03
Sep
24 Hours in the Sage 2013 Recap, Part 2: It’s Only Gravity
By Scotty Mac
We settle in.
Kal Farmer is back first, with a time in the hour-fourteen range that has me gob-smacked. He’s just done that on a bike that weighs more than your average DH rig, sporting a braking system no more advanced than the one you had on the bike you rode when you were four. Kal’s all smiles after his lap, but then again, he usually is. Justin Holmes-Winters sets off for his opener.
Next through is my leadoff man, Mikey Hartman. Dialing up the training in the final month before the race has paid dividends as his one-eighteen lap gives “The Lonely Gear” an immediate boost. Brian Conley heads out on course, looking to preserve a very good start.
On Mike’s heels is David Krycho, only a minute back. He cruises right on through the start/finish line and starts his second lap after adjusting his seat, feeling good.
Justine Gehrett is only five minutes behind Dave, comes into the transition area all smiles, and tags off to Lane Sherman. I think Lane’s gonna go sub-one-ten. He’s got the look. He trains hard to race hard and it shows. He’s here and gone, legs winding up as he heads for the road.
We walk back to our camping area. The guys and gals of Ascent Cycling have come to this event for years, and the campground’s owner, the quintessential salt-of-the-earth character known to us as KOA Dave, makes sure we have the same spot every time we visit. The grass is a lush green, and feels great after a hard, sweaty effort. The consensus of those just returned is the course is fast and fun. I leave the excited chatter and head for my rented camper trailer to get kitted up. I figure I’ve got about eighty minutes before I need to be back at the start/finish for my lap.
The time advances rapidly. I’m anxious to get out on the road and have to keep reminding myself to breathe normally. Mandi, Mike, Justine and I walk back to the transition area, Justine betting on Lane turning a fast lap just as I had.
There’s Lane- a flash of Ascent Cycling red, white, and black and he’s in, tagging off with Justine by way of a good luck kiss, and she’s away. He looks my way and gives a quick shake of his head. “Scotty, Brian’s having trouble with his bike. He dropped his chain at the top of Jack’s. I asked him if he needed help, but he waved me on. Sorry, dude,” he says, and starts his recovery spin back to camp. Jack’s trail is the first climb of the race, and comes at about the lap’s ten minute mark. Perfect.
The rest of us debate cutting his lap, taking the time hit, and re-grouping. Clay Allison, who along with Patrick Cross is now at the start/finish waiting for Justin to come in, talks us out of it. I momentarily wrestle with the decision, but after a minute or two, the choice is rewarded as I see Brian coming at us in a flash of POC orange-and-white and Dakine green. He’s done a one-twenty-six, even with the chain mechanical. We bump fists and I set off on my lap.
The lap. My first thought is to make up time, which is a silly notion when one considers we’re less than three hours into a 24 hour race. Nevertheless, I hit the road and settle into a preposterously unsustainable single speed spin. I am a 48 rpm vinyl record cranked over to 72 rpm. The upshot is that I’m good and warmed up by the time I hit the dirt, but I’m also wheezing like a computer nerd sprinting through Best Buy at five a.m. on Black Friday. I’m in trouble, and I know it.
I scale the climb, lament the brevity of the fire road descent, and go after the next climb, standing on the pedals and sawing on the handlebars. My heart tells me in no uncertain terms that it will be leaving shortly if I keep riding like an idiot and I decide to listen, hopping off the bike for a quick walk to let things settle. Back on the bike and a little more climbing sees me again on singletrack, negotiating the aptly-named Behind the Rocks.
B.t.R. gives way to Alonzo’s, a chundery and fast descent onto another fire road transfer. I normally love a good descent after that much climbing, but I don’t love it now because the grumpy, gray sky above Gunnison’s Hartman Rocks trail network decides to open up. In the space of thirty seconds, I am soaked through to the bone, and hit the Water Treatment climb shivering.
I have already stipulated to the fact I rode the opening twenty minutes of the lap like an idiot and now I’m paying for it. After W.T. comes Luge, a trail smack-dab in the middle of endless sage bushes with a gentle elevation gain and made for hammering. I cannot hammer. My legs have some snap, but my back decides it needs to tell me its life story and does not shut up for the length of the climb. I am worried. I’ve had the “talkative back” malady before and it never quits yapping.
Forcing the pain to the background, I make quick-ish work of the connecting trail to the Broken Shovel climb, and turn onto another connector trail that takes me to one of two cherries on course: Sea of Sage. The Sea descent treats me well, and the not-brief-enough squall lays down sufficient moisture on the trail to take the dirt to #alltimeconditions levels. I revel as I corner.
Then it’s Rocky Ridge-time. The A.C. crew has its own nickname for R.R.: Hell Mile. It’s enough of a climb that you feel it, but has the added bonus of rock gardens that get progressively harder to negotiate as you ascend. There’s a step-down that will catch you out if you don’t pay attention, though luckily I do and it doesn’t.
Escaping Hell Mile onto Beck’s has me smiling with relief. Beck’s is a nonstop hoot of a downhill. It’s swoopy and whoop-y and I surf the still-damp dirt. Only The Notch remains.
The Notch is a granite slab climb, followed by a mixed-surface descent. I climb as much of it as I can, push the rest, and get on with the descending. My bike shifts and flicks below me as I search out good lines, tires sketching and scrabbling over the wet rock.
Back on the road, I wind up the cranks for the campground. I’m through in a not-terrible one-twenty-five, but it’s fool’s gold. I’ve heard what my back has to say, and nothing it has said gives me cause for hope. Putting on a brave smile, I high-five Mandi Conley and she takes off on her orange-and-black fully rigid single speed.
My smile fades as she dips out of sight.
Mac out.
TO BE CONTINUED…