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.

A psychological breath of fresh air; a physical breath of dust

                It feels as though it has been ages since I’ve had the opportunity to line up and get between the tape, and in actuality it has. 525 days, in fact, since I toed the line at a race. One could say I’m frothing a bit to get back into it. So, the Echo Red to Red xc race this past weekend was quite the breath of mental fresh air; finally having the opportunity to ride bikes hard was incredibly refreshing… even if it was a complete (yet altogether expected) shock to the system.

               True to style, my preparation for the event was quite lackluster. Between long days at work, rushed bicycle maintenance, and spotty travel logistics, the overall stress level was relatively high coming into the weekend. With race day fast approaching, I was still putting pieces of the puzzle together: finding transportation (currently car-less), securing housing (or rather a camp spot), modifying a volatile work schedule, and remembering to stay hydrated. As Friday morning rolled around (race was Saturday) I still had no transportation, no definite place to camp, had to get projects done at work, and was most likely quite dehydrated from the copious amounts of coffee. So yeah, you could say planning was subpar. Eventually everything was put into motion and I somehow got my shit together enough to hit the road Friday afternoon in a tiny rental car, a decent day’s work under my belt, and a vague idea of where I’d be sleeping that night. (Magically, it turned out the only thing I had forgotten was a toothbrush; while unfortunate for my dental hygiene was a relatively minor error if I do say so myself.)  With a five-hour drive ahead it was time to plug in a podcast or three and turn the brain off a bit.

               Does anyone else have a very intrinsic fear of the dark? It’s not as though I’m frightened of anything in particular, but rather the feelings of doubt, questioning, and uncertainty that seem to always arise when the sun goes down. As it happens, I always seem to be driving through a new place with an unfamiliar race ahead of me when darkness begins to creep over the landscape, so maybe these are just my own emotions coming to the forefront… who knows… In any case, the feelings of “what-the-absolute-hell-am-I-doing?” started to arise somewhere right after Yakima, with another 90 minutes or so left in the drive. By now the sun had dropped well below the horizon, and the last comforting rays of light had disappeared into the darkness of the unknown. It was far too late to turn back now; I was committed, but second-guessing myself at every turn. Doubts ranged from both ends of the practicality spectrum: Was it really worth it coming this far? Should I be saving the expenses for a bigger event, or one closer to home? Am I actually going to have a place to set up a tent tonight, or will I be figuring out how to sleep in a Nissan Versa? What if I flat? Are there bears out here, and if so… how sealed is my cooler?

               That all changed when I pulled into the sleepy town of Echo, Oregon. It was clear from the number of sprinter vans, pop-up campers, tents, and bike stands that something out of the ordinary was going on in the town of 500 people. Driving around I began to get the familiar feeling of nervous excitement that accompanies race weekends. Eventually I found my friend Landon’s Tacoma and team tent tucked away next to a small park, the perfect setting for some impromptu urban camping. Landon and Shane were both still up, and happy to shoot the shit while I prepared a gourmet meal of mismatched pasta from my pantry, slightly cooked broccoli, and some sad-looking kale leaves I scrounged from some corner of the fridge. After getting our fill of catching up and pre-bike race geek talking, it was off to bed in my one-person tent and continuously deflating sleeping pad. At least the streetlamps were off…

True to form, I was up before the sunrise with seemingly no intention of going back to sleep. It was an initial surprise to open up the tent flap and see buildings, but then I remembered I was camping in a downtown park. Obviously my thoughts immediately shifted away from the unorthodox tent location and to coffee. After a quick rummage through the food bag, a rushed stove set up, and a quick coffee grind (thanks Javapresse for letting me be a coffee snob wherever and whenever), there was a resulting americano and a much happier Payson. Just as there’s something about the night before a race, there’s something unique about the morning of race day; a palpable sense of excited tension in the air. Additionally, racers who traveled to Echo all seemed to realize how special that race morning vibe was. Smiles (some hidden under masks) abounded, and an overall feeling of elation spread throughout the small town.

Eventually we did remember our reason for being there, though. The elite wave was first to go off, and it was full of big hitters. It seemed as though everyone within a six-hour radius lined up, and it soon became clear this wouldn’t be any walk in the park. As the race announcer gave out callups, I could already feel my heart rate begin to rise. After a few final descriptions of the course, the gun went off, our neutral rollout began, masks came off, and the race was on. Spinning out of town, the mood was lighthearted as the pace stayed low. Although as soon as we turned onto the first gravel road and the starting line became closer, the pace lifted and people started jockeying for position near the front of the group. Once across the line, it was full gas. With the help of an initial tailwind the group speed skyrocketed. Small rocks were flying in every direction and a few water bottles ejected themselves as we raced mach ten down a loose gravel road, eventually ducking into some of the dustiest singletrack I’ve experienced. So dusty, in fact, that it was difficult to see the trail in front of your wheel, and riding by braille soon became necessary. Quickly a lead group of six formed, and Evan Plews moved to the front to set a solid pace. For the next 90 minutes or so it stayed pretty much status quo: Evan plugging away in front with five of us in tow. I stayed behind the wheel of my friend Landon Farnsworth, as I knew his handling skills were on point and I could trust his line down the often rock-strewn descents. Most of race involved a steady power output, with a few surges on the climbs. These spread the group out on occasion, but only by a bike length or two, and within a minute we were all packed together once again.

Internally, I was feeling good. The pace was well within my limit, and while the punchy climbs were difficult, they were nothing to be concerned with. I could tell my high-intensity legs weren’t along for the ride, but that was a problem for future Payson. And yes, it did eventually become a problem. Once we jumped off the singletrack and onto a dirt road there was a short and steep hill, and I made the unfortunate mistake to choose that exact moment to reach for my bottle. Unfortunate because this was the exact moment Ian Brown and Carson Hampton decided to blow the group to smithereens and keep 600 watts or so up the hill. I was caught completely off guard and got distanced from the back of the group… which is just another way of saying I definitely did not have the legs to stay in touch with the now-leaders. After the surge, the group shattered, with Carson out front, Ian chasing solo, a group of three, then myself about 20 seconds behind. Knowing there was only about 5 minutes left in the race, it was time to dig deep and pull every last bit of energy from the reservoir for a last-ditch effort to latch back onto the group in front. This was made all the more difficult by the sharp headwind, which seemed determined to keep my just out of reach from the group in front. Eventually it was clear I’d be coming in solo “last of the front” and it was now time to simply keep up the pace until the line.

Back in town after the event, the usual chit-chatting began with everyone recalling the past few hours; talking about how good it was to be back between the tape and congratulating each other for a job well done. After the good-natured complaining about how hard it was and conversations about future events, it was time to pack up and hit the road for home. The long drive home offered an opportunity to critically analyze my own race effort as well as listen to the entire discography of A Tribe Called Quest.

Overall I was happy with my performance. Yes, it would’ve been nice to stay with the leaders and have a go at the podium, but at this time in the season and on a course that historically has not favored my riding style, I was content with how I had fared. Training up to this point has largely consisted of base miles at endurance pace with a few tempo blocks thrown in for good measure, so having a high-intensity race effort was definitely foreign to my legs. Additionally, the fact that I was able to stay with the lead group without any real difficulty throughout all the singletrack surges was a good sign. The next few training blocks would be dedicated towards working on the high-intensity legs and sharpening up the subLT skills (i.e. going hard for longer periods of time), which theoretically will build on top of the current endurance abilities and put me closer to the sharp end of the stick. Another reason I was satisfied with my semi-lackluster performance was due to my pre-race routine and preparation. Spending the day before an event on my feet, at work, slightly stressed out, and likely not hydrating enough was undoubtedly not the most ideal situation… think about what could be possible when I actually take care of myself? In any case, the result in front of my name wasn’t exactly what I would necessarily like to see at the end of the day, but given the circumstances it was something to be relatively proud of. If anything, my performance was a clear indication that training had been working, and what needed to be worked on. Well, the first race of the post-covid era (ish) was under my belt… I survived, thrived a little, suffered a lot, learned heaps, ended the day with a smile on my face, and got to drive home listening to Q-Tip and Phife dog’s lyrics flow from the tinny speakers in my tiny rental car. Things are looking up from here!