Read FITNESS CONFIDENTIAL Online
Authors: Vinnie Tortorich,Dean Lorey
FITNESS CONFIDENTIAL (18 page)
SANTA CLARITA TO CALIFORNIA CITY
(Mile 0–82.25 / Elevation Gain: 6,176’)
We left the parking lot accompanied by a police escort. The cops formed a moving line in front of the racers, clearing the path and holding everyone to a comfortable fifteen mile an hour speed, like pace cars at a NASCAR race. This is called a neutral start, part of the pageantry of the sport, but also necessary to get us safely out of town. The police escorted us five miles, holding traffic, blocking lights, until we got out onto open road.
I glanced around at the other cyclists. It was like looking in a mirror. They all had lean, sinewy bodies, oversized quads, undersized calves, faces gaunt. Their lack of fat made even the younger competitors look older than they were. In fact, the average age of the competitors is usually a shock to most people when they first experience an ultra like this. They expect to see a group of twenty-somethings, because who else would have the strength and stamina to handle forty-plus hours of straight riding? The truth is that it’s not uncommon for fifty-year-olds to win the thing outright, which has happened several times. Remember, David Holt, my crew chief, came in second on a previous race and he was nearing sixty.
The whole notion that athletics are for the young is turned upside down in ultra sports, where youthful competitors are often left scratching their heads as people twice their age sail past. It’s not about young legs, it’s about wisdom and experience. As my wise Italian friend, Enzo Valentino, puts it, “An old chicken makes a good broth.” Or, as I always say:
It’s not about how fast you can go long, it’s about how long you can go fast
.
Once we cleared the town, the cops peeled away and the road became like Pamplona during the running of the bulls. Filled with pent-up nervous energy, the competitors exploded forward. I was toward the middle front of the pack, hoping to avoid the jumble that often occurs at the back. With the town behind us, we began to spread out as we made our way through country roads in the chill morning air. The fog was heavy and I could only see as far as the person in front of me. It was like riding through soup.
In spite of the cold temperature and limited visibility, I was feeling great, passing people as I began the climb to where we would eventually meet up with our crew vans for the first time. This was considered the unsupported part of the race, meaning we were cut off from our support vehicles until mile twenty-nine.
It was freezing cold and drizzling at the top of Johnson Road where I finally met my van. As I approached, I could see the words “Pound Puppy” written on a hand-lettered sign taped to the back. That was my totem. For reasons unbeknownst to anyone, Chris Kostman decided that, instead of using numbers to identify racers, like every other race on planet Earth, we would be identified by animals, otherwise known as our “totems.”
I picked Pound Puppy because I love dogs and, during my previous 508, I was raising money for the Lange Foundation, a charity that rescues dogs and cats that would otherwise be destroyed in pounds. This year, my charity was Maximum Hope, a cancer foundation founded by actor Brad Garret, but my totem was still Pound Puppy. Once you’ve established the name for your totem, you have it for life.
As I sped past the van, David, my crew chief, shouted, “Slow down! You’re going out too fast! You’re gonna blow up!”
“Blow up” is an ultra term for starting too hard and then fizzling out before the end, resulting in a DNF.
I knew he was right, but the only thing I cared about at that point was speeding down the mountain to a lower altitude where I knew it would be warmer. I hate the cold. I shiver. I shake. I’m a warm weather guy and I was determined to get warm, fast. So I got myself into an aerodynamic tuck with my face just inches above the handlebars, and flew down the mountain at more than fifty-miles-an-hour, feeling great. Ten minutes later, I was at the foot of the Mojave desert, where the air was dry and the temperature was a sunny eighty degrees.
I was off to a good start.
Soon, I found myself biking through the desert surrounded by hundreds of giant, white windmills in what is known as the Windmill Climb. My favorite. In a sport not known for people with climbing ability, I climb well. There are plenty of racers out there who can take me on the flats, but I’m tough to beat on a climb. In fact, whenever I pass someone going uphill, I usually shout, “See you when you pass me back on the flats!”
And they often do.
I was feeling strong. My left knee, the reason I had DNFd on the previous 508, was solid and my stomach was as quiet as naptime in a preschool. As I sped past the town of Mojave, I was near the head of the pack, in second or third place. Oddly, I didn’t care if I was high up in the standings. I was just hoping to finish and I didn’t want the pressure of being chased for the next thirty hours, so I was waiting for people to start passing me.
Soon, I arrived at the first checkpoint in California City.
Let’s talk about California City. I’ve been to plenty of cities named after the state they’re in. Kansas City comes to mind. Nice place. You can go shopping, hit a bar. You need a night on the town? Kansas City can deliver. They even have a pro-football team, not to mention that you can get a great steak. Let’s compare that to California City. Can you get a great steak? Sure, no problem! As long as you catch the cow, butcher it and cook it yourself.
There’s nothing in California City.
I sped past the first checkpoint, which was manned by a couple volunteer race officials sitting on folding chairs, while my crew stopped to check me in. I had completed the first stage with a great time and I was in great spirits. I was off to a terrific start.
(Mile 82.25–152.5 / Total Elevation Gain: 10,388’)
I’d already been pedaling for over eighty miles by the time Stage Two began. Most avid cyclists aspire to reach the century mark, which is a hundred miles. That’s about the length of four marathons, a hell of a good distance. In fact, a hundred miles is usually the finish line on charity rides, but in the world of ultra cycling, a hundred miles is just a warm up. Even though we’d been racing for several hours, we were just getting started.
As I rode through the flats, I kept expecting other cyclists to pass me, but that didn’t happen because I was reaping the benefit of a strong tail wind that helped compensate for what was usually the weakest part of my race. My crew van, following the strict race rules for daylight hours, hop-scotched ahead of me and continued down the road until pulling over to wait for me to pass.
As I sped by, I grabbed the water bottle Serena held out for me. I continued down the road, sipping at it, while Serena noted the time and amount of water I’d received on my race log. The crew kept meticulous records of my food and water intake because they were in charge of making sure that I stayed hydrated and consumed at least two-hundred and fifty calories per hour, which is all the stomach can process in that amount of time.
Serena hopped back into the van with the rest of the crew, where they watched until I disappeared from sight. I was thrilled to have her on my team. She had prior crewing experience and her dry British humor was great at keeping everyone’s morale up. Besides, who wouldn’t want Dr. Molly Warmflash from
The World Is Not Enough
handing them water in the desert?
As much as I loved my crew, I was disappointed that my good buddy Mehran, who had been my crew chief during my last several races, couldn’t make it. His father was ill and he needed to be at the man’s side. Luckily, David was available to take his place. I was glad about this for two reasons. First, as an ultra athlete himself, he’s a great addition to any crew. But, more importantly, I figured if he was sitting in my van, he couldn’t be on the course, kicking my ass.
Still feeling great and with the wind at my back, I sailed past the second checkpoint at Trona.
Remember how California City was a wasteland? It’s Paris compared to Trona. In fact, as each rider and crew passed through, they momentarily doubled the town’s population. My van pulled over to check me in and refuel, while I pushed on to Stage Three.
(Mile 152.5–251.7 / Total Elevation Gain: 17,926’)
Furnace Creek is the midway point of the entire race but, to get there, you have to endure the Pass.
Townes Pass.
It doesn’t look like much from the flats—a gentle climb that disappears into a mountain—but that easy stretch soon turns into an agonizing 13 percent slope. Whether you reach it during the day or in the dark of night, you know you’re on it. And you’re on it for a long time. It seems to take forever, plus a week. Even though it’s thirteen miles from base to summit, that only tells part of the story.
The climb to get there is over a vertical mile.
To put that in perspective, imagine climbing up the Empire State Building. Now imagine climbing up three and a half Empire State Buildings in a row. That’s how high a vertical mile is. Now imagine doing it after you’ve been hammering away on your bike for over two hundred miles, which is how far you’ve gone when you arrive at the foot of the Pass. The climb is so grueling, in fact, that some competitors simply get off their bikes and walk during the toughest parts.
I was one of the first competitors to arrive at the Pass, having benefited from that powerful tailwind for the last hundred miles. It was still daytime, which was a good sign, and my legs felt strong considering the constant pedaling I’d been doing for the last nine-and-a-half hours. But as soon as I made the turn to begin the climb, which almost paradoxically faces you in the opposite direction, that tailwind turned against me.
It was like hitting a wall. Not gale force, but enough to knock my speed down from the over twenty-miles-an-hour I’d been enjoying to less than half that. In fact, I was going so slowly that, as I passed my crew van, we had enough time to exchange a couple sentences.
“Do you need anything?” Serena yelled.
“Steroids!” I shouted back, laughing. Then, “No, I just need to be on my own.”
She knew what that meant, that I needed some space to get into a rhythm. But for the next forty-five minutes, I couldn’t do it. I was used to fighting steep grades during my training but not with this kind of wind. I could feel my legs filling with lactic acid and, as soon as they started burning, I’d rise into a standing position and pedal a few strokes to let the acid drain out and stop them from cooking. No matter what I did, I couldn’t find a comfortable position.
And that wasn’t the worst of it.
For the first time during the race, my stomach began acting up. It wasn’t too bad, just a mild discomfort, but I knew that it could get out of hand, fast, and I didn’t want a repeat of the Race Across Oregon. I became focused on reaching the summit, hoping that my stomach troubles would go away once I was on the downhill. But getting there wasn’t going to be easy.
Between the steep grade and the wind, I felt like I was in a wind tunnel. At one point, my speed slowed to a turtle-like four-miles-an-hour. I was going so slow, in fact, that David got out of the van and walked alongside me for a stretch.
“How you feeling?” he asked.
“I need Pellegrino,” I said between breaths.
“Shit, how bad is it?”
David knew that asking for Pellegrino meant I was having stomach problems. Carbonated drinks can settle an upset stomach, so asking for one is like a neon sign that says, “I’m in trouble.” In fact, months earlier while training in Santa Barbara, I was struggling because my stomach was empty and sour. I knew I needed to get some calories and bubbles into it right away, so I walked into a convenience store and bought a beer, which I figured was like liquid bread.
It was, and it worked, although I wouldn’t have even considered doing the same thing during the 508, because drinking any sort of alcohol during the race was strictly against the rules.
“How bad is it?” David repeated.
“Not like Oregon,” I replied. “But I don’t want it to get there.”
He hustled back to the van and sped ahead of me while Serena filled a water bottle with Pellegrino. She handed it off to me as I rode past. I drank it and it helped a little, but I had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be the last time I heard from my stomach.
Soon, the steep grade began to flatten out, which told me that I was nearing the summit. I knew I was going to have to make a mandatory stop once I reached the bottom to add lights to my bike while the crew prepared the van for night-time conditions. I hoped that my stomach would settle itself on the downhill ride because I wanted to eat some food during the break, but I could only do that if my stomach was calm.
Once I crested the summit, my speed went from six-miles-an-hour, the pace of a jogger, to twenty, then forty, until finally topping out at just over fifty-five miles per hour. I was flying down the backside of the mountain, hurtling toward the lowest point in the Western hemisphere, Death Valley.
Behind me, the field had spread out. Racers were strewn from the beginning of the Pass all the way back to Trona. They were going to have to fight the mountain at night, in the dark and the cold—something I was happy to avoid.
Finally, I arrived at the bottom of the Pass and saw my van up ahead pulled over on the side of the road. It was getting close to 6 p.m., which meant that lights had to be added to my handlebars and the van had to have yellow flashers installed to give ample warning to approaching traffic. Any deviation could result in instant disqualification.
As I’d hoped, the ride down the Pass settled my stomach a bit and I had a couple minutes to eat before I needed to get back on the road. Serena offered a few options. Slices of mozzarella cheese on a piece of bread, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a turkey sandwich, as well as a beef burrito from the taco stand back in Trona—now gone, sadly.
Best tacos in the world.
I had a few bites of the burrito and asked Serena to put the mozzarella sandwich in a baggie. I shoved it into my jersey pocket for later, then got back on the bike and headed into the town of Stovepipe Wells, knowing that I was less than twenty miles from the halfway point, marked by the race’s namesake town of Furnace Creek. But that small psychological boost was quickly dashed when the storm hit.
It started with the wind, whipping across the salt flats of Death Valley. I’d been fighting wind all the way up the Pass, but this time it came at me from the side so powerfully that I had to lean my entire body against it just to stay upright. It was like leaning against a wall.
And with the wind came the sand.
It swirled across the desert in thick sheets, stinging my face and cutting visibility. I suddenly felt like I had a good idea what people went through during dermabrasion. The sky up ahead was black. Bolts of lightning flashed, dancing across the desert floor. It was apocalyptic. Biblical. I could see the rain sweeping toward me, darkening the salt flats. And then it was on me—big, heavy drops.
I began to get concerned.
Flash floods were common in the desert and it was no joke to get swept away by one. But then something else grabbed my attention, something that worried me even more. I glanced up to see two rainbows far ahead, one above the other.
Oh, hell, I thought. Am I getting delirious? Am I seeing double? It seemed like too early in the race for that but I had to be sure.
I gestured for the van to drive up alongside me. Even though it wasn’t full dark yet, all crew vehicles had to stay “as closely as safety permits” to their rider. We call it the invisible tether.
Serena rolled down the window. “What do you need?”
“You see a rainbow?” I asked, fighting to keep the bike straight as the wind threatened to push me into the van.
Serena nodded. “Yeah.”
I hesitated before asking the next question, scared of what the answer might be. “Do you see two rainbows?”
Serena started laughing. She knew exactly what I was worried about. “Yeah, there are two. And they’re beautiful.”
I smiled to let the van know I was okay. They dropped back behind me as I pressed on.
Minutes later, the sun set, taking the rainbows with it. The desert was dark except for the little pocket where I rode, illuminated by the van’s headlights. Finally, as the storm began to ease, I rolled into the next checkpoint at a lonely gas station in the tiny town of Furnace Creek.
