Stage 3:
Marrion to the Dublin General Store (61.1 miles)
Let
everyone know, okay?
At the
start, I marked Stage 3 as the hardest of the course. It was the longest of the
four stages, but it also had the most climbing and saw us enter Manistee
National Forest where we would encounter frequent forest roads, snow mobile
trails and a few sections of sand. If that wasn’t enough, I would be crossing
into new territory; the longest ride I’d ever done was 125 miles a few weeks
prior, and I would pass that a third of the way into this sixty-mile stage. All
of that was before I crashed into an earlier-than-expected wall.
But I
had a plan. I was in a bad place, I knew, and a little later than I hoped
arriving, but I talked through everything with Sarah while I sat down and drank
my coke. I tried to eat a piece of pizza, but my stomach wasn’t cooperating. I
set about my business, doing everything that needed doing. I knew once I got
out on the stage, I would probably make it to the end and I could re-assess. At
least then, if I quit, 165 miles was less embarrassing than 105.
About
3:45, I donned my helmet and climbed back on my back on my bike. I kissed my
wife.
“Are
you eating enough?” she asked.
“Probably
not,” I admitted, “but it’s got to be enough now. Stage 2 was really rough for
me, and this next one might be even harder. Let everyone know?”
I knew
she was updating well over a dozen people, friends and family who were keeping
track of my ride, and I knew that they were praying for me. I was going to need
it. She nodded, and I started pedaling away. That half-hour went by so fast,
but I couldn’t wait any longer.
Interlude--#1 Support Crew
It’s
foolish to think that I was the only one working at this event. When I talked
about signing up for it, I knew that I would need the full support of my wife
to pull it off, and she never hesitated. She wanted to support me if it was
something I wanted to accomplish.
Not
only did she support me, but she offered to be my support crew. As a
self-supported race, we needed to provide our own crew to meet up with us at
the checkpoints and, most importantly, be able to rescue us if we had to quit
the race in the middle of a stage. I couldn’t carry 210 miles worth of gear, so
I needed someone to be there at each checkpoint to resupply.
It was
a long day for her. She was awake to see me off at the start line and be ready
whenever I rolled into the finish line to pick me up. In between, she would
drive an hour or so and wait while it took me four or more hours to cover the
same distance. She would only see me for a delirious half-hour, help me get
what I needed, and send me off. Thanks to my Lezyne GPS, she could track my
progress during the ride and find out where I was, but she had no way of
knowing how I was doing or what I was thinking.
In the
end, she spent most of the day Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in the car,
shuttling between gas stations, school checkpoints, and motels. She sacrificed
her entire weekend and plenty of hours of sleep so that I could try to
accomplish something ridiculous, and there’s no way I could’ve done it without
her. Thank you, Sarah!
Stage 3:
Redux
I’m going
to beat this thing!
The
first mile or so after the checkpoint was pavement—sweet, sweet pavement—before
turning back onto the grit I had come to know so well. I remember thinking
during that short section, “If this turns bad fast, I can always turn around
and be back at the checkpoint for Sarah to pick me up quickly.”
In the
time that it took me to ride those first few miles of the course’s “back nine,”
something else was happening hundreds of miles away that would change the
entire direction of the race for me. An intervention of sorts was under way.
As I
mentioned, Sarah was in contact with over a dozen people, updating them on my
status at the checkpoints. After I left checkpoint 2, the word went out that I
was struggling and needed prayers. My friends and family responded. I know that
everyone in the loop prayed for me, but these are the two specific incidents I
know: a couple from my small group at church texted that they were praying (I
didn’t see the texts until much later, after the race, but they went out in
real time), and my family—my parents, brother, sister, and their
families—immediately stopped while enjoying an afternoon at the zoo, formed a
circle and prayed for me.
Something
amazing began to happen. I don’t know what you think of Christianity or prayer,
but I know them to be true. What I also know is that at the same time everyone
was praying for me (unbeknownst to me) a change occurred. The pain in my knee
dulled. The headache brewing in the back of my head vanished. The mild nausea
in my stomach cleared. The heaviness in my legs was lifted.
I was
not oblivious to these changes; in fact, I noticed them immediately. I wished I
had brought a piece of pizza, because even though I hadn’t been able to stomach
one ten minutes earlier, I knew I could eat one with gusto right then. With all
of this, I picked up my pace and my spirits began to rise.
Additionally,
we were entering the hilly section of the course, but my legs felt strong.
These weren’t long grinding hills, but short punchy climbs that favored power
over steady efficiency. That was alright with me.
One of the accidental changes at
checkpoint 2 had been in my snack storage. My pack by my handlebars had been
crammed with most of my snacks before, and it was difficult to get them out. At
the checkpoint Sarah had filled my ziplock of Goldfish crackers too full, and
so it was the only thing that fit in the pack. I stuffed the other two
snacks—beef jerky and Swedish Fish gummy candies—into side pockets on my frame
bag where I could still reach them. Because of this, all three were easily
accessible to me as I was riding, and I could snack at will on any of them
without having to stop riding. I took advantage of this, and kept eating a
steady supply of salt and sugar.
Before
too many miles, I noticed two riders in the distance ahead of me, and then I
realized that I was gaining on them. Slowly but surely I began to real them in.
“Don’t waste energy trying to catch them sooner, you’re already gaining on
them,” I thought, and continued at my own pace. Finally, I came down the backside
of a short hill onto a straight, flat section. It was my chance, I was strong,
and I picked up the pace and caught up to them.
“I’ve
been chasing you guys for miles,” I said as I came up on them.
“Good
work, and now you’ll be in front of us because we’re stopping for a break,” one
of them responded as they pulled over to the side of the road. I was glad to
have caught up to them before they took they break, because the psychological
advantage of knowing I had caught them legitimately was a boost. Take every
advantage you can get.
I kept
going. So did the hills, but that didn’t bother me. I knew once I got to mile
135 or 140, the course would turn downhill, quickly at first and then gradually
for the rest of the course. I was hardly a few minutes past the couple when it
happened again. I noticed up ahead three more riders, slowly working their way
up a hill. And I noticed before too long that I was slowly catching them.
That
was the moment. I remember it clearly; I felt strong, refreshed, and ready to
tackle the rest of the race.
“I’m
going to beat this thing,” I thought. “I’m going to finish this bitch.”
For the
first time in over fifty miles and several hours, I actually believed it.
My GPS,
connected to my phone via Bluetooth, forwarded three text messages to me during
the race. One was from my friend Jesse, received during stage 2 near the lowest
portion of the race. It read, “Are you finished yet?” and thankfully I was well
aware of Jesse’s sarcasm. Soon after, his wife Melissa (a blogger and Liv
Bicycles ambassador also known as Chasqui Mom) sent, “Good luck today!!! Just
keep pedaling.” But my favorite came from my wife about this time. It said,
playing off the famous Jens Voigt (a popular professional cyclists) quote,
“Shut up legs and do what Nate tells you!” I literally laughed when I saw it.
It was wonderful.
I
caught up to the three riders on one of the longer hills after a couple of
miles. Two of them were clearly struggling, and the third was patiently—or not
so patiently—going ahead and waiting for them. I pedaled alongside them for a
moment, nodded, and accelerated up the hill right on past them.
The
third rider, clearly ready to go a little bit faster than the other two, caught
up with me and we rode together for a few miles. We talked a little bit; he
complained about his two companions bonking with so much further to go, and I
explained that this was the furthest I’d ever ridden. It was during that time
riding with him that I crossed past mile 125. My previous longest ride to date,
as mentioned earlier, had been a 125-mile training ride. I was in new
territory.
“This
is your first 200 mile ride,” he asked.
“Yeah.
The longest I’ve ever done before this was 125.”
“Welcome
to the club. We’re an odd and crazy club.”
“That’s
what my wife keeps telling me.”
The two
of us stopped at the top of a hill for a snack break, and took a few minutes to
rest. It wasn’t too long before his two companions caught up, and they rode
right on through without stopping. He got on his bike to ride off along with
them, checking to make sure I was okay before continuing. I told him I was
good, and waved him on. I was on schedule, felt good, and still needed to fill
my water bottle. Besides, I caught them before and I knew I would do it again.
A few
miles down the road, I did, and this time when I passed them I never saw them
again.
Let’s
take a moment to consider this. Here I was, at over 130 miles, further than I’d
ever gone in the past. Twenty-five miles back, I felt terrible, and fifty back
I declared my intention to quit. Now I was riding along the hilliest section of
the course and felt just as strong—if not stronger—than I did one hundred miles
earlier. And for the first time since the initial placement sorting during the
opening stages, I was passing people.
I
passed two more people as the hills continued, and then two more after turning
down the backside. That backside, that was fun. There were two long downhill
stretches after the course reached its zenith. They were good, firm dirt roads
with long gradual turns and the occasional rise to scrub excess speed.
That
was where the race hit Manistee National Forest, away from the dirt and gravel
roads and began to trek through paths designed largely for snow mobiles and
4x4s. As I turned onto the first of these paths, I almost immediately came upon
a minivan clearly out of its league, figuring out how to turn around on a road
barely wide enough to begin with. I called out to make sure they knew I was
there, and passed them, diving deeper into the woods, flooded with green and
accented by the late afternoon sun.
The
path was fine, at first. Occasionally I would run into a patch of sand that
caused one or both wheels to slip while I desperately balanced to keep from
falling over, but I always managed to keep upright or at least put a foot down
before taking a tumble.
The
race directors had promised some sections of sand at this point, so I wasn’t
surprised. They promised, however, that it was only short sections and if you
had 40mm tires or wider you should be fine. My tires were, in fact, exactly
40mm, though not because of their recommendation; that’s just what I run on
that bike. Sand was not something I’d done much riding through during my
training. None, in fact, and I have very little experience with it otherwise.
The
winding single-track forest roads slowed my pace a little by themselves, but
the sandy patches slowed it down a lot. To my great dismay, the began to grow
in frequency. At least every quarter of a mile or so, I would run into a sandy
patch. Half of the time I could pedal through it at a snail’s pace, slipping
and skidding, but the other half I was forced to get off my bike and hike it
through the sand. One patch was so deep and loose that my front tire sank in and
jarred my bike to an immediate stop before I even knew the sand was there.
Luckily, I put a foot down before I tumbled over the handlebars.
I came
upon two other riders during this section who were having navigational
difficulties. Because my GPS was working perfectly, they rode with me for a
little while before pulling off ahead of me. They clearly had more skill
handling their bikes over the sandy terrain than I did.
My pace
slowed to a crawl over the last ten miles of the stage, and I fell behind schedule. The sun was dropping towards the horizon
faster than I hoped, but I rode on hoping to reach the third checkpoint before
sunset.
My
frustration with the course was growing, and I cursed the fact that I didn’t
have a fat tire bike. Mostly, I felt misled by the race directors and their
promise that there were only “one or two sections you may have to walk your
bike through, and the rain from the night before should pack it down nice and
hard.” I was walking my bike for one or two sections every mile. Apparently,
the cumulative effect of nearly two hundred bikes in one day had shredded these
sandy trails, and in the back of that pack I was paying the price.
My
spirits, thankfully, did not diminish. I was still ahead of the cutoff by a
safe margin, and I wasn’t giving up any time. In fact, though it wasn’t much, I
had gained back a little time. I also knew that my struggles here were not due
to my own failings, but rather the nature of the course.
Finally,
I pulled out of the forest and onto pavement. The checkpoint was just around
the corner, and I would pull in just before sunset. My spirits were high; even
though I was behind schedule and knew I would have to finish the race in the
dark, I was prepared for that. I couldn’t stop now.
Checkpoint 3 Split time: 6:16:00
Checkpoint 3 Total Time: 15:19:31
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