"A Ridiculous Day on My Bike" or Saturn Cycling Classic Race Report
by Andy Jaques-Maynes
The course is touted as one of the hardest one-day events in the world:
Starting in Boulder, CO and finishing in Breckenridge, the course looks
like a jagged sawblade with *7* categorized climbs. There are maybe 3
(short) flat sections total. Ridiculous, I know. Being a road race, the
course includes about 20 miles of gravel roads, one of which is so bad that
most take the time to swap for MTBs. Total course distance: 140 miles
(that's 225 km for you metric folks). The first 20 miles gain 3200 ft, and
from then on we're brutallized with passes of 9400, 9400, 11700, 10000,
10000, and 11500 ft. It's like somebody said, "Let's put on a race and see
if anyone will show up."
Race Day.
We're all up at 6am and eating ferociously. My brother now holds the
world's record for largest breakfast consumed, at 21lbs. 5oz. We cruise
over to the start where team manager Mike Neel's advice consists of: make
it to the finish. The neutral roll-out is led by a car containing Greg
Lemond, Davis Phinney, and Andy Hampsten. Now that's some serious star
power. The whistle blows, the hammer drops, and we're racing! Ohhh Shit! A
break goes away almost immediately with several Mercury, Saturn, and
Navigators riders. Sierra Nevada's Troy White is up there, so all I have to
do is not crash for the next 50 miles. We make the first 20 mile climb at
an easy pace, with only one acceleration about halfway up. No problem. By
now, my legs are warmed up, and my breakfast is all digested. The following
descent is way too much fun to be led out by a squirrely Costa Rican, so I
pass him up and lead out down the hill, which is totally sick. A series of
rollers lead up to the next pass and another ripping descent into the towns
of Blackhawk and Central City. Each town has a sprint, and the one in
Blackhawk is worth about five grand. Unfortunately, the guy who won the
sprint didn't finish the race, so he forfeited the prize. Out of Central
City is a steep climb that turns to gravel promptly upon leaving the city
limits. No kidding, the road is called "Oh My God Rd." Guys really start
charging over the top of this climb, as a six mile gravel descent follows.
I work hard to stay near the front: I'm worried about some roadie crashing
me out on the descent, and this lends me additional motivation and Mental
EdgeTM. I'm surprised my legs can hang on a climb like this, but I think
most guys are freaked out by the dirt, while I'm right at home. The drop
down Oh My God is actually pretty smooth, although the surface makes for
sketchy cornering. I'm right behind Travis Brown and Mark Gullickson, two
MTB pros. We're probably in the top 15 riders in the main pack (with maybe
12 guys still up the road).
This gravel road is just a warmup for what's to come later.
We regroup at the bottom of the descent and I'm surprised to see only 40
guys left in the main bunch. We're only 50-some miles into the race and the
field's been cut in half. Some guys from Saturn and Mercury take turns
attacking to soften up the remaining riders and I hit my first wall. I'm
convinced that I'm blown, that I can't keep going, that my day is done.
Against all logic, I am not dropped and I get to recover when we hit the
feed zone. I eat and drink desperately. I have half a banana in my mouth
when a Saturn guy attacks and a Mercury counters. Really Hard. I spit out
the banana and cling to the wheel in front of me, only to find that I'm not
as blown as I had thought earlier.
From the feed zone it's about 5km until the big climb of the day. This one
will decide the whole race. It starts 62 miles into the race and climbs for
14 miles up to 11,700 feet. Oh yeah, its ALL GRAVEL.
Un-fucking-believeable. It's rated HC (hors categorie), putting it on the
same level as L'Alpe d'Huez and Mont Ventoux. Mountain: "Who's your daddy?"
Rider: "You are, sir." Mountain: "What's my name?" Rider: "Guanella Pass,
sir." I'm about mid-pack as we hit the bottom. There's certain guys who
want the overall win, so they have their teammates destroy themselves on
the lower slopes to pace them up. The pack shatters...BAM!
Just like that, it's an uphill individual time trial from bottom to top for
all involved. I'm determined not to explode, so I ride my own pace up the
hill, er, I mean, total bitch of a mountain. I'm in a small group, but we
constantly send people out the front or back, either catching blown riders
or being dropped by potential supermen. My team car is right behind me, and
I slide back to ask how much further until the top. Mike says, "only about
four miles." Fuck! It's "only" four miles because Mike's "only" in the car.
I hit the wall at least twice more while climbing, but manage to push
through and recover. I see a sign that, at first glance, says "Sorry dude.
This heinous climb never ends." No wait, my mistake, it actually said "1 km
to KOH." This is no consolation, as I was wishing for it to be over so long
before. Within this last kilometer, the gravel takes a turn for the worse,
and gets much steeper (of course). On the plus side, there's about a
thousand fans with cowbells lining the road over the crest, and they all
somehow know my name. I later realize they all had rider rosters and looked
up my race number. Still, to be so delerious from effort and altitude and
have everyone screaming your name is a very surreal experience. I'd been
cranking hard for an hour, and I almost couldn't turn the pedals over.
Whatever deities exist in this universe, I happened to thank every last one
for all those El Toyonal sessions I did earlier this year. The promise of
the top of the hill gets me to the crest, but only then do I realize the
heinous ordeal I'll have to go through to get off this mountain. The road
(I'll use that term loosely) is a potholed mess with fist-sized rocks that
might as well be land mines to my 23C tires. This is some serious
off-roading. I start screaming down the hill anyway, leaving it up to Mike
to rally his Audi behind me in order to keep up. Just ahead, a Navigators
rider is picking his way down the hill and runs his bike into foot-deep
potholes at about 25mph, simultaneously flatting his both tires and
destroying both his wheels. I slam into the same section at 45-50 mph and
manage to not flat or ram the flailing Navigator. I'm so out of control,
but I can't slow down. After the race I figured I crested the hill in about
12-15th place overall, and had descended my way into the top ten. I had no
idea of this while I was riding, but I was cooking by riders left and
right. The road was so rough that my contact lenses would drop down to the
bottom of my eyeballs and I would be half-blind until I could blink them
back into place.
After careening for about three miles, by back tire explodes and I stop for
a fresh wheel from the car. Minimal time lost. The tire on the new wheel
must have been made out of cast iron because I hit my rim at least twenty
times before flatting again. This change is a little slower, and a few
riders whip past. Finally the gravel ends and I scream down pavement at
60+mph. The pavement is rough, but after what I had just gone through, It's
like I'm floating on a cloud. Another washboard gravel section rattles my
*entire* body. Imagine a nuclear-powered rapid-fire spanking machine.
Owwwie. We finally return to pavement and I'm convinced I'm blown again,
with 60 miles remaining in the race. This time the feeling stays, but
everyone is in similar shape or worse. I link up with a Navigator and a
Trek-VW guy and we limp off down the road, coaxed by our respective team
vehicles. The Navigator was in the early break and was on the verge of
cramping. I'm threatening to pop off the back every two miles or so and
have to dig deeper and deeper each time to stay on. We catch demolished
solo riders every so often, but none can keep with our vicious
walking-speed pace. After two more passes and thirty miles of headwind, I
launch a wicked attack off the back and am solo from then on.
The road we are on appears to be the Central Valley in California, with
agriculture fields and flat, windy roads. Difference: we're at 10,000 feet
of elevation! No wonder I popped. On a slight descent I'm able to chase
back on, only to promptly fly off the back on the next ascent . After
another ten miles of coaxing from the Audi and struggling into the wind,
the tail chase vehicle pulls up and the commisaire informs me that I'm
outside the 5% time window. I'm being pulled. I'll get a placing and all,
and I can still finish if I want to keep riding, but I have to pull my
number off and just be a citizen rider. I won't be able to cross the finish
line. I suffer about three seconds of disappointment, and then I'm relieved
I can stop suffering so much sooner. I've been in the saddle for six and a
half hours, and everything hurts so bad. I load my bike and limp body into
the car and finally relax. I made it 115 miles. On the car ride to the
finish, we pass all the remaining riders and count: 18 riders left on the
road means I place 19th (!), the last rider to not finish the entire
distance. I make the team's goal of a top-20 placing, and far surpass any
expectation of my own just by holding out for so long. Hot damn! At the end
I'm destroyed, hollow, and nauseous from all the energy food I've eaten.
But I'm also ecstatic at making it as far as I did, even if I don't have
any energy left to show it. My official finishing time is 7:42:12, some
number pulled randomly from an official's ass to somehow quantify all my
suffering. |
