The three most difficult (endurance) athletic events of my
life (in chronological order):
My first half marathon, Feb of 2011
13.1 miles, half of them complete suckage, 5.1 further than
I’d ever run before. I pushed my body to the very limits of what it was capable
of doing (at that time). I crossed the finish line, nearly collapsed, and swore
I’d never do it again (I’ve since run 4 more, with another on the docket)
Day 1 backpacking 8 miles in the Yosemite back country, June
2013
We thought the route was 6 miles; it was actually 8. We
expected a nice, warm day; we got a sweltering 105 degree heat wave. We thought
we had enough water; we were wrong. I
thought (all) I would have to carry was 60 pounds of gear; occasionally I
shouldered my companions’ wonderful 1 ½ year old daughter. Add on top of that
the mile-high-plus altitude, and half of our group never having backpacked
before, and you’ve got a recipe for a long, long day. It was also followed by
day 2 & day 3, which were similar but not as difficult because I was
mentally prepared for the circumstances. I learned a valuable lesson in
endurance that day*
I was invited by my close friend Jesse to join his company’s
(Mazzetti) cycling team for this 100 mile bicycle ride. I was
thrilled; I’d never done an organized bicycle ride despite riding regularly for
a year and a half, and my only attempt at riding 100 miles in one day had been
thwarted at mile 75 by mechanical failure on my bike.
I already rode regularly (40+ mile weekend rides were
common), but I only had a month or so for official training. That meant a slew
of nights on the indoor trainer working on pedaling form, a 60 mile ride with
Jesse (which sucked), a 40 mile ride with a 2,000 foot climb for hill training
(which sucked), and a group of 45ish mile rides at various levels of success. I
was ready, I suppose, but I wish I’d had another month of dedicated training.
I also skipped one 45 mile training ride near the end of the
month. Why, you ask? To buy a new bicycle, of course! It was a beneficial
exchange. I traded my Raleigh Revenio 1.0 (a bike I’ve had nothing but trouble
with) for a Giant Defy Composite 1.0, a significant upgrade in bicycle quality.
I’ll save the comparisons between bikes for another post, though.
Because the race started at 7am in Napa, I chose to stay the
night before at a motel in Santa Rosa and drive 30 minutes to get to the race
rather than 2 hours. I met Jesse and his family at a friend’s house (thanks
Edgar for dinner!) for a wonderful wonderful pasta dinner, and retired to my
room. I laid out all my gear, prepped up my bike, drank some grapefruit juice
(my pre-race tradition), and watched bad tv until I fell asleep.
I woke up on time (5am is too early in the morning for anything!),
loaded my stuff, picked up Jesse, and made our way to the starting line. We ate
a little breakfast (bagels with cream cheese, fruit, granola bars), drank a
little coffee (not enough, in my opinion), and met up with our teammates Walt,
Laura, and Neil. I was very excited to don the team jersey they had made for
us.
The sun finally peaked over the horizon at about 7am, and we
crossed the start line together at 7:30am. The morning sunlight was soft over
the hills and valleys, the highlights almost supernatural, and the air brisk.
Brisk when you’re standing still, but freezing cold when you’re riding down the
street at 18 miles per hour. Which is to say that it was frakin’ COLD when we
first started out. It wasn’t until about mile 20 that my arms and legs thawed
out, and around mile 30 that my toes finally began to feel anything except
cold.
The scenery and camaraderie made it easy to forget. As we
formed our first pace line (a rotating single-file line of bicycles riding very
close together to break the wind for each other much the same as geese flying
in a v-pattern), we looked out over the vineyards of gorgeous Napa Valley (the
most famous wine region outside of France) and saw dozens of hot-air balloons
lifting off of the ground and rising into the air. They seemed so close we
could nearly touch them, and Laura especially was astonished by them.
We talked as we rode, and I was excited to discover that
Walt, our team leader grew up in the Kansas City suburbs, just like me, and
graduated from my rival high school (SM South will always be better than SM
East!) We traded stories about KC and high school, and wondered at the beauty
of the morning.
We stopped at the first rest stop around mile 20, because
all of us had to pee. I adjusted my seat up a centimeter or so because my knee
was starting to bother me (fixed the problem). We adjusted Neil’s seat down,
because it was way too high. Grabbed a peanut butter and bread square and an
orange wedge, and set out on Stage 2.
I felt strong. I was finally warm.
Stage 2 had some hills, but they weren’t too high, and
mostly rolling. Couple hundred feet of climbing, but gradual with stretches of
flats and slight downhills. It was also the shortest “stage” of the ride, only
about 12 miles. We stopped at the rest stop, and I munched on some of my
brought foodstuffs (Aussie Bites from Costco), and set out on Stage 3.
I felt strong. Other riders at rest stop 2 were dreading the
upcoming climb, but I knew I’d done a much more difficult climb (the Sierra grade) a few weeks earlier. I was curious to see how my new bike would handle
the mountain, but not worried about the climb. Too much.
We took off on stage 3, and before too long we turned into
the hill. The serious climb of the course, the hardest individual section, was
a 1000ish foot vertical climb over 4 miles. I was ready for it. We immediately
broke into two sections, with Jesse, Laura, and I in the first and Walt
sticking with Neil in the second. Jesse took the clear lead, and broke into the
front. I rode with Laura for awhile, and then she stuck with a couple of other
women we passed as I forged ahead. The hill was a steady grind, but I never
felt stressed. I met Jesse and a couple of other riders at the top, and waited
for everyone else to catch up. I ate a little from my grab-bag (a Honey StingerEnergy Waffle), though I should have had more. I still felt strong, at the
moment, but the hill (and 45 miles of cycling) had consumed energy and I still
had more than 55 miles to go.
After a bit, Jesse, Laura, and I ventured back down the hill
(the wrong way!) to meet up with Walt and Neil and pull them up to the top.
Neil hadn’t been able to train as much as he would have liked, and the hill was
not an easy climb.
We reached the top, and decided to ride the fun part (the
descent) before pow-wowing and making any decisions.
It was fun. Eight miles of steady downhill, although for the
first time on the ride we were on a major road with significant traffic (which
would be par for the rest of the course). I clocked a top speed at one point of 42.2
miles per hour (tying a personal best), and I could’ve easily gone faster
except for the three “fifteen MPH turns,” or so I dubbed them (because of the
road signs advising to take the turns at a speed of 15 mph).
We pow-wowed at the bottom of the descent, because Neil was
gassed. The climb had taken everything he had. We decided to pace-line a slow
pace the five or so miles until the next rest stop, where Neil could turn back
or turn in, if he so chose. Because I had the only cyclo-computer (and thus
could tell exactly how fast we were going), I was chosen to “pull” (lead the
pace-line) at a steady pace to the next rest stop.
We stopped at rest stop 3 (which was actually rest stop 4
for the return trip for this section of the loop). Jesse’s wife Melissa met us
at the rest stop, and picked up Neil who decided to bow out at that time. He’d
done a great ride, but he was spent. It was a great pleasure riding with him.
I filled my water bottles (for the first time). I probably
hadn’t drank as much as I should have, but I started the race well-hydrated and
wasn’t off bad at all. But I made my first real mistake here. I didn’t eat
anything.
I felt strong. The first 35 miles of the ride were the best
I’d ever ridden. I felt like I hadn’t even burned an ounce of energy, and I
powered up the hill like a boss. We were halfway done, and I felt stronger than
ever, even after 50 miles. I might have felt a little over –confident, I won’t
lie.
We left rest stop 3(/4), a little over half-way through the
ride, knowing that all the major climbs were behind us. We got into our
paceline, and got going. We skipped the actual rest stop 3 a few miles later
(since it was only a few miles past our cheater rest stop 4), and got about the
business of closing out the ride.
We rode north-ish through beautiful towns and roads in the
Napa Valley, and made our turnaround through fields of vineyards and the
wonderful early afternoon sun. We picked up two other riders about this point
in our paceline, and we turned into a headwind for the first time all day.
I remember pulling (being first in the paceline, breaking
the wind for everyone else behind), and Walt calling out to me, “You’ve got a
big responsibility, Nate, we’ve got a full train here!” By this point, I
believe we’d picked up four other riders, and our full group was eight riders
strong.
I passed off the lead, and dropped back into the group.
At 60 miles, I didn’t feel strong any more. I still felt
fine, but it had been 20 miles since I’d eaten anything, and my stomach was
starting to be a little uneasy. I hit the first mini-wall. As part of the
pace-line, I powered through it until we (re)stopped at rest area 4 (the same
one as before, this time when we were supposed to stop). I kept staring at the
number-bib on Walt’s jersey in front of me. At the top it said, “Ride to Defeat
ALS,” and then our individual race number, and then the slogan “Never Give Up!”
I used that for inspiration.
I tried to eat a Honey Stinger Energy Waffle, but my stomach
was too upset and I threw half of it away.
At mile 70, I said to myself, “Alright, Nate, it’s mile 70.
You’re a little more than 2/3rds of the way finished. This is just like mile 10
of a half marathon, you know what this feels like. You can do this.” It
inspired me for about 10 seconds, when I realized, “At mile 10 of a half
marathon run, you have 25-30 minutes of work left and then you’re done. I’ve
still got nearly two hours of riding left! That’s like running the entire half
marathon.” Thankfully, I took this thought with a humorous attitude rather than
a defeatist.
At mile 78, I was gassed. I was keeping up with the pace
line, barely, but my thigh muscles were twitching and threatening to cramp. My
stomach was not happy, and I couldn’t even stomach the Accelerade I had in one
of my water bottles. The only thing that I could handle was the other water
bottle, which had been treated with a Camel Bak Elixer tablet. This was
somewhat of a problem, since my battleplan for the race had included half of my
caloric consumption to come from the Accelerade. I’d already fallen away on the
other half when I stopped eating, and now my energy level was dangerously low.
My thigh muscles, specifically in my right leg, were
starting to twitch and threaten to cramp. I was worried; I feared I might have
to stop to get off and stretch them, but I didn’t want to stop the paceline.
Part of it was machismo, part of it was embarrassment; until mile 70 or so, I’d been one of the strong
riders, now I had slipped down to one of the weaker ones.
And then Laura got a flat tire. It was the first (and only) our
team had dealt with for the ride. I’d been paranoid about flats, since the Raleigh
that I’d been riding on previously was notoriously unreliable, but we’d had
great luck. I considered this flat lucky. We had to stop to fix it, but we had
the tools and it gave me time to stretch my legs and gather my energy. And the
final rest stop was only a few more miles away, and I could rest there.
After fixing the flat, we made it to the final rest stop at
mile 83. I remember this stop vividly. I knew I needed energy, and for energy I
needed to eat something, but my stomach revolted at the idea. I filled up my
empty bottle with cold water, and looked at the spread of food. In the most
unusual craving of my life, I noticed a canister of Red Vine black licorice. I
got so excited, and said, “is that licorice?!” the woman behind the table said,
“Yes, but it’s black.” She sounded disappointed, like people who don’t appreciate
the wonder of black licorice. I do, and immediately grabbed a vine. “this is
the weirdest craving ever, but this is exactly what I want,” I said as I
nibbled, and she realized that I was happy about the black licorice instead of
confused. “Unusual, isn’t it?” she said.
They also had potatoes, which had been cooked with rosemary
(which they had at all the stops), and I really wanted some (with salt, because
you need a lot of salt at that point), but my stomach didn’t agree with me. I
settled for an orange wedge, and stuffed a few licorice vines into my pack. I
didn’t end up eating them. I wish they’d had an ice cold can of Coke at that
stop. Would’ve changed my life.
* As we waited at the rest stop, Jesse asked me how I was
doing. “I’m doing fine,” I told him, “just worn out. But I learned a lesson
when we were backpacking Yosemite last June. That first day, when we were close
to camp but not quite there, I thought I was at the end of my rope, I would
have nothing left. But when we reached camp before everyone, I set down my
backpack and knew I had to double-back to help them on that home stretch. I
started back down the trail, and I felt good, and I started going faster, and
then jogging a little bit even. I realized at that moment that you always have
more energy than you think you do. There is always more than you can dig deep
and find.”
I was talking with my sister about this exact same thing
after the ride. So much of endurance athletics is a mental exercise. Your body
can do so much more, go so much further than you think it can. You just have to
be in that right place. Dean Karnazes, a remarkable ultramarathon runner,
quoted something his father told him before a race: “Run if you can, walk if
you have to, and crawl if you must, just never give up.” He may not have known
it, but he was actually paraphrasing Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who said “If
you can't fly then run, if you can't run then walk, if you can't walk then
crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward.”
I didn’t want to wait long before getting started again,
because I feared my body would think we were done and start shutting down, so I
half-heartedly lobbied to get on the road quickly. We did not, and I’m glad we
did not. I needed the rest, and it did me good.
I made my second mistake at this rest stop, though it was
more of an error of omission than a mistake. A pretty girl riding alone a
Specialized Roubaix with a camel bak backpack stopped, and I talked with her
briefly. We mostly discussed the headwinds. I thought about inviting her to
ride with us in our pace line, but I chickened out by rationalizing that she
might be riding the 63 and not the Century and that we would be leaving soon
and she just arrived at the rest stop so she might want to stay longer. I said,
I’ll look for her at the finish, and maybe talk to her then. It didn’t happen.
A microcosm of my interactions with the opposite sex throughout my entire life.
Let’s face it: I suck at talking to girls.
 | |
| A promotional shot; not the actual pretty girl |
We finally left, after resting longer than I wanted to, but
I’m glad that we stayed as long as we did. We had 20ish more miles to go, which
simultaneously felt like absolutely nothing and forever at the exact same time.
Jesse took the lead, and we settled into a pace line. Before too long, we
picked up another solo rider, who was grateful for the chance to draft off of
us, even if that meant sharing time at the front. It proved to me the
brotherhood of cycling; there is absolutely zero to be gained riding alone, and
nothing but benefits from riding in a group. This fellow, Aaron (or Erin),
spoke no more than 2 sentences with me, but I felt a kinship with him after
riding 15ish miles together.
Leaving that final rest stop, we settled into a perfect pace
line. I was weak, but the rests at the stop and with the flat had given me time
to recoup a little bit. I didn’t have the strength to pull the group, but I could
keep up as we kept going south-ish. We were all of one mind, riding within
inches of each other’s tires at a unified pace, Jesse, Walt, and Aaron doing
most of the pulling. We reached the southmost point of the course, and turned
north. The wind was no longer blowing into our face.
Jesse was in the lead of the pace line, and with a tail
wind, he cranked up the pace. After 95 miles, I hadn’t the energy to keep up. I
drifted to the back, and fell behind. I didn’t begrudge them anything, and
would have been fine if they went on without me. I knew I could finish, but I
would be satisfied with finishing, period, regardless of whether or not I did
it with the team.
They didn’t let me fall too far behind.
It was so wonderful to be a part of a team, to have spent
that whole time side-by-side (figuratively), striving together for something so
intangible. I can’t say enough how much better the experience was because I was
with them. Their excitement, encouragement, friendliness made us all stronger
and better for it. Riding with Walt, Laura, Neil, and Jesse really did make a
wonderful experience spectacular, and I have nothing but the utmost respect and
admiration for all four of them.
We finally made the turn into the Veteran’s Center, the
final ¼ mile until the finish. Jesse had fallen back with me, and the rest of
them were only a little in front of me. I was gassed. Each pedal stroke was
more than I thought I could do, and the muscles in my thighs were twitching
with each revolution. I had to stand up on the pedals and stretch them every
few times around so they didn’t lock up.
It felt like electric currents were being jolted through my
thighs. My knees hurt. My stomach roiled. My face felt windblasted. My feet
felt constricted. There was a knot in my left lower back. My brain was
scrambled.
The finish was so close.
At around 200 yards to the finish, less than one minute of
riding, my stomach finally revolted. It would let me go no further, and I had
to pull off to the side of the road to throw up. I dry heaved a few times, and
Jesse circled back. He held my bike while I sat down for a second. I lay down,
and moaned for a few minutes while I gathered myself.
I was so mad at myself, so close to the finish. If I could
have held out for literally one more minute, I would have been across the
finish and it would be over. But no, my body had given out here, just short. The
thought of getting back on that seat was not a pleasant one. I contemplated
walking my bike across the finish, but quickly decided that I’d ridden 99.9
miles and I would cross the finish on my saddle.
I climbed on, clipped my pedals in, lowered into the lower
gears, and pedaled across the finish.
If you’ve never done it, crossed the finish line after
something like that, I can’t properly explain to you what it feels like (and
that’s one reason I suggest everyone do something like that, at least once in
your life). There’s a sense of relief, accomplishment, pride, exhaustion,
satisfaction, and ridiculousness; you’ll really just have to do it yourself.
Dean Karnazes tells the story in his memoir “UltramarathonMan” of his first cross-country race (and victory). He recalls the conversation with his coach at
the finish line like this,
“’Good
work, son,’ he said. ‘How’d it feel?’
“’Well,’
I answered slowly, ‘…It felt pretty good.’
“Coach
kicked some dirt around with his foot. ‘If it felt good,’ he said, squinting
like Clint Eastwood, ‘you didn’t push hard enough. It’s supposed to hurt like
hell.’”
No matter how much pain, misery, or exhaustion you feel, you
will never regret crossing that finish line if you put everything you had into
it and pushed yourself across that finish line with as little left in the tank
as possible.
And, believe it or not, you will forget the pain, and the
next day, maybe two or three later, but sooner than you’d think, you will wake
up wondering when your next ride will be.
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