Why did I talk myself into doing the Laramie Enduro?

At some point earlier this year, Rich had mentioned the Laramie Enduro mountain bike endurance race that was held every hear, and was on July 31. I figured, “What the heck?” My hope was to ride with Rich and another buddy, Hammie. However, as fate would have it, I ended being the only one that got in the race. The task seemed dubious. It is approximately a 111 km or 72 mile course with over 8,600 feet of climbing at altitudes ranging from 7,600 feet to 9,000 feet above sea level.

From the beginning, my attitude for this race was to focus on the fact that is was an endurance ride. I didn't want to blow up and needed to set a pace that I could do all day. I didn't care when I finished, as long as I finished. But sometimes you still harbor that fantasy that you'll have once-in-a-lifetime form and battle for a podium spot.

I headed up to Laramie the evening before the race. About 20 miles outside of Laramie, you drive past the general area of the race course. Living on the Colorado front range you see big mountains all the time. While I knew this race was no joke, at least these hills didn't seem too bad. Later on that evening, I met a fellow racer who asked me if I had done the race before because, like me, he didn't quite know what to expect. He said he was from Omaha and, “they don't have hills like this there.” I was glad to be on my end of the hill spectrum.

The morning came. I got up at 5:00, got ready, grabbed some of the free hotel breakfast, and headed out to the course in plenty of time for the 7:00 am start. I topped off the tire pressures, packed my pockets full of gels and bars, checked all my supplies (tubes, multitool, pumps, printed maps and course instructions) and even mounted my GPS loaded with the course maps on the handlebar. (I had read internet postings of people getting off course and lost, ending up with a DNF.)

I followed the din of P.A. announcements and music to the start/finish area and signed in. The field of 500 riders were there, with the speedy 'open' class and the crazy single-speeders lining up to head off first. There were tons of porta-potties, but as you can expect right before a race, the massive line to get to them conjured up visions of a Hoobastank concert. I decided to take a few steps into the trees to take care of business like many other riders, which is pretty common in cycling. What wasn't as common was one of the women open riders ending up doing the same, “dropping trou” about 5 feet away from me to get a quick squat right before her race went off. I guess I admired her... professionalism.

The race director had a few announcements before the race started. He informed us that we WOULD be attacked by a hawk at about mile 6.5. Or, was it a falcon? The director also mentioned that shortly after 'death from above', there was 'bone-crusher hill', a seriously steep descent that was very loose and gravely. You should walk it if you had even the slightest doubt, and there had been several broken bones as a result the previous year. That was a pep talk and a half.

Then the word came. “GO!” I pressed the start button and twisted the throttle, but nothing happened. Dang! I guess I was going to have to do it the hard way. I pedaled off with the group and started up the first of many hills of the day. Not long afterward, those hundreds of riders who were taking the full width of the dirt road, had to file down to narrow singletrack. Any hope I had of that individual glory evaporated when, after an 'on your left', two couples on tandems shot by me like I was standing still.

The ride was on, and I tried to do my best to switch off the brain and just ride. Early on, I was very glad that I decided against any arm or leg-warmers or jackets as many riders were dealing with those. A few miles in the pitch really got steep and everyone bottlenecked walking up the hill. Then along the top and eventually dropping into a very steep descent. This must be the bone-crusher hill that we were warned about. I came to nearly a dead stop and dropped in, full rear brake and keeping the bike pointed straight. When I rolled out the bottom, I confirmed this was the hill because there was a guy on the ground with a broken arm or collar bone, just like they said. He had people with him and there was a aide approaching, so I proceeded.

Then there was a long dirt road descent, but it wasn't quite as fast as you might expect. That Wyoming wind had a thing to say about that. Eventually the course turned 180 degrees and it became a long climb. I just kept turning over the pedals. I reached the first aid station, which meant about 16.5 miles under the belt. I saw a rider that looked like a pro. By that, I mean he was young, skinny, and his shorts matched his jersey. (Gasp!) He obviously crashed – corndogged in dirt from head to toe and was bleeding from a couple of areas. He looked dejected and waiting for a ride back to the start/finish. I wanted to make sure to get enough to eat and drink, but also didn't want to lose too much time at the aid stations, so it was time to keep moving.

I pressed on. Singletrack, dirt road, climb, descent. Into the woods, through meadows of wild flowers. Passing some. Getting passed by others. Everyone friendly. I arrived at aid station #2, which was about 30 miles in. My back was really starting to get sore. Shortly after aid station #2, I stopped to do a saddle adjustment tilting it more nose-down, tail-up. I tend to prefer to set the saddle a little bit nose down it is level while climbing. You tend to be off the saddle on descents anyway. While I was getting going again, a guy went by me, and I had to do a double-take. He had NO saddle at all! What was worse is that he DID have a seatpost, just no saddle. Ouch.

There were some interesting trail sections that followed fence lines. The trail was very new and not grooved in at all. It was quite lumpy and bumpy, and all you could do was just bounce over it and keep moving forward. I wondered if it was similar to riding cobblestones in Europe. Aid station #3 and 40 miles in. I had no idea what time it was, but I didn't care. Just as long as I made it by the cut-off time, which was supposedly to the last aid station (#5) by 10 hours in.

More climbs, more descents, more singletrack, more dirt roads. I was still feeling pretty good. I tried to turn a slightly bigger gear to keep the heart rate down. While climbing in 2x1, I passed a number of people who were down in their smallest front chainring. All the while, you had to stay on top of your game. All of the sudden, you'd find yourself in the middle of a technical section, flying downhill with aspen trees slapping you in the face, or dodging a huge gopher hole right in the middle of the trail. All the cows, on the other hand, just looked with a passive disdain.

I got to aid station #4 and 52 miles. They had a beach/luau theme going on, with Hawaiian shirts and surf music. The fun was brief when a lady racer broke the news to me. “You know what's next? Pure suffering.” She was so right. The course had opened up the proverbial can of “Whoop Ass” on us right at the time when everyone was running out of gas. Everything was a climb. The only difference was, was it really steep or REALLY steep? I was getting progressively more tired and the hill steeper and steeper becoming a 'hike a bike'. For the first time all day, the thought of quitting popped into my head. I must not have been the only one. In a heavily wooded section there were guys literally laying on the ground in the shade one after another for almost a hundred yards. I sure felt for that guy from Omaha. I was toast.

I finished one climb just to meet another and another. There were several creek crossings too. The Forest Service had placed some fairly nice temporary wooden bridges over many of the crossings. Some areas were wetter and muddier than others, and eventually got to an area that was super swampy.
I did the best I could to stay out of the muck, but eventually there was no way around it and finally had to slog through it. I was in mud up my ankles and water was oozing in my shoes. I know I was getting punchy by this point, but I swore thought that I saw Yoda trying to get an X-Wing unstuck. “Slimy? Mudhole? My home this is! Hmmm.”

Somehow, I managed to drag my soggy sorry butt to the final aid station, #5, at about 62 miles in. A volunteer watched as I walked from my bike to the water jug with all the skill of a 12 month old. I offered one of the volunteers doing course sweeps to trade my bike for his KTM dirt bike so I could ride back to the finish. He said I was about the 15th person that made him that offer.

So only about 10 miles left to go. The worse was behind me, right? Not! Everyone was wiped. What was a 2x1 climb became a 1x1 climb. What was a 1x1 climb became a hike-a-bike. Then, that's when the rock gardens from hell made their appearance. Most of these rock garden climbs would have been ridable normally, but not after 65 MTB miles in your legs. I didn't feel bad though, because everyone was hiking, even guys that looked much fitter than me. Just when I was convinced that this would NEVER come to an end, the climb started to shallow, then became flat and then start down slightly.

I burst out of the trees and into a meadow, where I saw a guy walking around with what must have been the largest butterfly net I've ever seen. I have no idea what he was trying to catch with that thing. The speed picked up, I came around a hill, and saw a parking lot ahead. As I got closer, I realized that my truck was in that lot. I was really close! I don't think I've ever been that happy to see my car, but I had to pass it by.

Off the single track and on to that original dirt road. It was really washboarded, but I didn't care. I didn't want to touch the brakes and came streaking down the hill with the fork trying to swallow up as much of that washboard as it could handle. I hit the right-hand sweeper and then saw the finish line. I got a bit of a boost, and wanting to at least LOOK like I finished strong, sprinted to the finish. There were crowds of people there, racers who had finished recently, course workers, and they were all cheering like I was winning. I felt like that fat guy riding Lance Armstrong's bike in that Radio Shack Tour de France commercial. “They're raising French babies and throwing soft cheeses as is the custom here!”

So, I parked the bike and went straight to the beer tent. It was kind of like if you lose your shirt in Vegas and try to recover some of your losses at the buffet. What can I say? Free New Belgium and Oskar Blues, plus lots of food, music, and everyone having a good time in the woods. It almost felt like some kind of hippie love-in. Everyone was so happy to be done. My time was approximately 8 hours and 40 minutes. I was pleased, considering.

When it was all said and done, I was way over-prepared supply-wise. The aid stations were so well supplied. They had everything – gels, bars, bananas, potatoes, water, salted-nut rolls. I never ended up using any of the gels or bars that I brought. The volunteers were fantastic! They would cheer as you arrived, fill the bottles for you, and get you whatever you needed. I probably gained weight thanks to the aid stations. Also, the course was so well marked that I never even turned on my GPS or looked at my detailed map or course instructions. There was one spot where I thought I saw some riders had missed a turn and were off in the wrong direction. Usually, there was usually a course worker guiding riders if it was a confusing spot. The course is so diverse that any bike selection is a trade-off. There were technical sections that you'd be glad you had a full-suspension, or climbs where you'd be glad you had a hard-tail, or glad you had a 29er, or more tire pressure, or less tire pressure, etc.

Back at the 'love-in' I heard one person loudly proclaim that they were hanging up their bike going to go buy a bowling ball. Another guy hit the nail on the head when he said that, “Those last two hours were like a death march.” Even I, in my tired but happy state, proclaimed, “Well, the good news is now that I'm done, I don't have to do that again.” To which, a fellow rider responded, “Unless, you want to.”