feeling the traction of tires play along the ground surface, and supplementing the bike’s suspension with your own body movement is an addicting feeling… the rush of dopamine and endorphins is enough to power anyone back up the hill for another lap. However, there’s a fine line between control and lack thereof while going fast, and it’s necessary to tiptoe around that line to push your own skills and abilities. Constantly pushing the envelope of your comfort zone is the only way to improve… and that’s hard when a lack of confidence in oneself limits this comfort zone and the willingness to explore its boundaries. I found myself doubting my own abilities, doubting the capability of my equipment, and overall doubting my development as an athlete. Slowly but surely that all changed after weeks of working with Dr. Noble. It sounds cliché, but after sessions working on agility, reaction speed, and muscle activation, time just seemed to slow down during technical mountain bike descents. It felt as though I had more time to prepare for whatever the track threw my way, and could deftly maneuver around, over, and through the countless roots, rocks, and turns throughout the trails. Initially it felt awkward, as if I was getting slower. Looking back at the data though it was clear I was going faster, in fact much faster than before. Soon I was able to understand my newfound abilities of slowing down time and began to use it to push the limits of my own technical skill. Descending changed from a tense, semi-frightening experience to something almost meditative… experiencing everything around and inside me with crystal-clear detail. I could see the trail and choose the best line, hear my heartbeat and synchronize it with my breathing; I could simply feel my body work in harmony with the motion of the bike. People talk about the feeling of flow, and if it’s anything… it’s this: a feeling of effortlessness and pinpoint accuracy. Bliss, really.

I came back in for a follow up FTP test seven weeks later. Instantly I could tell things were different. I had set a goal to maintain 300 watts throughout the test, but soon realized I was far more capable than I initially imagined. Throwing a bit of caution to the wind, I dialed up the intensity to 320 and sat at what would’ve been a completely unattainable power number only a few days prior. Coming to the end of the 20-minute test I realized there was still some matches left to burn, and with one minute left to go I ratcheted things up once more. After the numbers were done, it was a 19% increase from my original number… an incredible improvement. Normal month-long FTP increases at my age are typically in the 1% to maybe the 5% range, anything in the double digits is relatively unheard of. I was amazed, and since I took the first part of the test relatively easy and finished with gas left in the tank… well that number could only go up. And that was all the motivation I needed.

 

Just when the 2020 racing season was about to begin, the world ground to an abrupt halt. Events were cancelled, plans modified, and athletes around the globe struggled with what the uncertainty of the coming summer. As with everyone else, covid tore up my racing calendar and tossed the scraps into an unintelligible heap. With no racing to plan for, it was time to pivot towards a new trajectory. Rather than becoming depressed about the lack of racing, the year at home provided an opportunity to focus 110% on quality training and using the extended period of uninterrupted time to hone my skills and become as fast as possible… basically the perfect time to be working with Dr. Noble. Although there was a quick break in our sessions due to covid safety, we stayed regular in my visits to the lab, and the improvements to my training continued. Then I broke my shoulder.

A simple mistake, a split second loss of focus, and I was on the ground; landing on top of my outstretched arm. After a trip to the MRI it was revealed that I had fractured my humorous bone right at the shoulder socket… luckily no surgery was required though. I was initially told that recovery times would be anywhere from 10 to 16 weeks, which would’ve effectively meant the end of the summer season. Luckily I had an ace up my sleeve: consistent work with Dr. Noble meant I was back on the road bike in two days and I was mountain biking within one month; an absolutely incredible recovery time confirming just how vital my work with Dr. Noble has been. With the short setback put behind us, it was back to work.

The 2020 season wrapped up with a final power test, where I scored a whopping 25% improvement from my initial assessment. Within one year of working with Dr. Noble, I had improved my FTP 87 points and my power to weight ratio had gone from 4.36 to 5.75 watts/kilogram: an increase all but unheard of for a relatively trained athlete. All this with no racing motivation and a broken shoulder… I couldn’t make this stuff up.

 

               Needless to say, when the 2021 season began to take form I was incredibly excited to test out the new body, skills, and mindset I had acquired throughout the last year. Winter training had gone well, and I had been able to get a solid few months of base miles under my belt, and was feeling strong going into the first couple races of the year. My season started out with some local xc races leading up to two major pro xc events. The local events were a first test of the legs, which showed up with incredible form: I was able to walk away with a couple confidence-boosting wins. Going into the first few major races the nerves were expectedly present, and I had no idea what to expect tossing my hat in with the biggest names in US mountain bike racing. True to form, I started out tentatively and tried to test the waters. No doubt this was the wrong approach. A conservative start means fighting through the main bulk of the pack while those who made the lead group power on unencumbered by traffic. Even with my approach, I was able to walk away from the events sitting in the top third, a result that was undoubtedly impossible in years prior. The season ticked on and races came and went with a surprising regularity in results: top of the podium at the regional events and just behind the big dogs at the national races. A solid third-place result at High Cascades 100 capped off the main season, and proved to myself that the training I’d completed was paying off. Then I got the call to participate in BC Bike Race.

               BC Bike Race is a seven-day mountain bike stage race set in Penticton, Canada, and draws the who’s who of endurance athletes from around the country, and even the world. This event had been on my bucket list for years now, and I knew it was my opportunity to make a splash… so the rest of the summer was dedicated to being completely prepared for BCBR in October. Preparedness meant straight back to work with Dr. Noble, this time focusing on the mental aspect of my racing. Confidence would be key for the event, where throwing punches at the front of the pack was necessary for any kind of overall placement. Dr. Noble continued to work his magic, and we tuned my mental sharpness with a specific focus on prime performance at BCBR. With all the preparations completed, it was time to once and for all prove I belonged at the sharp end of the race. I had seven days to do so, seven chances to make my mark, and one overall result to show my worth. All or nothing, all in.

               The ever-present nervous excitement surrounded stage one of BCBR. The field was stacked with some heavy hitters and as always, I was feeling slightly out of place. I’m pretty sure my heart rate was skyrocketing just lining up next to some of the best in North America. Throughout the neutral roll out I was doing everything withing my power to maintain an outward sense of calm, as the group moved ever closer to the timing start mat. Once we hit the true start to the stage the fireworks went off; all the big names put down the power and made it clear who was in contention for the overall… and I found myself on their wheels. Digging deep to follow the leaders up the first climb my confidence and sense of belonging rose with each pedal rotation. Eventually the sharp attacks started and I backed off, knowing it would be a suicidal idea to burn too many matches this early in the week. I settled into my own rhythm and rode a solid remainder of the day solo. Due to some mechanicals with the riders ahead, I crossed the line in 5^th overall, a result I never could’ve imagined only two hours earlier… and this result was exactly what I needed: a confirmation that I belonged throwing punches at the front of the race. It was as if an entire season of yo-yoing off the leaders in big races, while simultaneously riding away from the group at local events was finally coming together. I felt strong, confident, and at long last the fleeting feeling of self-efficacy was growing… all due in no small part to the help from Dr. Noble.

               Throughout the remainder of the week, results were predictable, which suited me just fine. A lead group of about eight would establish itself early, and then the world cup riders would go off the front, leaving us five remaining to have our own separate race. I moved around slightly in the overall, dropping back to seventh, then up to sixth, and coming into the last day was 45 seconds behind the rider in fifth. We had become friends throughout the week, but at the end of the day we were both there for the same reason: performance. The fifth place spot at BCBR is a coveted result, a sign that you were gunning for the top positions, and have undoubted potential. (In all honesty, sixth place has the same meaning but going ‘top five’ just has a special ring to it.) With exhausted legs, we all rolled up to the final day knowing there was one more chance to empty the tank. Personally, I knew I had a few matches left to burn, but I knew they were in short supply and hoped I’d have enough to get me across the finish line. Once the gun went off, I turned the dial to eleven. Matt (the rider in fifth overall) stuck to my wheel like glue, and we traded attacks throughout the first hour of the stage. I was hurting, but could tell he was hurting just the same. My mind flashed back to sessions with Dr. Noble where we worked on mental fortitude, fostering the idea that this pain was only a figment of my imagination, and I could push through and surprise even myself. So that’s just what I did. I knew I was slightly stronger on the steep sections, so every time the trail pitched up I attacked, doing everything possible to break the elastic between myself and Matt. Again and again he matched my accelerations, sticking to my rear wheel as if there was a static rope holding us together. Finally I surged, and noticed he was all of a sudden a bike length behind me, an uncharacteristic sign of struggle. Immediately he was back, but at that point I had the taste of blood… it was go time. Throwing off the pain in my legs I doubled down and put every available watt I had into the pedals, surging up the hill as if the finish line was only a few meters away. Three minutes later I eased up slightly, knowing that was the hardest interval I had done in recent times… and Matt was nowhere to be seen. Even with the small burst of confidence, the race was far from over; Matt is an incredible descender and had made up almost 30 seconds on me during a previous stage. Additionally, the unforgiving terrain had already claimed many tires and punctures were a constant threat. I settled into a hard tempo and pushed my exhausted legs to the summit of the final climb; all I had to do now was ride the best descent of my life, avoid crashing, make up a minute, and I’d have landed myself in fifth place at BCBR… easier said than done while riding exhausted and on brand new trails. But I knew I had two things going for me: I trusted my training, and I wanted it… bad. So I turned the suspension fully open, took a deep breath, and charged towards the finish line.

               When the dust settled, I had done enough to push myself into fifth overall. Needless to say, I was elated; it was a perfect way to finish off a season filled with ups and downs, but BCBR provided the boost of confidence needed to charge headfirst into next season. Success breeds success and I know the sky’s the limit from here on, and I can’t thank Dr. Noble enough for his continued support. Dr. Noble has been an invaluable help with the overall physical work, making sure my speed, agility, and power were all optimized, as well as tuning my mental game, enhancing the muscle between my ears to perform at the highest level, no matter the circumstances. I guess the moral of the story is that we all have the hidden potential buried deep within us… and it just takes the careful and knowledgeable hand of a mentor to help unlock our inner best. For me, I always loved training, racing, and the life that comes with, but was never able to break through the ‘mid-pack’ barrier… always doubting my own abilities, second guessing my choices, and not realizing my full potential. With Dr. Noble’s help and unique practice, I was able to realize my physical capabilities of speed, power, and agility; as well as optimize my mental game. The mind-body connection is a beautiful thing, and aligning the two unlocks the untapped human performance that’s possible… and that’s exactly what Dr. Noble has helped me do. I can’t wait to continue working with him and am so excited for what the future has in store.

The Hardest Part About Putting Your Feet Up

              Sometimes the world decides it’s time for us to take a few rest days. Whether it’s divine intervention or a random visit from lady (bad)luck, there are times where forces beyond your control keep you from the regular day to day. When you’re like me and the regular day to day monotony is comforting and just so happens to include your passion… well, it gets really hard to adjust to the new normal, even if it is the correct (and often only) thing to do.

               Basically, I got some sort of Staph Infection and had to take a few days of required rest off the bike and away from regular training.  For someone as obsessed with numbers and consistency as I am, missing a few scheduled training days is akin to shooting myself in the foot, which honestly would’ve produced a similar result to the infection. Quick backstory for context… for a long while I’ve had two bone spurs hanging out on the top of my feet, a nice result of having incredibly flat feet and spending too much time in tight shoes. Last week my left foot randomly swelled up around the spur, turned bright red, and decided it was going to cause excruciating pain. Thinking that I was paying the price for not getting my sad feet looked at by a professional, my initial assessment of the pain was that I had a stress fracture or something… I guess my midday walk to the coffee shop was decently quick for someone who doesn’t like walking, but I didn’t jump off any stairs or anything. Turns out I’m still a dumbass and stress fractures don’t swell and turn red; that’s called an infection. Long story short I have a staph infection which decided to cause my foot to go full balloon mode and provide me with a couple horrible nights (I’ll spare you details from the midnight bathroom episodes).

               Thankfully I’ve got an ace in my pocket, and Dr. Steve Noble was once again able to come to my rescue. Providing some antibacterial medicine, energy work, and some needed words of comfort, Dr. Noble got me back on my feet (ha) in no time and saved the day… yet again. Being on the mends, however, does not mean it’s a good idea to jump directly back into training, and there was no way I was fitting my still-swollen elephant foot back inside a dainty little cycling shoe. So… it was couch time for Payson. If you’ve ever spent time with me, you probably know how good I am at resting. Here’s a hint: I’m terrible. Recently I’ve gotten better, but sometimes even taking a rest day sometimes feels like a step backwards. When I’m required to take a full four days off, well, that feels like I’m plunging into an un-recoverable hole.

               At this point, you may say that I’m being unreasonable, and that taking a few days completely off to let your body recover from a decently gnarly virus is the smart thing to do, and resting is most likely actually helping you get faster. And yes, you’d be right. But I’ve never been one for reason, and when you put my slightly obsessive character trait on top you’ve got a recipe for disaster. So yes, it’s absolutely the smart option to take a few days off, and I’m going to do it… but let me tell you… goddamn it's hard. For two main reasons:

               Reason one. When your life is dedicated to training and racing, two specific mantras come to define your life: FTFP and HTFU. FTFP stands for Follow The Fucking Plan, which is pretty straightforward in its general meaning. When you’re looking ahead at a full season of racing, it’s important to look at the big picture, and understand that the only way to get faster is to trust your coach, your plan, and yourself. It’s hard to improve in one day, but stick with it and soon enough that one day turns into two, then a week, then a month, then three months, and all of a sudden you’re flying. It’s not one workout that’ll make you quicker, but rather the collection and combination of months of dedicated workouts that all add up to real performance gains. So, when something happens and suddenly you have to stray from the regimented plan of training and recovering, everything gets thrown out of whack and any OCD athlete such as myself begins to panic. On a similar note, HTFU stands for Harden The Fuck Up, which is also decently self-explanatory. Sometimes training sucks… racing at a professional level is a job after all, and nobody has only perfect days at their job. There are days where the weather is doing everything in its power to dissuade you from going outside, or sometimes you have to wake up at an ungodly hour to get in the required training hours. Times like these it’s necessary to HTFU and just buckle down and get the work done. I’m fully aware that having a dangerous virus coursing through my body is definitely not a time when Hardening Up is a solid choice, but when putting your head down and pushing forward been a defining part of your life for basically every scenario… it becomes hard to turn that switch off. As dedicated athletes or simply motivated individuals, it’s easy to think that we can mentally will our way through anything, and that taking a step back to actually take care of ourself is a sign of weakness. Which when you think about it… is the absolute worst thing to do, but for some reason I seem to be hardwired for self-destruction in the name of progression.

               Reason two. There’s a sinister downside to defining yourself as an ‘athlete.’ When you make training and athletics defining qualities of your character, it’s shattering when you get sidelined from training and athletics. Again, I know this sounds crazy, and it is… but it’s worth talking about and bringing up, because I think it affects more people than just myself. Right or wrong, I classify myself as an athlete to the core. I love training, pushing my limits, and the continuous improvement which accompanies dedication. Obviously, this has benefits and it’s important to have a healthy self-image of who you are and what you want to be. But we’re multifaceted beings, with many different aspects to life and have many different roles. It becomes insidiously dangerous when a single self-image begins to dominate all others, as this sole identity begins to take hold of all your self-concept. If this one defining aspect of your life is suddenly removed, put on hold, or even just altered… it can have outsized and overwhelming effects. It was explained perfectly by Simon Marshall in “The Brave Athlete.” The concept of a self-schema includes the thoughts and beliefs that people have about themselves as a something-or-other (in this case, as an athlete). This self-schema then builds into your personal identity, which in turn creates your overall self-concept. There are many different identities we have throughout our lives (athlete, student, partner, employee, etc…) and each of these influence others. We also give individual identities more worth than others, which in turn gives them a more outsized role on our overall self-concept. For example, I believe that my athletic identity is more important than my identity as an employee (don’t tell my manager), so how I perform in the athletic sphere has more of an effect on my overall self-concept.

This is all fine and healthy, as we all have different ideas and thoughts about the hierarchy of things throughout our lives. Things become dicey when one specific identity begins to become the sole influencer of our general self-concept. Therefore, if I believe that I’m defined by my athletic identity, I assume that to be a successful person in all aspects of life I need to be performing well (or even just performing) as an athlete. It’s irrational, yes, but my brain has proved it’s anything but rational at times. So even if life is otherwise great, poor performance or lack thereof in the one thing that I put too much priority on can wreak havoc in ALL unrelated aspects of my life. Simply put; when I believe I’m defined as an athlete and then can’t perform as an athlete… it has an outsized and negative effect on the other (usually unrelated) aspects of my overall life. And there’s the problem I’ve been wrestling with the past few days: I understand that allowing my athletic self-identity to encompass too large an influence on my overall self-concept is unhealthy and potentially self-destructive, but I simultaneously have lofty goals for myself… and achieving these goals require a level of commitment that is borderline unhealthy. So, is it worth the risk?

For me, and at this stage of my life… I believe it is. Ten years down the road, maybe not. But hell, I don’t even know what I’m having for breakfast tomorrow, so trying to plan even a year in advance often seems to be an exercise in futility. Maybe I’m kicking the ball down the road for future Payson to deal with, but I know that right now I’m dedicated to exploring how far I can travel down this path. It seems like the proverbial warning of eggs all in one basket, but I’ve never been one to heed warning signs too well… which brings us full circle to how I found myself in this situation in the first place. So, you can probably take my words as someone having an illogical argument with themselves and shake your head at my unwillingness to actually learn from my mistakes. Some things never change.

The Simple Pleasures (Type Two… ) of Riding in Winter

           

            Riding bicycles of all kinds is an incredible experience, there’s no doubting that fact. Especially in the summer, when daylight takes up the majority of our 24 hours, going outside in shorts is the norm, and flip flops are basically mandatory. It’s easy to get out for a ride in warm weather with the sun cheerfully shining down. The winter months here in the PNW are a different story. We’re fortunate enough to have the ability to ‘ride all year,’ but riding through the daylight-starved months is definitely not for the faint of heart.  It’s far harder to get motivated to face the driving rain and plastering mud. Only those dedicated or crazy enough willingly seek out frozen fingers, numb toes, the reality of cleaning equipment daily and far too many loads of laundry.

               But underneath the misery there’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with riding year-round. Having the commitment to continue practicing a sport through thick and thin, rain or shine, mud or dry, brings about a sense of the sport’s intricacies akin to no other. Learning how to corner through a puddle, discovering the best ways to keep proper circulation through hands and toes, or experiencing the dull taste of iron after a hard effort provides a whole new appreciation for riding a bicycle.

               I’m not sitting here saying everyone needs to willingly suffer to enjoy riding; not at all. To be completely honest, I can’t really recommend that everyone goes out and spends four hours in 35 degree rain, only to come home and sit on the floor in a fetal position fighting off the agony of reperfusion… it’s quite unenjoyable. If the goal is to get more people on bikes, then let’s make riding a pleasant experience full of sunshine and smiles. And if that what the sport means to you… that’s perfect. Hell, if I had the opportunity to never ride in leg warmers again I’d happily jump on board.

               All I’m saying is that there’s a feeling of accomplishment when you get home with a splatter-painted face of mud, when there’s a trail of wet clothes leading towards the shower, and when a cup of anything warm is the most incredible thing in the world. A smile is a smile, no matter whose face it occupies or whether or not said face is too frozen to actually form a smile… and there’s not many better ways to bring smiles to faces than riding a bicy
cle. Plus, when the sun finally breaks through the clouds and the elusive summer begins to creep over the horizon, when you can arrive home at 7:30 with ample daylight to spare… those hours spent riding in shorts and sun lenses are pure paradise.

A Few Thoughts on Social Media

               A few days ago, Geoff Kabush put out an Instagram post talking about how the general course of sponsorships has changed in the past few years. In a nutshell, there’s been a shifting of the athlete/influencer scale towards having a strong following on social media and away from the simplicity of results. Yes, results do and (hopefully) always will matter, but Geoff is arguing the point that there should be a pathway into professional cycling without having to be an influencer across social media, one in which race results and sheer competition speak as loudly as how many likes one received on Instagram. He goes on to mention how the constant demands and struggles of social media can create a barrier to get into the sport, push athletes closer towards burnout, and ultimately steer people away from the competitive aspect of the sport.

               As a generally introverted person who admittedly shies away from cycling’s social media obsession, the fact that a seasoned veteran in the sport spoke up about this issue struck a chord with me. As a preface, I’ll admit that having a large following, active social media account, and overall extroverted personality is obviously a benefit to sponsors, who are often just looking to use athletes as billboards to promote their products. I can see how between two otherwise equally talented riders, it makes perfect sense to go with the one who is reaching more people… that’s marketing 101. On the other hand, coming from a position where I don’t want to spend all of my excess energy creating social content I would love to argue the point of the rider who focuses solely on being a professional athlete: someone who makes sacrifices and does everything necessary to ensure their body and mind are the fastest and most efficient machines possible.

 I want to be partnered with a company that recognizes this work ethic and is happy representing me because of what I personally represent. I don’t want to feel as though I need to be a marketing agent for a company as well as an athlete. Maybe that’s why I’ve been a privateer as long as I have, going forward on a bike I bought with my own money, showing no sponsors on my jersey, and funding the season from my own wallet. Maybe it’s idealistic, but is it possible that a company could see the potential benefit from sponsoring the no-name kid who shows up, gets a solid result, and immediately goes back to the grindstone to be that much better tomorrow? Maybe… that’s my brand, and I need to represent that over social media… but would (and should) that be attractive to a company?  I’m truthfully asking these questions because I don’t know the answer, and would love to start a conversation about where professional aspect of this sport is going.

               Personally, I am on Instagram, albeit with a measly following of a couple hundred people. I do enjoy putting content out into the void, usually talking about a certain race event, travel experience, or general quip about life. It’s fun keeping up with friends, seeing what’s going on throughout the world, and going down the rabbit hole of dumb cat videos. To me, social media is an addition to my career as a professional cyclist; not a requirement. What’s more, this mindset has undoubtedly cost me sponsorships. Is it fair? No. Is life fair? No. Is one argument to my bellyaching to simply “suck it up” as part of the job? Definitely. But… what’s to say I shouldn’t be rewarded and noticed by potential sponsors for solely focusing on putting in the work to ensure my physical and mental abilities are as sharp as possible? Everyone has a limited amount of energy at their disposal, and everything we do saps that energy store. Even if we’re having a great time and completely enjoying the activity, there’s a little battery icon dwindling down within us. Am I any less of a professional for devoting more energy towards training, and less towards creating content for the social media void?

               Again, I understand I’m coming at this argument from a biased point of view. But I believe it is an important point of view. Introverted people are less likely to be as outspoken in everyday life as on social media, so in general their arguments are less likely to be heard. Also, I understand that there is a large population who genuinely enjoy creating content, as much as I enjoy training; so of course there is a place and a need for people to express creativity into the world… all I’m saying is that I hope there’s still a path into the ranks of “professional” (whatever the hell that actually means) for someone such as myself: the people who are more focused on training, racing, and improvement in real life rather than throughout social media. There’s also the possibility that marketing yourself and creating a personal brand is the only way to attract the attention of sponsors. I hope that’s not the case but if so… so it goes.

               We could go deep into the weeds on more of my thoughts regarding sponsorships, and how getting the short end of the stick because of my general life situation has almost caused me to step away from professional cycling multiple times, but that’s a thorny topic for another day. I truly hope there is a place in professional cycling that allows for the recognition of riders who dedicate themselves to numbers, results, and the daily grind, rather than only providing opportunities to those who are skilled in and dedicated to more creative pathways. This sport is amazing in its ability to attract people from all walks of life, and that is one of the reasons I fell in love with cycling. In this new age of athlete/influencer, is there a way we can ensure multiple pathways exist to whatever people define as success throughout the competitive aspect of the sport? It is enough to be only an athlete, or only an influencer? And should companies recognize that both ends of the spectrum require incredible amounts of work, and provide opportunities to dedicated people, no matter where their energy is directed? I don’t know the answers to these questions, and want to learn more about… well… everything regarding the future and where the sport is heading.

               Who knows if this will actually get read after I’m done screaming into the void, but I think it’s worth a thought or two. To sum, yes, I agree a certain amount of social media presence is required for an athlete to be a useful representative and good ambassador for sponsor companies, but I also believe that it shouldn’t be an unspoken prerequisite to racing at the elite level. I hope companies are willing to look at the daily work an athlete is dedicating to their craft and weigh this accordingly to what their social media output is.  With that said please follow me @paysonpartridge because this is still the world we’re living in and I do need followers to be attractive…

 

Still attempting to learn the meaning of an “off-season”

             Maybe it’s a curse of endurance athletes, and all those who are always pushing their limits; maybe it’s a byproduct of a desire for continuous improvement; maybe it’s a bit of sheer hardheadedness and overall stupidity… probably a combination of all. The much needed yet simultaneously dreaded offseason known (hopefully) by athletes worldwide. Taking a bit of quality time away from any chosen sport is obviously necessary, as it’s impossible to be firing on all cylinders for an entire year… but we are all so averse to “losing fitness” that taking time away seemingly threatens to undo all the effort put in throughout the season.

               And by ‘we’, I primarily mean ‘me’. I’ve never been good at taking a real offseason, always coming back to some lame excuse about needing to stay mentally fresh, that I’m ‘just going out for a spin’, or trying not to waste a perfect weather window. At the end of the day however, all these supposed reasonings are just a way for me to get another hit of the dopamine: that feeling of progressing towards a goal. Some may call it masochistic, but I rate my day by how exhausted I am by the time my head finally hits the pillow. When I barely have time to look back and reflect on the multi-hour ride, the exhausting intervals, or the leg-twitching gym session before I can’t keep my eyes open… well that’s how I know the day was a success. The only problem with this thought process is that it is obviously the quickest path to utter burnout possible. I should know… but sometimes lessons take a few iterations before the logic finally sets in.

               After BCBR, I was cooked. Definitely well-done, borderline burnt. That following week I simply couldn’t do anything, except eat… then eat some more. I was told it was necessary to eat like a bottomless pit throughout the stage race but didn’t really think about the caloric hole I had dug myself into. Well, that caloric hole decided it needed to be filled immediately on returning home. When breakfast rolled around my stomach was already rumbling, and only after second breakfast did the hunger subside ever so slightly. Lunch was occurring almost an hour earlier that normal, and by the time I put the utensils down I was already thinking about what was for dinner. And all the while I really didn’t want to get up from the couch. So yes, the first week after BCBR I was doing a pretty decent job at off-seasoning.

 

 

               After putting so much energy into preparation and execution of not only the final event, but the whole season, the resulting dopamine low was something I’d never experienced before. It was a strange sensation, and the best way I can describe everything was a general ‘blue’ feeling. Not exactly down, not exactly happy, not unmotivated but also not keen to do much… everything felt just a little blurry, and without direction. I guess that’s just the let down after being 110% focused on always improving and always looking towards what’s next on the schedule. Throughout the season there’s a steady trickle of dopamine continuously anticipating the next goal, whether it may be another race, tomorrow’s key intervals, or an exciting trip, and when there’s nothing left to anticipate… it feels as though you’re left with a hole. I’ve read that with each progressive spike in dopamine, there’s a rebound past the normal baseline, and the higher the peak the lower the trough. It’s completely normal and things will eventually even out to homeostasis, but it sure doesn’t feel incredible to be stuck in the trough. Furthermore, when the high has been slowly undulating on an upward trajectory for the past ten months, the sudden lack of drive can be a bit jarring.

               So, the days following BCBR were all a bit… dull. Not having a goal to strive towards, or a calendar event to anticipate was a strange feeling. But I guess that’s the beauty of an offseason, and might be truly what taking time off the bike is all about: going from one hundred to zero never feels amazing, but it gives us an opportunity to press the reset button- both physically and mentally. Physically, an offseason finally allows the chance to fully recover from almost a full year of going deep into the pain cave far too often. Mentally, it’s an occasion to let all the emotions form the season settle; a chance to let things return to baseline. While it’s undoubtedly challenging, slightly boring, and relatively blue, taking time away from training gives us the opportunity to remember we’re humans with separate lives… not just athletes pushing ourselves day in and day out to constantly test the limits of what we’re capable of. More than that, however, an offseason allows us to remember why we enjoy pushing ourselves past the point of normal sanity: that feeling of goal setting, progression, and realization is something far too beautiful for words.

BCBR

             Ever since my first year of university, I knew I wanted to be a bike racer. Additionally, there were a few bucket list events that planted the seed of desire deep within my brain, and these seeds have germinated exponentially as I’ve become more involved in the racing scene. On the top of the list is BC Bike Race; (typically) a seven-day stage race around the mountain bike mecca that is Southwestern British Columbia. I remember sitting on a couch in southern California watching a YouTube film titled ‘Seven: theBC Bike Race Movie’. It chronicled the experience of BCBR throughout the seven days of racing, incredible ferry transfers, and tightknit community formed by racers pushing themselves through a week of all-out exertion. From that moment on… I was hooked. Somewhere deep in my mind I set a goal for myself to line up under the iconic start/finish arch, and pit my skills against the best of the best, as well as the unforgiving BC terrain. This year, I finally accomplished that goal, and after two years of nearly single-minded focus, all I can say is… wow.

               Lets back it up a few months, all the way to December of 2019. Everyone was beginning their training for the 2020 season, and most professionals had a generally solid idea of what their race schedule would look like. I, on the other hand, was characteristically behind the ball on planning. I knew there were a few major events that I wanted to go to, but overall, it was shaping up to be another fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants season for me. Then I got a calendar. By some random chance I got onto a mailing list that crossed the BCBR organizers’ desks, and they were promoting the 2020 edition of the event with a calendar. That dormant fire of desire lit on that California couch was rekindled, and since I was now living in Bellingham, Canada was only a stone’s throw away… I had no excuse not to go. From then on I had a nearly singular focus for the season: perform at BC Bike Race. 

Credit @chrisstenberg

               So that was December 2019, and we all know what happened when the calendar changed to early 2020… the world stopped, went sideways, and everything was flipped entirely on its head. Needless to say, there was no racing, therefore no BCBR 2020. Looking back, the extended time at home allowed for an intense season specifically focused on training… which actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise. (See an earlier post about my thoughts on this topic.) 2020 came and went, and I spend a full season preparing for the technical racing required for the seven day stage race, and was eagerly looking forward to 2021 season; the proverbial ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ for racers. In Spring of 2021, the organizers announced the race was a go… with a major caveat. Instead of being seven days of west coast BC racing, it would be six days of early October spent exploring the region around Penticton, in central BC. If I was disappointed not to be on the coast, I don’t think it registered due to the excitement and anticipation of actually getting to line up. Plus… Penticton boasts some world-class riding, and heaps of it. Plan modified, full steam ahead.

 The summer rolled by as planned (relatively… again see previous posts for other random misadventures), and as October came closer and closer, the reality began to set in: I was actually going to line up at BC Bike Race. Then the nerves hit. I get nervous before literally every race, but this time things were different. Questions about preparedness, skill, competition, mechanicals, equipment, more preparedness, and a plethora of other worries all fought for prime position in my mind. “What if?” seemed to be the start of every thought. Nerves pair well with excitement though, and through the worry I was so eager to get to Penticton and throw my name in the hat. Hours were spent studying course maps, drawing out elevation profiles, honing technical skills, and doing everything in my power to maximize my chances of success… or rather minimize my chances of the unexpected. Finally it was go time; on Friday morning I loaded up the van and hit the road for the promised land.

 

               Day one started with a neutral rollout out of Penticton to the Three Blind Mice trail system, the area closest to downtown proper and where we would eventually spend the majority of our time. Racers were self-staged in waves of 25, with a rolling start mat at the start of the singletrack. As I wasn’t one of the callups, I was placed in the second wave, staged to start 1 minute after the leaders… slightly worrisome as it was vital to be in the lead group starting things off. Luckily it proved to be no problem latching onto the first wave after the gun went off. As we rolled closer to the timing mat, the general chit-chat ceased and things began to heat up. Everyone began jostling for position, and once the clock started it was game on. Since the courses weren’t overly lengthy, it was possible to go full gas from the gun… which is exactly what happened. Cory Wallace launched an attack straight from the beginning, and the field immediately shattered. All the big guns went off the front and my group began to splinter, leaving me playing catchup from the first minute; get into TT mode, set it at a relatively-sustainable pace, and go to work.

Credit: @emmamaaranen

               Slowly but surely I began making up spots. I passed a few riders who initially went out too hard and found myself sitting in 7^th overall behind the lead group. Nearing the top I went by Geoff Kabush who was fixing a sidewall puncture on the side of the track, and moved into 6^th as I crested the summit. The descents around Penticton require full-on concentration over the rocky terrain, and those who lost focus were penalized by the inevitable puncture or crash. After one of the technical sections I saw Cory Wallace fixing a flat on the side, and slid my way into 5^th. Keeping things under control and holding back just a bit allowed for a safe descent and I crossed the line riding an absolute high from the incredible trails as well as the completely unexpected result. Sitting 5^th overall at the end of the day was just the confidence boost I needed on day one.

               Rolling back to the car with the big guns was a surreal experience. Obviously no one knew who I was, and explaining to the group of world cup and fully-sponsored pros that I was only a privateer living out of my van for the week felt good. After getting back to the expo area, it was time to start the post-race routing of shoving food in my face, heading to the gym for some foam rolling, stretching, and a much needed shower. Then back to camp for (more) food, a chance to put the legs up, and think about what was for dinner. It was becoming clear that mtb stage races were essentially “eating competitions with some bike racing thrown in.” (Thanks to Emma for the term… couldn’t be more true.)

               Day two found us on the other side of the lake into a town called Summerland. There were two stages on tap for the day, with a small neutral transfer in between. The rolling terrain promised some fast racing, and a long stretch of smooth doubletrack to start was going to make positioning important right from the gun. With no initial neutral segment and a mass start, things were decently sketchy from minute one. Soon the group solidified near the front and I was able to blindly follow the wheel in front of me safely into the singletrack… which is precisely when the dust became a problem. With flashbacks to High Cascades earlier this season, we dove recklessly into the dust cloud, blindly trusting the rider in front of us not to go off course. Eventually things calmed down and we settled into the first major climb of the day. I found a speed that suited me, and fell into a rhythm with a few other riders. Cresting the top we found ourselves thrown into an open landscape of what I call “choose your own adventure” riding; more or less no trail to follow but rather exposed rocks funneling into sparse forest on the other side. Seeing stars I somehow made it through unscathed, and floundered my way through the recently-cut trail to the first finish line on the day. Connecting with two other riders we rolled towards the second start... done and dusted though, onto the next.

               Stage three (still day two) proved to be more of an individual time trail rather than a normal mtb race. We chose when to cross the starting mat, and were immediately greeted with an extended climb which seemed to go on forever. Nothing technical, just sheer power… which has never been my strong suit. Cresting the top riders were rewarded with a fast descent straight into the finish gate, with average speeds of 20+ mph. So it turned out day two was a bit of damage control on my part, but coming out of it still in 5^th place overall I was pretty satisfied. The next day appeared to be more my style, with high elevations and the promise of technical riding.

               Sunrise on day three found us reaching for warmer clothes, and we were only going up in elevation. A beautiful drive up to Apex ski resort left me constantly admiring the fall views, as well as watching the temperature drop with every meter we climbed. Once in the carpark, my car read a balmy 36 degrees outside… luckily the predicted rain was holding off. I’m good with cold, and I’m fine with wet; but combine the two and I’m less that happy. The riding at Apex would prove to be my favorite throughout the week. It was a unique combination of high-alpine forest and loamy dirt… basically a combination of Montana and Bellingham: perfect for my skillset. Well, perfect for my skillset if I wasn’t racing a bunch of riders bred in Whistler, Squamish, and some of the most technical terrain in the entire world. Needless to say, the competition was strong, both physically and technically.

               I had made it a goal to be more tactically aggressive going into day three; my goal was to stay with the lead group for as long as I could, even if it meant burning an extra match or two. The overall GC results were holding relatively stable, with me sitting in sixth place a few minutes behind a rider in fifth: Matthew Fox. We had become friends throughout the week and it was looking more and more as though we were each other’s primary competition. Matthew had gone hard earlier in the week and made up some time when I was holding back some of my matches. We were also battling with Cory Wallace and Karsten Madsen, all of us leapfrogging spots day to day as well as in the overall. Up until this point, I was basically playing a defensive game, holding back some of my cards to (hopefully) be fresher later in the week. The strategy was overall working out well, but the race days were so short that getting fully-ish recovered every afternoon was possible. This amount of recovery allowed for some riskier tactics, primarily digging slightly deeper on a day-to-day basis to hold a wheel. So day three I decided to change my initial plan and see what the legs were capable of. On the start tarmac climb I "easily" stayed with the lead group as riders began to jettison off the back. When we hit the singletrack there were only seven of us left at the front, and I was trying to hold Matthew’s wheel like glue. With every surge I was able to put out the power, and while it was a bit scary to burn that many matches so early, it was a huge confidence boost to actually be on the sharp end of the race. These were some of the best riders in the world, and I was holding my own. Eventually our group began to shatter a bit, two people went off the front, two off the back, and my group dwindled to three. I felt at home on the rolling terrain, and was riding smoothly even at the high pace. I could tell Matthew was struggling a bit on the technical terrain, not because he was incapable but rather he seemed to be pushing hard enough to make mistakes: an overcooked corner here, a clipped tree there… all chinks in the armor. We all hit the final descent together and coming to the bottom I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Not only was it incredibly fun (imagine high speed, technical terrain interspersed with bike park features) but because I was in the mix. I crossed the line with Cory, and about thirty seconds behind Matthew.

Credit: @davesilverphoto

               The stage at Apex was a turning point; from then on I was no longer riding defensively… it was time to go on the offensive. Day four brought us back to the Three Blind Mice system, with a simple stage profile: straight up, then straight down. It would be a case of burying yourself on the climb then holding on for the descent, doing everything possible to avoid a puncture or crash on the sharp rocks. This time I went harder from the start, and to my surprise I instantly put Cory, Karsten, and Matthew on the defensive. Burning the surge of adrenaline, I turned the notch up slightly and soon found myself on my own. As I crested the top and turned downhill, it soon became clear I was about to put all the ‘fatigued training’ into practice; I was running on fumes after the climb. All those times riding cross-eyed down trails after a leg + lung burning interval was hopefully going to pay off. The first part of the descent was great, but after a few time-consuming mistakes near the bottom I could hear a rider getting closer and closer behind me; a quick glance back confirmed a hard-charging Matthew was closing in. Coming across the line I was seeing stars but still a few seconds ahead of him, but effectively we finished with the same time. The last two stages were shaping up to be quite the showdown.

               Day five found us on smooth, fast trails with extensive climbing and fast, brake-free descents. As per usual, our group of seven rolled away from the rest of the riders, establishing a solid selection. Also as usual, a few rider went off the front with their bid for a stage win… the time gaps had elapsed enough that an overall podium was out of reach, but places five through eight were still being hotly contested. I was currently sitting sixth, only a few seconds ahead of Cory in seventh and three minutes behind Matthew in fifth. I made sure I was ahead of them both before we peeled off the tarmac and onto the dirt, and immediately started twisting the dial up. Soon they were nowhere to be seen and I settled into a steady pace and steeled myself for another time trail on my own. Unlike the previous day, I paced this stage far better… I kept a steady and solid power throughout the entire course, and crossing the line I was tired but not exhausted- easy to recover from but there wasn’t much more left to give. The time clock showed that my more aggressive tactic was beginning to pay off: I had distanced myself from Cory, and gained back almost two minutes on Matthew. This meant that I was one minute behind him going into the last day; now I had smelled blood, and wanted that fifth place badly.

               Waking up on day six, I felt a strange combination of excitement, exhaustion, and anticipation. I knew it was going to be all or nothing out there. Matthew had proved that he was exceptionally strong basically everywhere, and I needed to pace the climb better in order to minimize mistakes on the descent. One minute, and even though it’s only one place on the GC, there’s a big difference between sixth and fifth… it was go time.

               As we lined up for the last time, there was a slightly different feeling the air: the crisp fall morning brought the knowledge that we all had to leave everything out there… this was the last opportunity to make our mark. We were all tired, and everyone knew today was going to hurt. Nervous laughs sounded as riders tried to pass the time before the gun went off. I talked with Matthew, wishing him good luck however the cards fell. I was truly grateful for the opportunity to push myself; if I was in no-mans land on the GC I could easily have just ridden the stage safely and gone back to damage control racing. He was giving me the chance to dig deeper than I could've possibly ever gone on my own. The start gun sounded and we clipped in and rolled off, time to go all in.  

               Similar to some of the previous days, stage seven began with a neutral rollout. Unlike the previous days, however, you could cut the anticipation with a knife. Riders knew this was their last chance, their final opportunity to make up time for the week. As we neared the start mat marking the course for the day, everyone began vying for position near the front; it was straight into the singletrack and being stuck behind someone this early in the day was a death sentence. I worked into my usual spot around fifth, and could feel Matthew was in my shadow. We hit the dirt and everyone lit their final fireworks; it felt like a finish line sprint up the first climb as riders gave it everything left in the tank to get ahead of other. Everyone had their own race within the race, some were going for the overall win, some to get on the podium, some (such as myself) were fighting for close positions, some were just looking to finish… that’s a beautiful thing about races in general: sure there’s an overall winner, but when you have hundreds of people competing there’s the possibility that everyone can be their own unique winner. Today, I needed to win fifth place… that was my goal, and I was doing everything in my power to make sure it happened. Changing up my tactics, I went on the offensive hoping to drop Matthew from my wheel. On previous stages I had been a slightly stronger climber, while he caught/dropped me on the descents. Playing to my strengths, I went full gas up the climbs and punched hard up the steeper sections to see if I could break the elastic between us. So far, it hadn’t worked. Matthew stayed attached to my wheel no matter what I threw at him. We caught and passed Karsten, Cory, and another rider on out hell-bent sprint to the top. By now I was getting worried… I knew that if we were together on the summit it would be incredibly hard to pull back the minute necessary for me to move up the GC ranking. So I stuck with it, attacking each hill as though it was my last match to burn, which was soon becoming a reality.

Credit: @chrisstenberg

               Then something happened. I got out of the saddle, sprinted a short climb, and heard just the faintest of hesitation from behind me. A quick glance backwards confirmed I had put a bike length between myself and Matthew. Instantly he was back in my draft but now it was different: I had seen the gap in his armor. Buoyed by the dopamine rush, I doubled down and put as much power into the pedals as I could muster, doing my best not to run myself off the trail as I peered ahead with crossed eyes. Sustaining the last-ditch effort for what felt like an hour (post-race analysis proved it was all of two minutes), I finally eased up and looked back: Matthew was nowhere to be seen. Stifling the excitement of finally snapping the rubber band between us I knew the job was far from finished. I put my head down, found a tempo that felt just sustainable, and powered forward. Burning match after match I neared the top of the day’s stage and never looked back. Reaching the descent brought a whole new set of challenges; now I had to ride the fastest descent of my life while completely drained, mentally exhausted, and on some of the hardest terrain possible… but there was only one way to the finish line and that coveted fifth place GC: down.

               I pushed both my body and bicycle harder than I have in a long time. Every muscle was screaming and time to time things went a touch blurry, but mentally it felt as though I was laser focused only on what was in front of me. People talk about flow state being this mystical phenomenon where everything clicks, where everything is perfectly in tune… and maybe that’s true, but if what I experienced that day in Penticton was flow… well it wasn’t a magic carpet ride down the mountain. More accurately it was full awareness of every sense; colors were more vibrant, light and shadows all had a purpose, I could sense my suspension moving, hear my tires straining for grip, and feel every muscle, tendon, and ligament in my body struggling as I asked more and more from myself and my machine. So yes, flow is a narrowing of the senses… overall it got me down that run very quickly and in one piece, but holy shit did everything hurt. Crossing the line at the bottom I collapsed on the ground into an unintelligible heap. Mentally and physically I had nothing left to give, now it was time to start counting and wait for Matthew to cross the line.

               Luckily there was a clock by the timing mat, so I was spared the need to count in my head while barely being able to focus on continuing to breath. Thirty seconds passed, nothing. Forty, no one across the line. I could barely hold in my excitement. Fifty, fifty-five, sixty… I had done it. I let out a breath as if I’d been holding it in for weeks. It felt as though my entire season of ups and down was finally coming to a solid conclusion: a result I had worked hard for, dedicated almost two years of my life for, and performed to the best of my ability for. Can I call it a wave a relief? Probably. But buried within was a feeling of drive, a rekindling of the love I have for this sport, for competition. I felt as if all the early mornings, all the rides in the rain, all the hours in the gym, every early bedtime, and every sacrifice I’d made towards this dream was worth it. It was the path I wanted to be on: pursuing athletic excellence in my chosen sport. I haven't reached all the goals I set for myself yet, but I had accomplished one, and it was a solid steppingstone. I’ve been told there’s a rule of thirds in training and competition: one third of the time you feel normal, one third you feel like garbage, and one third you feel amazing. I don’t often experience the last third, but sitting exhausted at the finish of stage seven I felt incredible.

               Actually I felt awful, and knew even riding back to the car was going to suck… but at the moment I didn’t care. I had done it, completed what I wanted to do… but there was also a feeling that I could do more, and this stoked the fire burning deep inside me even more than before. The dopamine buzz was palpable, and I could already feel the excitement and anticipation building for the next season. And that’s the beautiful thing about competition: there’s always another level to reach, always another goal to achieve, and always a new opportunity to put your hard-earned skills to the test.

___________________

As a side note, I want to thank the organizers of the event for doing such an amazing job leading up to, and throughout the week. Completely upending from the tried and true is difficult to say the least, and the team in charge handled all the obstacles thrown at them with ease. Thanks also to Emma for being a constant source of laughter and fun while in camp... it would've been a lonely week without you there. And finally, a huge thank you goes to Matthew Fox for the incredible competition. This event wouldn't have been the same without you, it was an absolute honor to race with you, and I can't wait to go that deep into the hurt locker again... cheers 🤙

Dust, Starship, and Learning how to ride while cross-eyed

               If you’ve never descended a brand new trail, while completely cracked and seeing crosseyed, and with the chorus of Starship’s We Built This City going through your head on repeat… well I can’t say I’d really recommend it but it’s definitely an experience. Plus, it accurately sums up the last fifteen miles of my High Cascades 100. But on the positive side, I actually remembered my pillow for this trip. It’s the small victories.

               Quick background: the High Cascades 100 is a hundred-mile mountain bike event in Bend, Oregon. It’s part of the NUE (National Ultra-Endurance) series, which basically means it attracts a bunch of crazy masochistic people from around the country all looking to enjoy some good old-fashioned type two fun playing in the moondust of Bend. This would be my first experience with the event, and my first experience riding one hundred miles on a mountain bike. Promising to be the longest, and likely the hardest, event of my career, I was incredibly nervous leading into the weekend. Couple these nerves with heaps of life stress and you’ve got a rock-solid combination of a fragile mental state. What could possibly go wrong?

               On the Wednesday before the race, we were all hit with the news that a gigantic forest fire was threatening to smoke out Bend, and the forecasted AQI for Saturday was set to be in the triple digits. (Not ideal for eight-ish hours of heavy breathing.)  So just to add to the stress levels, we decided to postpone the decision on whether to even attend until Thursday night. To make a long story short, the weather gods smiled on us and the wind stayed steady out of the west, providing Bend with perfectly clear skies and no chance of permanent lung damage for racers. Although in hindsight… the sheer amount of dust I inhaled may have done similar damage…

               When Friday morning rolled around, Jeff and I hit the road early, hoping to make it to Oregon in time for a quick preride. I forgot how much quicker road trips go when there’s someone else to talk to, and it’s not only my own self-deprecating thoughts to keep me company. Before I knew it, we were pulling into Bend along with all the other decked out Sprinter vans. (We had a built-out Tacoma… when in Rome…) After packet pickup and meeting Jeff’s friend Phil it was out to the trailhead to spin out the legs and attempt to remember how riding on dust works. My friend Landon was playing the tour guide and decided that since we were riding the best of Bend tomorrow it’d be worth showing us the worst. We struggled down a trail of awkwardly angled sharp rocks, which I have no shame in saying that I walked most of the quarter mile trail… claiming ‘I didn’t want to risk a puncture,’ which was true enough.

Proving my privateer status

               That night I made clear my privateer status one more by setting up a single person tent adjacent to two decked out adventure vans. To make up for the inadequacy, I won the dinner game… which wasn’t hard I just used two colors of pasta, somehow vaulting me into the ‘dinner envy’ position. Since my alarm was set for an ungodly 4:00 am, it was bedtime before the sun, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat setting the tune of nervous excitement for the day to come

               Four am rolled around far too quickly, and after a rushed breakfast of cold rice, bananas, and coffee it was into the truck and down to the Safeway parking lot which would be out base camp for the day. In the pre-dawn light I barely found all my food, and during the inevitable rush to the start line I forgot only a few items… not necessary at all for a full day in the saddle. I rolled to the line without a tube, tire plugs, only one banana, and somehow had forgotten my gloves. (Later found sitting right on top of my bag… almost impossible to miss.)

               There was a feeling of collective nervousness palpable in the air around the hundreds of riders lined up in the Bend Athletic Club parking lot. Everyone was either fidgeting with something, awkwardly making small talk, or sitting in complete stillness, lost in their own private thoughts.  Being late (naturally), I began to work my way through the throng and attempt to get as far forward as possible. Even with the neutral rollout I didn’t want to be caught up too far back and burn a match to move forward. Making it to the third row with only a few seconds to spare, the gun went off and our mob of spandex and carbon began to apprehensively roll forward into the dawn.

               I made the call not to bring a vest, jacket, or even arm warmers for the rollout, as the temperature downtown was hovering around fifty degrees… very manageable. What I forgot to consider, however, was the fact that we were going to be on the road (i.e., moving fast) for the first 10 miles or so, and climbing a decent amount (i.e. going into the cold). So, within only 30 minutes of the start I couldn’t feel my fingers and shifting required a combined movement of my entire hand and forearm, not ideal but I somehow made it work. We jumped off the road onto some gravel doubletrack, and instantly the field began to spread. It was clear who the heavy hitters were in the group, and everyone who was anyone began to up the tempo. Kyle Trudeau and Landon Farnsworth were the two people I had in my sights for the day, both being experienced in this distance and incredibly strong riders to boot. Other among the field were Jason Rathe, Carter Hall, and other fast-looking riders that I’m sure would all be challengers to the podium.

               We raced along the doubletrack for a while before hitting the first quick descent… which proved to possibly be the most terrifying experience I’ve had in a long while. Imagine being cold, relatively not awake, moving at about twenty miles an hour, and being completely blind. And when I say completely blind, I mean unable to see anything. The dust was so thick from the riders in front that I could basically see my front wheel… and that was it. As rocks the size of my head whizzed past, I realized it was very possible to end my race before it had actually begun. With an uncharacteristic moment of sanity, I slowed and gave the riders in front a few second’s gap. Although I was able to see marginally better than before, having to give a little kick after every descent to catch the wheel of the three leaders. Slightly concerned about how high my heart rate was, I let it slide thinking the pace would eventually slow down.

Just doing everything I can to keep up

               It didn’t slow down.

               Well, I guess that’s not entirely true… the pace did slow a touch, but only when the track decided to pitch upwards, and the true climbing began. Climbing in Bend is different than anywhere else I’ve experienced, as it’s never too steep, but feels more like the erg mode on a trainer. There’s always some sort of resistance which unconsciously saps your energy, and only on the short little punches do you realize how tired you are. I once heard a term called ‘Creepy Fatigue’… and that about sums it up.

The course profile basically follows a lopsided “M” shape, with one major climb to begin, followed by a short descent, after which there is the main climb, and finally a ‘descent’ down to the finish. I was under the impression it’d be a relative cake walk from the highpoint back to town, and boy was I mistaken… more on that later.

Reaching the top of the first climb our group had begun to split up, with Kyle and Landon pushing out front, Jason and myself following a few minutes behind, and the rest of the group strung out in some fashion behind us. All I can say about that first descent is… holy shit was it fun. Another aside about the riding in Bend; it’s fast. Not fast in the same way here where there’s an exponential pucker factor when the speed ticks higher (especially on an xc bike), but faster in the sense that the track seems to flow better and there’s a sensation of being in the cliché ‘zone’. Winding in and out of forest cover we flew down to the first aid station, where we caught our first (and last) glimpse of the leader. Not stopping we plugged on ahead and started up the main obstacle of the day: the Mrazek trail buffered by some gravel road climbing to boot.

               Jason and I reached the base of the climb together, and we were together at the second aid station. I refilled my bottles, grabbed some bananas and a sandwich, and hit the road before Jason had finished swapping out gear. From that point on (mile 48) I was flying solo. I knew the climbs were my opportunity to pull back time, so after aid two I set the power at endurance+ pace and sat in for the long haul up Mrazek. Feeling strong throughout the entire ninety-minute climb, I was able to pull Landon into sight and move past into second place… which offered a huge adrenaline burst. Cresting the top it was some rolling terrain to aid three, where I stuffed my face again and refilled the bottles one last time. From this point on it was (almost) all downhill.

               Or so I thought. The first few miles were down a sandy access road where speeds exceeded thirty miles per hour; absolutely exhilarating to feel the miles tick away but slightly terrifying on tired legs. Pushing the pace I tried to maximize my time on the descent and pull back any possibly second I could. An hour later I reached the bottom of the road and ducked back into the singletrack… and immediately realized I was bonking. When the track turned back uphill, I downshifted and set the legs to go again, but that hollow feeling of glycogen depletion was all too evident. Immediately realized the mistake I had made on the previous climb, I downed come calories which staved off the inevitable for a few minutes. More rolling terrain offered some precious descents where I could recover enough to struggle to the top of the next hill; repeating the process over and over with slightly fewer matches to burn at each crest.

"How many calories can I possible consume right now?"

               Around mile ninety the wheels fell off; not literally, but figuratively. I’ve bonked hard, but this may have been bonking to a new level… there was a point where I truly didn’t think my legs would be able to keep spinning the pedals. About six feet away from having to lay down on the side of the trail there was a fortuitous descent, although having to focus on hitting doubles and executing proper cornering technique while completely cracked is easier said than done. Some I was able to survive the Tiddlywinks trail, even though I’m sure my method of riding a bike was not in exemplary form to say the least. Then we hit a trail called Catch and Release, which by all accounts would be fun… nice flowy corners and the ability to keep speed and fly through the open trees. But that’s expecting that I was able to corner correctly and keep any sort of speed. Therefore, I can confidently say that Catch and Release was absolute hell. The two-mile trail was lengthened to what seemed like ten. To make matters worse, at mile ninety-two a rider flew by me so fast that I initially thought it was a hallucination. (Later I learned he was a previous NUE champion who actually knew how to pace for a hundred-mile race… made me feel slightly better.) Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, as this sucker punch to the ego lit a sad, smoldering fire in my chest and gave just enough of a flame to get me to the final road section: a (mostly) downhill section. From this point on it was get into TT mode and force the screaming legs to push just a little further. Swerving precariously across the line I was handed a cold towel and Coke, which tasted better than anything I’ve experienced in a long time. Stumbling over to a chair I sat down and stared off into the distance feeling the sugar and caffeine move through my system and slowly bring me back to some sort of life.

Pretty sure I was almost unable to stand up at this point.

               Writing this a few days after getting home, I feel slightly more recovered, but there’s still some residual fatigue that shows up in the strangest of times. It’s a weird juxtaposition of peak fitness and absolute exhaustion: able to set KOMs on local trails while still deficient on overall calories. So, it’s been a few days of a mini-offseason and quite a bit of time spent in the ice bath, hammock, and dinner table.

               But as I’ve always said, endurance athletes have some of the worst memories… I’m already looking forward to the next marathon day on the bike.