Race report: THP Winter 35k

When I thought I signed up for the THP Winter 35k in France, I thought I needed it as a qualifier for another race, which in turn I would need to qualify to run yet another race in France, the CCC by UTMB, a tough, mountainous 100k race I'm planning on doing in 2023. But that's a story for another day. As it turned out, I hadn't really signed up for the THP Winter race at all -- at least not according to the race director! But I did manage to do the race, which turned out to be even tougher than I thought it would be, even though it turned out I didn't need it to qualify for my other race, which I am, in fact, already registered to run in!

If that all sounds complicated to you, think of how I felt when I got to the front of what I was pretty sure was the right line at the start of the race, near the summit of Montange de Lure, in what was supposed to be the temperate South of France. The woman who checked runners in couldn't find my name on the list of registered entrants. She went to ask the race director, who in broken English asked if I had an email confirming my registration. I said I did, but there was no cell signal on my phone, but since I had already made my way to the top of this mountain 6,000 miles from my home, I would be happy to re-register. But of course that was also impossible, because she had no reception on her phone, so she couldn't fill in the necessary details online. In the end she decided I looked honest enough, and let me run the race with a promise to drop off 20 euros after I finished. 

By now there was just 15 minutes to the race start time, so I ran back to the car to drop off my race packet and attach my bib -- oh, did I mention they don't give you safety pins for your bib in France? You're supposed to have a race belt, which of course I hadn't brought along on this trip, so I stuffed the bib in my hydration pack and hurried to the start.

There were three events that day -- a 35k, a 20k, and a 10k. I lined up with the 35kers, who all looked much younger and fitter than me, and who all had micro spikes or yaktrax for their shoes, something I had also left back at home. Surely it wouldn't be too snowy on this race, and I had trekking poles, so I'd be fine, right?

I hastily snapped a selfie at the start line and got ready to go.

Ignore all that white stuff behind me... this will be fine

The started counted down 5,4,3,2,1 -- in English! [The only English I heard at the start], and then everyone took off. It was an uphill start, so surely everyone would take it easy, right? Nope, everyone started at a dead run.  You all know this is a 35k with 5,700 feet of climbing, right, I thought to myself. Apparently they did know, and they all knew they were fit enough to head up the 1,000 feet of climbing in the first 5 miles at a dead run. Before I knew it, I was in last place. 

Thankfully, I passed a couple women within the first half-mile. I wasn't in last! I passed another pair of runners, a man and a woman. Okay, maybe this won't be an utter disaster, I thought. But as soon as the trail leveled off and headed down a slippery descent, the man and woman zipped right by me again. Apparently, unless someone ahead of me completely fell apart, I was going to be the last male finisher in the race. By mile 2, there were no other runners in sight, and I was alone on the trail. A couple of small deer bounded in front of me, and I remembered that it was also hunting season in France. No worries, I was much too slow to be mistaken for a game animal!

For the first several miles, the trail alternated between steep ascents and steep descents, all in deep snow with tenuous footing. I'm not a great trail runner, but I'm an even worse snow runner. When I get nervous about my footing, I slow down. My descents were barely faster than my ascents. Eventually the trail worked its way up an exposed ridgeline. We would run along the ridgeline for the next several miles. 

The temperature was close to freezing, but all that climbing had warmed me up, so I stopped to remove my gloves and take a couple photos:

If you squint, you can see a runner up ahead

I'm in the mountains! In France!

In the first photo, in addition to the runner, you can see a mountain with some radar gear on the top; we'd all be climbing that mountain within a couple miles. The bigger mountains in the background are the Alps. We are technically in Haut Provence (the "HP" of THP Winter), a separate range. Haut Provence would be plenty for today!

Spurred on by the prospect of catching another runner, I dashed off down the hill, only to slip on an icy spot and land on my bare knuckles, scraping them up rather painfully. Fortunately all my digits seemed functional, so I carried on gingerly down the hill. Nora got a picture of the nasty-looking knuckles after the race.

Yikes!

I finally figured out that my only chance of catching anyone would be on the UPHILL portion of the race. Patience would be my mantra on the descents. Sure enough, after another short climb and descent, we began climbing the tallest summit of the ridge, to the Signal de Lure at 6,000 feet. There I soon made up ground on the runner ahead of me, and caught him about halfway up the final climb to the summit. At the summit, the snow was quite deep, and we had to make our way around a fenced-in military radar installation. I was worried the runner would catch me as the route got more technical, but thankfully there were some gravel spots where I could get traction on the descent from the summit, and I maintained my precarious position in fourth-from-last place. 

Surely as we descended from the ridge the snow would dissipate at lower elevations, right? Actually the opposite proved to be true; whenever we left the exposed ridge and went into the shady forests, there was even MORE snow. Every so often the trail returned to the ridge, and I stopped to get a photo of the view before we left the ridgetop for good.

These photos really make it look like there is not much snow. Trust me, there was plenty!

Here I am trying to look happy about how much snow there is

There weren't many people along the trail, but it was pretty cool to see anyone because nearly all of them clapped and shouted "Allez! Allez!" as I passed. So much nicer than the "good morning" you get when you pass hikers in the States!

Finally the trail dropped off the ridge for good, and I began to wonder if the promised aid station at 10k would really be there. I was already on Mile 8, with no aid station in sight. Down, down into the forest I descended, with the snow getting deeper and deeper. At least the 40-odd runners ahead of me had trampled the snow down a bit, but their footprints were uneven, which still made for difficult footing. 

Finally the snow seemed to dwindle, with even the occasional bare gravel stretch for 20 feet or so. But the thinner snow surface tended towards ice, so the traction was even a bit worse if there wasn't any gravel to run on. Down, down I descended, giving up all hope of an aid station, when at the 15k mark (9.3 miles) I rounded a corner and saw several cheery Frenchmen and women offering food and drink. I thought about accepting it briefly, but by this point I had figured out that I had plenty of my own food and water, and anything I took from them would only add to the load I was carrying in my pack. So I thanked them and went on without taking anything. They seemed so disappointed!

But now, at last, the trail was clear of snow. Even better, it wasn't a trail but a gravel road. Finally I could stretch out and run. I ran two solid miles in the time it had taken me to go a mile in the snow. I was actually getting hot! I decided to keep running until the trail headed back uphill, then take off my jacket and get some food. Sadly, that was only a half mile further along. I stopped and took off my jacket, then walked, eating a Lara Bar and figuring out how long my next climb was going to be. It would be 1,700 feet of vertical in about 3.2 miles.

I covered the first mile or so quickly, but then the trail got snowier and steeper, and it was difficult to walk fast. I tried to restrain myself from checking my watch every 30 seconds to see how much (or rather, how little) progress I had made up the mountain. I knew I'd be climbing nearly to the top of the ridge I had just run down.

Real-time location of Dave in this story

It never seemed like I was as far as I should be based on how tired I was. I looked up ahead but could only see trees and snow. Surely the ridgetop would come into view soon. Eventually, after seemingly hours of trudging uphill, it did come into view. I knew I would get close to the top but not quite there. Then I noticed someone hiking up the hill to my left, away from the ridgetop. Did the trail turn before it got to the ridge? And was that actually another racer? Was I finally catching someone? Amazingly, the answers were yes, yes, and yes! 

The trail did turn and I was perhaps 200 yards behind another runner. But before I could catch him, the trail leveled off and headed downhill, and, leery of my previous experience, I let him continue ahead of me (since apparently everyone in France descends in the snow better than I do). Now it was back down another precipitous, snowy trail, which once again seem to continue farther than I could imagine. The snow was deeper still in this narrow valley, and it appeared that only a single vehicle had been this way (along with the 40 or so runners ahead of me). This means the footing was every more precarious, and I had to slow to keep from falling.

When the snow finally started to dissipate, the trail was rockier than before and it was difficult to run on. Eventually I got to a runnable section, which again lasted a frustratingly short period of time. Then it was back up on the final climb -- another 1,800 feet over another 3+ miles, and then a short descent to the finish line.

I was surprised to come upon a second aid station about a mile into this climb, at about Mile 17 (it was supposed to be around Mile 12), where the volunteers were concerned about my bloody knuckles, and the runner I had seen earlier was stopped eating some food. I told the workers my hand was fine, and continued on uphill ahead of my rival. I was now FIFTH from last, with only 3.5 miles to go!

I trudged on up the hill as quickly as possible, though deep snow, then through a VERY slippery icy section where the snow was exposed to the sun and was melting. I passed two volunteers who told me there was just 1.5k to go -- less than a mile! Soon I was at the top of the final climb and only had a descent to the finish. But of course, this descent was steep and slippery, and soon my rival caught me (and very graciously asked if I was okay before proceeding ahead). 

Finally I emerged from the descent and could see the finish line across a field, only 200 yards away. There were actual people cheering us on in the middle of the field, and I started running (very carefully in my exhausted state), making my way across the field and up a short hill on pavement to the finish archway, where a very cheery DJ welcomed me to the finish. He must have been very bored, because there were probably only 7 or 8 finishers during the last hour of his shift!

Once we finished (and only then), we were awarded finisher shirts, and then could head for a refreshment table, where I had a cup of hot coffee and chatted with my rival. He said he hadn't been able to train on hills and that's why he was so slow on the climbs. I noted that there was no snow where I was from, so hadn't had any opportunity to train on that! The aid station volunteers wanted me to have more food, but I just wanted to get home, so I headed back to my car. I remembered I was supposed to get 20 euros for the race director, but of course, I had no cash in the car either, and besides, I was completely exhausted, and it was all I could do to take a picture of the waning sun from the parking lot before heading back to my hotel 8 miles down the road. 

Another photo with deceptively little snow...

I was a little disappointed in my 4th-from last finish, but in my defense, it seemed that many of the slower runners did not attempt the 35k distance. I looked up the results from the 20k, and 20+ runners had run a slower pace than me, even over that shorter distance. So maybe I'm not so slow on the snow.... Either way, it was a challenging day in some beautiful mountains, so regardless of how I did in the race, it was still a great adventure and a new and different experience. But I probably won't do a lot of running races in the snow in the future. I'll leave that to the young 'uns and stick to races with better footing. Or who knows, maybe I'll try an ice race, just for the heck of it!

Click here for my Strava record of the race.

P.S. I did check my email and I do have a receipt showing I paid for the race, so I promise I will email the race directer and let her know. Tomorrow.

P.P.S. The race director got back to me and of course there was no additional charge! So all's well that ends well!

The Presidential Traver—or rather, Climbing Mt. Washington the hard way!

My buddy Carl and I had an epic adventure in the White Mountains yesterday. It didn't go as planned, but it's hardly an adventure if it does, right? The plan was to do the Presidential Traverse, a challenging 20-mile run / hike across the tallest mountains in New Hampshire, including the iconic Mount Washington, at 6,288 feet elevation, then descend to the other side of the range. Starting from just 1,300 feet, we knew there would be a lot of climbing. We knew the weather wasn't great, with a forecast of temperatures around freezing and 30-50 mph winds. But it was looking better than the alternative, which was to wait until the next day, when freezing rain was in the forecast, so we started out in the dark at 5 am and hoped for the best. 

At the trailhead

From the start, the trail was challenging, rocky, and steep. We shook our heads every time we turned a corner and saw another steep, rocky pitch to ascend. Carl stopped to take a picture of me climbing a typical section of the trail:

Oof!

It wasn't runnable, but we soon climbed up above 4,000 feet and arrived at our first serious challenge, Mount Madison. Now above the treeline, there wasn't really a trail, just a series of cairns in a steep, rocky ascent into the clouds. 

It was impossible to see how far we had to climb

As we climbed, the rocks got icier and icier, and the wind got stronger and stronger. I soon found my poles were useless as I needed to grab onto rocks with my hands and pull myself up, so I ditched them, knowing we would descend the same way. Carl stopped to change into warmer clothing but told me to continue on. After 100 yards, I stopped as well, knowing the wind would probably get stronger as we climbed. I took off my gloves and jacket and stowed them on the lee side of a cairn, hoping they wouldn't blow away. Then I stretched and contorted to put my technical running top on over my short-sleeved tee shirt. Then I fought the winds for several minutes to put my jacket back on. Finally there was even more struggling to put on my gloves and mittens. By this time, Carl was well ahead of me. I struggled toward the top, where Carl had stopped to take my photo, which should give you a good idea of the conditions up there. 

Epic!

At the summit of Mount Madison

At the top, we experienced our first full blast of wind, easily 50 mph. The descent was even more precarious as it's harder to find something to grab on to on your way down. Finally we made it back to the Madison Hut, which was closed for the season. We sheltered behind the hut and added all the layers we had. Once again, even in the lee of the hut, it was still a struggle to get the additional layers on. Our hands were frozen by the time we finished. We were both in shorts. I had a pair of tights that I could have added but my legs weren't cold and it would have been a pain to get them on and I would have gotten even colder as I did it. On to Mount Adams.

Adams was taller, icier, and rockier than Madison. The climb up was steeper as well. We would be descending a different route, so I stowed my poles on my pack. I hoped the descent would be easier than this! As we climbed, the route got steeper and steeper. It was a full-on, four-limbed scramble, before it finally leveled off a bit near the summit. Here Carl got another photo of me:

Even more epic!

The two of us atop Mount Adams

At the top, once again we were in the full face of the wind, but now we had to descend on an exposed ridge, scrambling across icy, jagged rocks that ranged from 1 to 4 feet in size. My right pole nearly fell off my pack and I struggled to strap it back in place. The wind was blasting me and my glasses fogged up. I was worried my hat would blow off. My nose was dripping incessantly, reminding me that I had forgotten to take my allergy medicine in the morning. A gust of wind blew a strand of mucus onto my glasses, which promptly froze across my field of view. I decided to remove my glasses and hat and plugged on, inching my way forward and downward, guessing at where to place my feet on the now-blurred surface of the icy rocks. After a couple hundred yards I decided it would be easier with poles and foggy glasses, so I put my glasses back on, removed my right pole from the pack and unfolded it. Then I went to get the left pole and saw that it was missing! It must have fallen off in the past hundred yards or so, but progress had been so perilous that I decided not to try to find the missing pole and went ahead with half-fogged glasses and one pole. Finally we made our way to a somewhat less windy spot and regrouped. [If you look back at the selfie from the top of Mount Adams, you will see that my left pole was already missing, so not going back was a very good call; it would have taken as long as an hour to find it!]

Just 5.5 miles in to our planned 20+ mile journey, it seemed unlikely that we would be able to finish. We knew there was a road and a cog railway at the summit of Mount Washington, 5 miles away, so we decided to make our way there and bail out.

Soon after this, we encountered the first hikers we had seen on the trip. They told us Mount Jefferson, ahead of us, was icy. We told them the Madison Hut, where they were headed, was closed, and Mount Adams was really rough. Then we each plunged forward in our respective directions. I was moving slower and slower, and Carl would walk ahead and then wait for me every quarter-mile or so. He was getting cold, and all this stopping wasn't helping the situation. The trail was relentlessly rocky, but thankfully not as icy as it had been on Mount Adams. Meanwhile I wasn't getting anything to eat, because I felt guilty every time Carl had to wait for me and so didn't stop to fuel up.

Working our way along the trail

At the base of Mount Jefferson, Carl figured out that there was a trail around the summit. It took us all of 5 seconds to decide we weren't going to summit Jefferson, so we went around it on a mercifully less-rocky trail (and by "less rocky" I mean "rockier than nearly any other trail I've been on"). 

Finally we started the climb up Mount Washington. The trail got rockier again, and we were concerned that it would get even icier than the others since it was 700 feet taller. It was definitely icier, and the winds were probably stronger than any we had experienced previously, but it was thankfully not as steep as Madison or Adams. The was some semblance of a trail through the rocks, and we saw some other hikers descending through the blasting wind. We could hear the sound of the cog railway chugging up the mountain, seemingly right next to us, but we couldn't see anything. Finally a train emerged out of the fog, less than 40 yards away! It was slowly chugging its way upward through the cloud, puffing a ribbon of smoke that was instantly transported away by the wind. More importantly, this mean the train was actually running that day, which meant we would have a way to get down off the mountain!

The steam train blasting up the tracks

The trail went right under the train tracks, which didn't seem right. I consulted the map I'd loaded onto my watch and saw that we had followed the wrong trail, which indeed did go under the tracks, but not to the top of the mountain. But we weren't far from the right trail, and I saw that if we hiked alongside the tracks, we'd soon rejoin the summit trail. Mercifully, the ground was soft and footing was firm next to the tracks; we guessed this was from the cinders spewed out by the steam engine. Eventually we regained the correct trail, which got icier with every step. Then this trail too crossed the tracks. I double-checked with my watch and saw that we were on the right trail, and so we stepped across. I was halfway across when I saw the lights of a train coming down the tracks toward me. I had visions of a Wile E. Coyote-style collision and hustled across. It was only when I was safely on the other side of the tracks that I saw the train was probably moving about 3 miles per hour! We waved to the passengers in the steamy coach, hoping we'd join them soon.

Finally we made our way to the top. I headed straight for the summit building, leaving Carl to take a summit selfie by himself. I was completely spent. We had climbed a total of over 7,000 feet, much of it in icy, windy conditions while scrambling over rocks. Suddenly we were in a world of tourists and tchotchkes. They looked at us like we were crazy, and I suppose we were, a little bit. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Besides, my bowl of clam chowder and cup of hot chocolate purchased at the summit cafe tasted SOOOO much better to me having worked my way [halfway] across the Presidential Traverse. 

I knew there was a van service that took passengers up the road to the top as well as the cog railway, so Carl inquired as to which would be the better option for us to get to the bottom. As it turned out, there was only one, the railway; the road had been closed due to the extreme weather conditions. The weather had been even worse than forecast, with an AVERAGE wind speed of 49.2 mph. We had felt it on the hike but convinced ourselves that it couldn't have been that bad, even though we felt like the wind could blow our form-fitting beanies off our heads, and our poles nearly got blown out from under us before we could plant them on the ground. The maximum wind speed for the day according to the Mount Washington Observatory was 77 mph. Carl found out we could ride the railway down on a space-available basis; we'd have to ask the operator if there was room. Then we'd be on our own to figure out how to get from the bottom of the railway to our car 10 miles away. There were no taxi services and Uber seemed unlikely in this remote spot. 

As we lined up for the railway, we noticed two women who looked to be in a similar predicament to us. They heard us talking about getting to our car and offered to give us a ride. 

"Really!?!" we said! "That would be awesome!"

"Well, we'll see how far it is when we get to the bottom and let you know."

On the ride down we chatted with some of the other passengers, and were amazed at how quickly the train descended below the wind and fog, despite its lethargic 3-mph pace. Soon we were in an autumnal wonderland, with stunning fall colors all around us. I only managed to take a quick selfie on the train.

Happy to be warm!

As we paid our fares, the two women told us they could definitely drive us, and we thanked them probably too many times to count. "We're Sarah and Sarah," they told us [names may have been changed to protect the innocent]. We introduced ourselves and chattered away. When we got to their car, they offered us beers, but we were too cold and sore (and old) to partake. They happily poured themselves some hard selzers (carefully disguised in thermal mugs), and we drove down the road to our waiting car. As we arrived at our car, we saw two women in hiking gear, hitchhiking. Sarah and Sarah told us we should pay it forward and give those women a ride. So we did. Turns out they had carefully dropped a car at the end of their planned point-to-point hike, but forgot to take their keys! Unlike us, they had actually completed the hike as planned; they just couldn't get into their car when they arrived! 

All this goodwill left us with a nice feeling after what was technically an unsuccessful trip. We had planned to run 20.5 miles and climb 8 peaks. We ended up running not one step and only summiting 3 peaks, taking 8 hours and 45 minutes for half a trip when the whole trip should have taken 12 hours. Somehow none of that mattered. We had summited Mount Washington in freezing temperatures and near-hurricane-force winds. We had done something epic; just not the epic something we thought we were going to do. It was a very good day.

Click here for the Strava record of the trip

Race Report: The Sheep Mountain 50k

Sheep Mountain is a rather unassuming name for a peak. In fact, in Colorado there are dozens of mountains with that name. But I had been looking for an ultra that would fit into my travel schedule this summer, and Sheep Mountain 50k is the one that worked out for me. This particular "Sheep Mountain" is near Fairplay, Colorado, where the race starts. It's 12,800 feet tall... not too big as Colorado mountains go, but plenty big for a flatlander from North Carolina. I have tried to run at this elevation before, and I knew it would be a challenge for me, especially as the path took me above 12,000 feet, where I usually start to get altitude sickness.

Fortunately the race is only above that height for a couple miles. Unfortunately, the rest of the race is all above 10,000 feet! It starts in Fairplay, and gradually winds its way uphill towards the big ascent of the mountain. The trail doesn't quite take you to the summit, but it peaks out at nearly 12,500 feet! Here's the elevation profile (from my Strava record of the race):

After you reach the top, you descend nearly to the start elevation, then climb back halfway up the mountain before returning to the start / finish line. 

I had been in Colorado for two weeks before the race, but only spent 4 days in Fairplay at 10,000 feet. The previous 9 days were in Basalt, at 6,500 feet. That's a decent elevation, but still doesn't quite prepare you for the conditions nearly 2 miles above sea level. According to my Garmin, I was acclimated to an 8,000 foot elevation when I awoke on race morning. That's not bad, but of course I'd be running up to an elevation 4,500 feet above this! Despite having run this far a few times, I'd never been an official finisher of a trail 50k. 

I got to the start area about 5:30 am, and sat in my car like most of the other runners, trying to stay warm on a 45-degree morning. At 5:50, we all jumped out of our cars and walked up to the start line. After a short talk from the race director, we were off! 

There were maybe 150 runners, most of us running the 50k, but maybe 30 or 40 doing the 50-miler (they added an extra loop starting at about the 15-mile point). The first 5 miles were a gradual climb up a smooth gravel road. I ran easily at a 10-ish-minute pace, walking whenever the grade steepened too much. 

The road was gradually getting rougher and a little steeper. Then suddenly a group of 15 or 20 runners was running towards me. "Turn around," they said, "we missed the turn." It hardly seemed possible to get lost along this road, but the actual route took a left turn and we all had missed it. The course had been well-marked with pink ribbons but clearly someone had removed them at this spot. Fortunately I had only run an extra half-mile or so, but it still sucked to miss the turn. A friend told me the women's winner went an extra 2 miles!

Moose sighting!

Back on course, the road continued to get rougher and steeper, until we finally crested and descended a very rough road to the first aid station, officially at Mile 7 (though my watch read 7.5). After a half mile on a smooth gravel road, we turned onto a singletrack trail. The trail headed upward, then across a difficult section of scree composed partially of petrified wood. There was no way to run on this section; the rocks were too loose and uneven. Fortunately that ended after about a half mile, and we were again running on singletrack through forest. 

Around Mile 10, the big climb began. It would be 2,000 feet over 2 miles, switching back and forth up Sheep Mountain. About halfway up, I got passed by an old guy. "Another graybeard?" he said, "Might I ask your age." I told him I was 54. "You're no graybeard! I'm 67!" And he charged ahead. 

Not long after that another guy passed me and I said "Can you believe that guy is 67?" 

"Well, I'm 69," he replied. 

Yep, that's a 69-year old leaving me in his dust

As the 69-year-old zipped ahead of me, I plodded my way up the ever-steeper slopes, now once again a crude trail made of piled-up scree. I could see runners hundreds of feet above me on another switchback, and was disheartened to realize that I'd have to climb that high as well. Finally I reached the high point of the trail and stopped to take a photo. 

A hazy day near the top of Sheep Mountain

I had been told that we'd have a spectacular view of Pikes Peak from Sheep Mountain, but sadly it was so hazy from all the forest fires across the west that I could barely see the valley at the base of the mountain. Next was a steep 2,500 descent to nearly the same elevation as the start line. Much of the trail was the difficult, non-runnable scree I had been laboring up on the ascent. Eventually I reached a forest road that was a little easier, and after a half-mile or so of this I reached the aid station, where the friendly check-in guy asked me if I had had enough rocks. I told him I thought I had, and he said "good, you're in for a lot more of them!"

A trail marker in the scree

After I had my fill of cookies and stocked up on water, I continued down the mountainside. Fortunately it wasn't the scree I had been laboring through, but just a very rocky jeep road. Still difficult to run on, but not nearly as challenging as scree. Eventually the road leveled out, and I reached the third aid station, at Mile 16.8 by my watch. At this point I was having difficulty running at all, even on relatively flat, even surfaces. I filled up on water, cookies, and chips, and then headed off again. The trail rolled on through the woods, up and down gradual hills. Not being able to run, I just hiked as quickly as I could, trading places with a couple other runners who looked to be about as beat up as me. Eventually the trail markers clearly indicated I should be turning left, while the map I had uploaded to my watch clearly indicated I should be  continuing straight. I decided to follow the trail markers, while my watch beeped in protest. 

This trail headed back up Sheep Mountain, and I knew from looking over the official course map before the race that that was what we were supposed to do, so I must have made a mistake with the map I uploaded to my watch. In fact we climbed halfway back up the mountain, before joining up with the trail we had climbed up on before. The course was a big, misshapen lollipop, with the first and last 10 miles or so as the "stick" and the middle 11 as the "candy": 

Now it would all be familiar territory. I was dreading the one last scree field before we moved back onto roads for the 8 miles to the finish. I made my way across the petrified scree and onto the road, where another couple runners passed me. I told myself it was time to start running again, but every time I tried, my body wouldn't cooperate. Finally I arrived at the last aid station, at Mile 25.8 by my watch, where I allowed myself a 10-minute break, eating as many cookies and drinking as much Coke as I could before heading back out on the road. 

7 miles to go, and now it would all be gravel roads. After a steep climb out of the aid station, it would be mostly downhill. The road surface gradually improved, and I did manage to run a bit -- 1 minute on, 2 minutes off. 4 miles to go, and  there was an unmanned water stop where I refilled a flask, just in case. With 3 miles to go the lead 50-mile runner ran passed, looking solid and steady at probably a 9-minute pace while I could barely manage a walk. I noticed I had phone service and texted Greta to let her know when to expect me at the finish line. 2 miles to go, then 1 mile to go. Surely I could run the last mile, couldn't I? Nope. At this point I was just walking. With a quarter mile to go another man passed me, also walking, but faster than I could. He was maybe 50 yards ahead of me as we approached the finish, and he sprinted to the end. 40 yards from the end, a photographer approached me and said "show me what you got." 

"This is all I got," I said, and I walked to the finish. Greta was there, and snapped a picture of me walking across the line. 

I had gotten my first official finish at a trail ultra. A really tough trail ultra -- I definitely didn't make this easy on myself. I was absolutely spent. My body didn't know what to do with itself. I didn't know if I wanted to eat, drink, or take a nap. Greta drove me back to our rental condo and I decided what I wanted to do was sleep. "Not before you take a shower," Greta said. Reluctantly, I stumbled into the shower, then took a 45-minute nap, and woke up hungry, still not knowing what to eat. I finally choked down a potato and went to bed, dreaming of anything but running up the side of a mountain. 

If you're interested,  here's the Strava record of my race.

Brief Race Recap: Duathlon Nationals 2021

I have spent the spring focusing on a fast 5k time and haven't really had time to seriously train for multi-sport, but I did really want to do this one race, the draft-legal Sprint Duathlon National Championship in Tuscaloosa. The race is a qualifier for the world championship. I had qualified for 2020 worlds in a non-draft-legal event, but of course the 2020 race was cancelled, so I wanted to try again, this time to qualify for the 2022 world championship in Australia. 

We had a bit of a scare driving to the Sunday race on Saturday, because we needed to arrive by 4:00 pm to pick up the race packet. I had given myself a 2-hour cushion, 9 hours instead of the expected 7, in case of bad traffic, but we got a bit of a late start, then got caught in a 90-minute traffic jam. All the sudden my GPS was estimating we would make it with only minutes to spare. So all bathroom breaks were cancelled as we tore across Georgia and Alabama trying to make it to the race on time. I made it to registration, just barely, but I was starving, dehydrated, and badly needed to pee, all at the same time.

Two dinners and many glasses of water later, I finally felt human again and went to sleep dreaming about porta-potties. 

On race morning things went a bit smoother, except for the part where I forgot my cycling glasses and so was constantly worried about my regular prescription glasses sliding off my face as I walked nervously around the transition area wearing my required facemask (despite already having received my vaccine).

Finally we all lined up at the start and were allowed to throw away our masks. Soon we were off, somewhat socially distanced as they started us in groups of 5, spaced apart by a few seconds each. This little bit of spacing actually mattered quite a bit as this was a draft-legal race, so the idea is to find a pack to ride with on the bike section of the race so you can conserve energy for the run. By spreading us out from the start, the officials were making it harder to employ the usual strategy on the ride.

I decided to go for a conservative 6:45 pace on the run so I would have something left for the ride. Even this pace felt pretty difficult for me, probably because of the non-ideal pre-race drive the day before. I ended up running closer to a 7:00 pace and headed out on the ride. 

As I feared, I didn't find a pack to ride with and could see only  a couple riders ahead. I caught one of them, then another rider caught us, and we had a group of three. Until we hit the first hill, then one of the guys dropped away, and now there were just two of us. But we could see a pack of 7 or 8 riders perhaps a quarter mile ahead. Me and this guy (I later found out his name was also Dave) worked together and started to reel that pack in. We made good progress on the climbs but they would always pull away on the flats and downhills. Finally at about Mile 8 out of the 12-mile ride, we were on a big climb, and I made up my mind to bridge the gap. I caught them right as we crested the hill, and Dave was with me. Then it was going to be easy cruising until the finish. 

It didn't take me long to realize that these guys were ahead of us because they were really good runners. My only chance to beat them would be to force them to work harder on the ride, so I took the lead and continued to push the pace. They stayed together as a pack, though, so we all rode into transition together.

As I feared, I had little energy left for the second run. I was struggling to run even 8-minute pace. The whole pack of riders passed me, most of them patting me on the back and thanking me for a strong ride. I guess I was the sap who worked too hard on the ride!

Finally I made my way to the finish, and the group of riders was all there. They all congratulated me on my ride and Dave thanked me for pushing him so hard -- he ended up on the podium in his age group. Greta got a picture of the two of us:

Glad to have met a new friend

I ended up 8th in my age group. That qualifies me to compete at the 2022 World Championship! Plus I had a lot of fun on the ride chasing down that group of riders. Maybe in 2022 I'll do a little more work on strategy, and maybe a little more duathlon-specific training, and see what I can do at the championship. Either way, it was a fun event and I'd like to do more draft-legal racing in the future.

Race report: 5K 5K

 After a year of running mostly at a relatively slow pace training for an Ironman, one of my goals this season was to build my 5k speed back again. The target race was the Lake Norman 5k, on May 2. I haven't run a sub-20 5k in my 50s (the last one was the Runway 5k in 2016 at age 49) so sub-20 minutes was the goal.

Race day came and I toed the line with several hundred runners, most of whom would be running the Lake Norman Half marathon, which shared the course for the first 1.55 miles. Carl would be joining me for the effort, shooting for a sub-19. There was pandemonium less than a quarter mile into the race as the race leaders and two of the lead bikes inexplicably took a right turn off the course. The eventual half-marathon winner ran an extra quarter mile, but fortunately I was in a group that figured out what happened before going off course. Carl, unfortunately, did do some extra distance in sorting out where to go. 

I wasn't feeling great but I wanted to give myself a chance, so I sucked it up and ran a 6:23 first mile (you need to run 6:26 pace to go sub-20 minutes). The first half of the race was mostly uphill, so I was counting on a downhill finish. We reached the turnaround where the half-marathoners continued straight ahead while the 5kers reversed course, and I could see that Carl was in first, there was one runner between us, and I was in third. Heading downhill now, I hoped it would start to feel easier. It didn't. I completed Mile 2 in 6:31, still on track for a sub-20. But then the road flattened and even seemed to be going slightly uphill. I couldn't keep up the pace, no matter how hard I tried. I got slower and slower. I think I may have even slowed briefly to a 7-minute pace. When the hill ended and we were going downhill again, I just couldn't go any faster. I started wondering if anyone was going to challenge me for third. I figured even if they did, I would still be first in my age group. I did a lot of negotiating with myself, fighting the urge to stop or slow down drastically. Finally the finish line came into view and I could see the clock. Not only had I missed my chance at a sub-20, the clock was already in the 21s. My official time was 21:07.

Carl won the race but was also nearly a minute off his goal time. We got some great prizes but hardly felt like we earned them because we hadn't met our race goals.

Checks, giant awards, and beverages! But disappointing finish times

By the time we were scarfing down post-race breakfast, we were already hatching a plan for a do-over. We'd do a 5k time trial on the track the following week and see if we could do better. This time we recruited Chas and Derek as pacers.

Fast forward a week and we were lined up on the track, with Chas pacing the 19-minute group (Carl and Brad) and Derek pacing the 20-minute group (me). My plan was to run even 95-second laps. If I could do that 12.5 times, I'd have my sub-20 5k. I let Derek set the pace and he updated me on our progress. We started a little fast but soon settled into a groove. We were right on pace through 4 laps - about a mile. My old soccer buddy David Boraks was there and snapped photos of the two groups. 

Chas, Carl, and Brad trying for sub-19

Derek and me going for sub-20

About 6 laps in, I could see Carl dropping out ahead of me. Apparently he just didn't have it this day. But Chas and Brad continued on. Meanwhile I was having struggles of my own. Had Carl and I tried to reboot too soon? I made it through Mile 2 still on pace, but I was really beginning to labor. Maybe if I slowed just a bit I could pick it up and still finish strong. My 95-second laps were becoming 98- and 99-second laps. Just two laps to go -- surely you can pick up the pace now, right? But I couldn't. I think I was finally able to get back up to goal pace for the final lap, but the damage had been done and my time was 20:20. That was definitely the best I had done in a couple years, but not the sub-20 I had been looking for. 

Brad ended up with a 19:30 -- short of his goal but still a big PR for him, so that was great! I think if I had another month of training with continued perfect weather, I could maybe hit that sub-20. But unfortunately I'm registered for a duathlon in 2 weeks. Then I'm planning a big bike trip across Virginia, and I'm signed up for an ultra in August. So 5k training is over for now. I did what I could, and I did run a pretty decent 5k for a 54-year-old, all things considered. I had planned to lose some weight this spring, which definitely would have helped in the 5k, but given that many folks have gained big chunks of weight during the pandemic, I probably shouldn't complain. I'm excited about my plans for the rest of the summer, so I don't think I'll change a thing! 

Click here for my Lake Norman 5k data

Click here for my track time trial data

Race Report: The Brolympus / Sonic / DART Virtual Ironpalooza

 Three weeks ago, I had to cut my 16-mile run down to 10 miles due to excruciating pain from Morton's Neuroma (a nerve irritation between the 3rd and 4th toes. WAY more painful than it sounds!). Two weeks ago, during my last "Superbrick" workout (a long run following a long ride), the pain was starting to get to me in the first MILE of my 90-minute run. Somehow I hobbled my way through and finished that workout, but I decided to take my podiatrist up on his offer to give me a cortisone shot a week before my virtual Ironman race. A week ago, I was in his office getting shot up for the second time in less than a month. On Sunday, despite not having run more than 14 miles since May, and no more than 16.5 in one push since January, I somehow managed to complete 26.2 miles after swimming and biking and became an Ironman! Well, sort of.

Crossing the "finish line" (from Dawn's video)

An Ironman is 140.6 miles of swim, bike, and run. But Ironman competitors are picky about who or what they call an "Ironman." Some folks don't consider it an Ironman if it is not an Ironman® brand race. Some won't even call an Ironman-brand finisher an "Ironman" if they happened to be in a race that was shortened due to logistical / weather issues. I was registered for Ironman Arizona but leery about traveling across the country during Covid times -- especially since social distancing meant that I would have limited support from friends and family (not to mention the official race organizers) during the race. In the end the race was cancelled just 10 days before it was scheduled to occur. So instead I asked my run, bike, and swim buddies at home in Davidson, NC to support me in my own personal virtual Ironman. I'd swim in Lake Davidson, bike in loops around Davidson, and run up and down the main road out of town and along a greenway in Davidson. Even though it may not technically be an "Ironman," I was amazed at how my friends came through for me.

I was careful about one thing: To make sure that each event in the Ironman covered at least the regulation distances: 2.4 miles (or 4,224 yards) for the swim, 112 miles for the ride, and 26.219 miles for the run. I also did not stop the clock at any point, just like in a real race. Transitions, potty breaks, traffic lights, and mechanical issues would be included in the total time. 

I started the swim at 6 am on a 46-degree morning. Since morning temps can drop well below freezing here this time of year, I was glad that it wasn't too cold. The water was probably around 60 degrees (my usual lake temperature reference web site has been on the blink lately so I don't know the exact temp). It was cold enough that I decided to go with a neoprene swim cap instead of the usual thin silicone one. I had tried it just once when the water temps were in the upper 60s and it was too warm, so I was hoping I wouldn't get overheated.

My buddy Tristan would accompany me in his kayak, and we were joined by Tristan's partner Noa, and another run buddy, Chad. We were quite a spectacle cruising across the lake in the morning darkness. Tristan's boat was festooned with lights, and Chad and Noa sported bright headlamps, so I had excellent guidance in the dark. 

Tristan and Noa with Chad in the background. I might be there somewhere but I have no light

Since GPS watches are rather unreliable in the water, I had Tristan carry mine on his boat. We charted a course straight north from the beach outside his condo; I would rely on Tristan to tell me when to turn around at the halfway point. I was hoping to swim at about a 2:30/100 yard pace, which would have me finishing in an hour and 45 minutes. I had swum this course three times before, so I knew what landmarks were at which points along the way, but it was still disconcerting to not know my time and pace. I stopped Tristan a few times to find out how far and fast I had swum. I seemed roughly on track at the turnaround point -- 53 minutes -- but I knew I would probably slow down a bit on the way back. It was a lovely morning with a gorgeous sunrise, which Tristan captured in this awesome photo:

The water was this smooth for the entire swim

As we approached the beach, Tristan asked if I wanted him to let me know when I had hit the exact distance. I could then stop and run along the waterfront to the spot where I had left my sandals. That seemed like a good idea, and we stopped about 30 yards short of my starting point. Swim time: 1:54:12 -- a little slower than I hoped but not bad. The shoreline was uneven here, so I tripped and fell back in the water, losing my goggles. "Leave the goggles," Tristan shouted. "We'll find them later!" I seriously doubted we would, but I figured a $5 pair of goggles was a small loss for a day I had already invested an unmentionable amount of money in. I finally made my way to my sandals, which I struggled to put on for the 50-yard run to my bike. I didn't want to step on a rock or something and aggravate my Morton's Neuroma before I even started the real run, but I probably wasted a couple minutes in this effort. Finally I got to my bike and was able to change in the Adventure Van, which was not Tristan's van but which he had in his condo parking lot (long story).

I stripped naked, lubed up, and put on my cycling gear, then headed outside to pee before getting on the bike. My swim-and-bike buddy, Finnin, would be accompanying me for the first half of the ride. Long-time run and swim buddy Hope was there to collect all my gear and drive my car to the town green, where she and run buddy Dawn would set up the aid station for the bike and run. Transition time: 14 minutes. 

A good ride is the key to a good Ironman. Most decent swimmers can complete the swim relatively easily (I'm a slow swimmer but still didn't have much trouble with it), and you can walk giant chunks of the run and still finish before the cutoff time -- as long as you finish the ride in a reasonable amount of time. 112 miles on a bike is a serious chunk of distance, and there are lots of ways to mess it up. You can ride too hard and have nothing left for the run. You can go too slow and take too many breaks. You can crash, or have mechanical issues. You can neglect your nutrition and have nothing left for the end of the race. Your bike can be improperly fitted, or too aggressive in its setup, making the ride painful and setting yourself up for failure. 

I have a pretty aggressive setup on my triathlon bike. I bought it for sheer speed and aerodynamics as I tried to get faster on shorter events where these things matter more than comfort. But it was also designed to go the distance in a full Ironman, so I had trained myself to get used to the aggressive riding position, gradually gaining the ability to ride 100+ miles in the awkward aero position. 

On my bike during a much shorter time trial (Photo: Dustin)

My plan was to try to average about a 19.5 mph pace, using a power meter to monitor my efforts. Over 200 watts was definitely not going to be sustainable on a ride this long, so I watched and dialed it back when I started pushing too hard. However, on my training rides I always stopped the timer for traffic lights and breaks. This time the clock would keep running, so I wasn't sure I would be able to maintain that pace when all the little stops were averaged in. The course was four loops of about 27 miles each (the first was a little longer to make sure I had the required 112 miles). I also needed to consume about 36 ounces of Gatorade and a Clif Bar during each loop to make sure I had enough left in the tank for the run. 

Finnin and I kept it close to the 19.5 mph pace for the first lap. But then we had to stop at the aid station to restock with Gatorade. I also needed to unwrap a Clif Bar and start eating it because I knew I couldn't do that while riding. When we got going again, our average speed was down to 19.2. Then we had bad luck with traffic lights and slowed a bit more. About 10 miles into the second loop, Finnin says "Dave, I hate to say this but I really need to pee!" After 48 ounces of Gatorade, I needed to go too. I had scouted the bike route for this purpose but there really weren't many places to stop that were out of public view. I had gotten permission to use the bathroom at Davidson College Presbyterian Church, but that was 17 miles away, near the aid station. But I did remember a spot about 4 miles ahead along an industrial section of road where peeing in the trees probably wouldn't offend anyone's sensibilities. We arrived at the spot and it was surrounded by deep mud. Somehow we found a place to lay down our bikes and rushed into the trees to get some relief. Now our average speed was down to 18.8 mph. I had a sinking feeling I wasn't going to be able to build that back above 19 mph for the rest of the ride.

A few miles later I started work consuming my second bottle of Gatorade for the loop. Only it wasn't Gatorade, it was water! I was the one who packed the bottles, so it was my fault, but I wanted to make sure the mistake wasn't repeated. "Finnin, do you have a phone on you? Can you call Dawn at the aid station and make sure we get two bottles of Gatorade?" He did, but he had to stop to get it out of a Ziplock baggie, so he told me to go on alone to the aid station. He knew he wouldn't be able to catch up to me after a stop. At the aid station, Nicole was planning on joining me as ride buddy, and Finnin would be finished anyways. I soldiered on to the aid station where Nicole joined me.

Dawn (who was there ALL DAY) resupplying while Nicole joins for Laps 3 and 4

Finnin, Dawn, and Kathy at the aid station after his ride was done

I was slowing down a bit but managed to keep the average pace around 18.8 for the ride. After a couple of technical issues (fortunately easily resolved) and witnessing a near-collision between two cars, Nicole and I completed lap 3. Only one lap to go, and two more riders -- Shawn and Morgan -- would be joining us. At this point, after over 100 ounces of Gatorade / water, I really needed to pee again, so I headed up the steps to the church next to the aid station. The church pastor, Peter Henry, was waiting for me at the door. "No need to mask up; there's no one in there!" he said. He had waited after the virtual service ended just to let me in! We headed off for the last lap, our average speed down to 18.5 mph after the bathroom break. While my body was starting to break down a bit, I was cheered by our new companions. Shawn got an awesome group selfie during the ride (per Ironman rules, I did not draft behind Shawn -- notice he is off to the side, not in front of me!).

Whee!

I counted down as the mileage got closer to 112. We cheered when we passed Mile 100! Then we were 5 miles away, just one big climb left. Then we were done! Bike time, 6:03:49; pace, 18.51 mph. We were just a tad over 112 miles at 112.51. Megan snapped a great photo as we arrived at the tent, and my coach Jen had the perfect comment!

Yep.

There was a great crowd of people waiting for us and cheering us in. Amber had set up a little privacy tent for me to change in, so I headed inside and stripped off my bike kit and struggled into my running gear. I needed to wear toe socks to stem the Morton's Neuroma, so it definitely took a bit longer than it would have otherwise. Transition time: 10 minutes. Just a little marathon to go.

7 people joined for the first loop: Chas, Ian, Cessy, Megan, Carl, Amber, and Jeff. Then later on the loop Lori hopped in, and David followed on his bike. 

So far, so good!

The plan was to maintain a 10:18 pace as long as possible, including a built-in 1-minute walk break for each mile. If I could sustain that for the whole marathon, I'd finish it in 4.5 hours. If I slowed a bit, I might still squeak in under 5 hours, both very respectable marathon times for an Ironman. This whole section of the race was in the town of Davidson, and people were out on their porches cheering us on, and honking as they drove by. It was like one big town party, except for the part about me struggling to keep pace and keep my gimpy foot from lashing out in excruciating pain!

I held on to the pace for the entire first loop, stopping at the aid station for a super-refreshing cup of Coke and grabbing some Golden Oreos to munch as I started on Lap 2. After one bite of the Oreos I realized that was a bad idea. Fortunately Chas, who planned on pacing me for the entire run, was happy to take the extras and toss them in the next trash can along the route. Carl and Chas stayed with me on Lap 2, and we were joined by Robert and Joey, with Ben hopping in for a bit as well. I eventually abandoned my 1-minute-per-mile walking plan and started to walk on nearly every uphill, as well as some downhills. 4.5 hours wasn't going to happen; at this point it was just about managing my effort and my pain. It started to drizzle a bit, and it was also getting dark. We passed the halfway mark with a cheer, then headed back up the hill into town. Robert dropped back to make a phone call, and we all wondered what that was about, but we soon found out. He was calling a friend and band-mate who lived along the route. The guy was on his front porch rocking out the guitar solo from "Ironman" by Black Sabbath. It was an awesome moment!

A not-so-awesome picture of the awesome moment, taken from Carl's video. You had to be there!

About 20 yards after passing the Ironman house, I stumbled over a small lump in the sidewalk. Normally this would be a non-issue, but we were now over 15 miles into a run after 114 miles of biking and swimming, and I took a couple of awkward steps before collapsing to the ground. I managed to fall partially onto someone's lawn but I scraped up my hand and my knee, and landed awkwardly on my other hand, which bruised my rib cage. The whole procession halted, and Chas encouraged me to get up slowly and try walking for a bit. I walked for maybe 10 yards but the adrenaline from the fall made me feel strong, so I started running, much to everyone's amazement, including mine. Soon we were back at the aid station, where I donned a headlamp, gulped down another Coke and took one for the road.

For this loop, Chas and Joey continued on with me, and we were joined by Shawn and Chad (both coming back for more after helping earlier on), and Natalie (who took all the uncredited photos in this post!). My running pace had slowed, but I was inspired by this being my last loop. Just 8.75 miles to go! I knew my friends were posting photos and updates on Facebook, but I wondered if my wife Greta knew where we were. She was planning on being there for the finish. "Does anyone have a phone on them?" I asked. Natalie offered hers, and she texted Greta for me, giving an incredibly optimistic estimate of our finishing time. After 3 miles (Mile 20!), I choked down my 5th gel of the run. They were beginning to be difficult to stomach. Natalie said she had some GU chews, and I said I might try those for my next fuel stop, in 3 miles. After another 3 miles, the chews did the trick, and we headed up the last big hill, 3 miles to go!

Power-walking the Irma Grind

I found that I didn't need to walk as much as I had during Lap 2. I was able to run longer between walk breaks. We were SOOO close! A mile from town, Natalie's husband and three kids were on the side of the road cheering "GO DAVE!" With 3/4 of a mile to go, some neighbor kids I've never even met had chalked "DAVE, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN" on the sidewalk. As we approached the finish, Chas reminded me that an actual marathon is 26.219 miles, not just 26.2. And since GPS results are sometimes rounded down, I should run 26.23 miles before stopping my watch, just to be sure. At this point, Thomas had run out from the aid station to meet us and check if anything was wrong. We sent him ahead to let them know we were on our way. Chas figured I would need to do an extra lap around the town green to be sure of the mileage, so Thomas told everyone I wouldn't be quite done when we arrived. 

Finally we were at the green, and dozens of people were cheering in the night! I did my extra lap around the green and my watch still said just 26.19 miles. There was chaos as the cheering group had set up a tape for me to run through! I turned back out the way I had arrived to add on the extra 0.04 miles, then reversed course, and plunged through the tape as my watch clicked over to 26.23. Nicole summoned a deep-throated voice to yell "DAVE, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!"

Breaking the tape - from Thomas' video

Then I saw my Greta, who gave me a huge hug despite the fact that I was a sweaty, stinky mess. It was a great moment, and Dawn got a great picture of us:

This makes it all worth it!

I had finished, and I was surprised to find that I could still stand up! I had a big cup of Coke, and another. People kept asking if I wanted a beer or a slice of pizza but Coke was the only thing that seemed remotely palatable. Finally I collapsed in a chair. I was done! The run ended up taking 5:06:24, the slowest I've ever completed a road marathon -- and I was fine with that. Overall, my time was 13:16:38. The official cutoff for most Ironman races is 17 hours, so I had plenty of time to spare.

People have asked me if there is somewhere I can submit my result to make it "official." The folks at Ironman Arizona haven't provided a way to do that, but honestly, I really don't care. I had an amazing experience, with the support of an incredible set of friends, and I wouldn't trade that for anything. 

I did figure out that the actual total mileage I swam, biked, and ran was 141.16 miles -- a little longer than the official distance of 140.6. I think I might get a custom "141.16" sticker for my car, and then people can wonder what that is all about.

Click below for the Strava records of my race:

Swim

Bike

Run

My first century of the century!

Prior to Friday, I had done two century rides in my lifetime -- both back in the 1980s during high school and college. Now that I'm training for a full Ironman, I will need to do several more, culminating in the 112-mile ride during the event itself. Since the race (Ironman Arizona) isn't until November (and it will likely end up being a virtual event), I wanted to give myself a challenge for my first century ride of the cycle. So I picked the course of the Blue Ridge Brutal, a race that happens every year about this time (in non-covid years anyways).

As the name suggests, it is a brutal event, with a total ascent over 7,000 feet in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Here's the elevation profile of the ride:

You'll also notice that the biggest climbs are mostly at the end of the ride, which makes for an extra challenge. Somehow I managed convince my friend Chris to do the entire ride with me, and we started in West Jefferson, NC at 8 am.

It was easy going for the first 8 miles or so, and even the first climb didn't seem so bad. Then we hit our first really major climb around Mile 15. This climb sent us up, up, up onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, where we would be riding for the next 20 miles. We huffed and puffed our way up this climb and agreed to stop when we reached the summit, just past Mile 17. I wanted to remember to keep up with my chosen nutrition source -- Clif Bars chased with Gatorade Endurance, so my plan was to stop every 15 miles or so to make sure I ate some solid food. I also took a selfie with the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background.

It was a slightly hazy day, about 70 degrees, which is quite cool for North Carolina in August. The temps were forecast to rise only to about 79, with a 40 percent chance of rain. Just about as perfect as you can get this time of year! The next section of the Blue Ridge Parkway was glorious, with long, fast downhills and relatively short climbs. Traffic was much lighter than we expected as well. Since we were self-supported, I had searched the route to make sure we could stop to buy supplies along the way -- especially WATER! The first stop was planned for Mile 37, but it was about a mile off our course, so when we spotted a store right on the Parkway at Mile 25, we took the opportunity to stop there instead. I knew there was another store at Mile 45, and if we filled up here we could easily make it to Mile 45 without an extra side trip.

That's Chris's bike on the left, with my ride behind. After our stop, we continued along the Parkway for another 10 miles or so, with stunning views on both sides. We had some fantastic descents and enjoyed very light traffic, so it was a bit of a disappointment when we had to leave the Parkway and return to the Real World with its tractor trailers and annoying dudes in pickup trucks. When we arrived at the gas station / store at Mile 45, we were ready for a break! 

I bought a gallon of water and a Kit Kat bar, and Chris and I filled our bottles, with only maybe a liter to spare in the jug. We chatted with a local who asked where we were going, and when we explained the route he said "you are better men than I am!" 

"We haven't done it yet," Chris noted in response! 

"You'll make it," he called to us as we rode off.

If you look at the elevation profile, you'll see that there are several "small" climbs of 2-300 feet in the section from Mile 40 to Mile 70, and while none of these took too much effort, added together they took a significant toll. At Mile 70 we would arrive in the town of Jefferson, very near our starting point in West Jefferson. But of course we couldn't just stop -- we needed to continue for an additional 32 miles! That said, I had found a coffee shop online in Jefferson and was looking forward to an iced coffee to propel me on to the finish of the ride. It was just a couple blocks off the official route, so we headed down the main road in town to find it. Unfortunately, when we arrived, the shop had closed down! We had to settle for the local drug store, where we bought more water and some cheese and peanut butter crackers. The crackers really hit the spot, and soon we were ready to make our final push to the finish. 

After a somewhat-annoying busy road out of Jefferson, we finally turned onto a less-traveled road and were able to ride comfortably and enjoy the local scenery. This fellow (and his tractor) have probably seen better days, though! 

Gradually the grade increased and we headed up the biggest climb of the ride. The road got steeper and steeper, and then it started to rain! Somewhere around here the Garmin route that I had downloaded from the Blue Ridge Brutal site started to fail me, so we reverted to Plan B, which was a route loaded onto Chris's phone using the Ride With GPS app. The phone would tell us when to turn, and it worked pretty well as long as it wasn't too noisy when you needed to hear the directions! As we headed up the hill, Chris started to have mechanical issues with his bike. His derailleur would skip when he was in the lowest gear -- just in time for the steepest gradient of the course. My Garmin has a "gradient" field and I could see we were hitting 14 and 15 percent. I couldn't imagine trying to ride that hill in second gear -- I was getting out of the saddle in my granny gear! Finally I made it to the top as the rain began to pour harder. Chris arrived a couple minutes after me, having had to walk the steepest section of the hill. 

We took a moment to refuel, then began the descent as the rain really started coming down hard. My bike has rim brakes, so I feathered them often to try to dry them off. If this hill was dry, we probably would have hit 40+ MPH on  it, but in these conditions we didn't feel comfortable going much faster than 20. The rain was coming down so hard that it smacked painfully on my cheeks. With the noise of the bikes, we couldn't hear Chris's phone directions, so we began to worry that we might miss a turn. Then I remembered my third backup route-finding plan, a printed cue-sheet with mileage. My Garmin was still accurately recording mileage even though the route-finding was off, so we stopped and figured out where our next turn was on the cue sheet. Here's what the sheet looked like after the ride -- it was soaked even through a ziploc bag! This is a reminder for everyone to make sure you laser-print a cue sheet. An inkjet printout would have been completely illegible if it had gotten this wet!

The rain continued, harder and harder, as we headed up yet another huge hill. We rode through yellow patches of runoff from gravel driveways, through puddles, rain completely soaking us. At one point it was raining so hard that we were riding up a river, an inch or more of water flowing down the road at us. I tried to imagine that I was riding faster by focusing on my speed compared to the water rather than the pavement. Chris saw it the opposite way, as if the river was pushing him backwards instead of forwards. Finally we crested this hill and headed down again. Only one more big hill and then we would be finished! 

At Mile 88 we began the final major climb, 750 feet of vertical. The rain had subsided a bit but we were still getting drenched. Fortunately it wasn't quite as steep as we had feared, and two miles later we were at the summit. From here it was rolling-to-downhill, all the way to the finish. We turned onto a familiar road -- the same road we had started on! Only a mile to go! Unfortunately it was an uphill mile, but knowing we were nearly done fueled us, and finally we turned into the parking lot where the car was waiting. 

I was pleased to see I had remembered to pack some icewater to drink at the finish. I swilled down a liter in just a minute or two. Here's the obligatory photo at the finish, looking somewhat worse for the wear:

30 minutes later we were enjoying burgers and beer at a local brewery! Having finished my first century in over 30 years, I felt like they were well-earned!

Click here for my Strava record of the ride.