The Laramie Enduro Project

Earlier this spring, I signed up for the lottery to get in to the Laramie Enduro. I had read Buzzsaw's report on last years race. It sounded like damn hard race, yet fun. When the lottery results came out and I did not make the cut, one could say I was not completely crushed. Then, in the 1st week of July, I got an email that said I had graduated from the "waiting" list to the "You still stupid enough to try this?" list. I said... "Yup, still stupid." and sent them my money. A few days later I got around to mentioning my brilliant idea to enter an endurance mountain bike race to my wife who responded "Wow, you have not rode your mountain bike in over two years, are you sure this is such a good idea?" Trying to sound 10 times more confident that I was, I said "Sure, it will be a great way to finish off my base training before I start intervals for cyclocross season. I confirm with Buzzsaw that he is in the race as well and my fate is set.

Fast forward three weeks and two 50 mile mountain bike rides later. I am 15 miles outside of Laramie, Wyoming sitting at the start line of an 70 mile race thinking to myself "Self, this might be one of the more unintelligent things you have gotten yourself into". But as a good friend told me after the race "Graves, if they sold pain and suffering in a bottle, you would go buy a fricken case of it."

Issue #1( - but it seemed like a good idea at the time.) As we rode down the hill from where we parked to the start area, I drop my bike off close to the start/finish line and head over to one of the portapotties to talk to grandma slowly. Always remember....proper planning prevents piss-poor performance. Feeling lighter and as fast as a Clydesdale can be, I head back, grab my barely used mountain bike, and merge into the group waiting to start right where I had laid my bike...... which ended up being right near the very front. Little did I know how this would come back to haunt me in about 15 minutes. At 7am they let all the pros go. Then, 10 minutes later, they release that other 500 of us. The course goes up a fairly steep hill on a gravel road for about 1/2 mile and then turns onto a single track. In a CX race, this would have been an all out sprint to that choke point and pure bedlam at said choke point as everyone fights to be the first in line. Not in an Endurance Mountain Bike race. Instead, we cruise up at a reasonable pace and everyone takes their time getting on the singletrack. I slot in about 20 back. Here is where Issue #1 came to light.

But first, a quick detour. Over the past several years, I have become the skinny-tire riding roadie/gutter-bunny that I used to make fun of. To say my ability to ride technical off-road singletrack is lacking is to say that Bob Marley occasionally partook in smoking.

Now, back to the race. So, there I was... 20 riders from the front and we are just fricken flying down this twisty singletrack. Aspen trees are smacking me in the face at 20 mph. It is beginning to occur to me that I am totally in over my head. I am trying to focus on the line that the guy in front of me is taking and over and over keep asking....."How the hell does that guy not hit his brakes....ever?" This repetitive question is interrupted occasional with observations like "Shit, huge rock in trail!" or "Wow, that little bastard just ducked under that tree branch, I wonder if I ....SMACK!"

The trail then opens up into a big meadow and then drops back onto a long climb up a gravel road. Once I get out of the way, 15 guys that had been stacked up behind me blow by trying to close down the gap I have left. None of them say a word, but I am sure they are all thinking... "way to go, Roadie". And so the day begins ... Big leg-snapping climb followed by hair raising decent...... repeat.


Issue #2 - Equipment choice.

But first, a quick detour. It is a simple fact, if I pay for a pair of sunglasses, I will lose them within 6 weeks. I have repeatedly accomplished this feat for years. However, that all stopped when my wife picked me up two pairs of crap sunglasses for free at the bike show in Las Vegas a couple years ago. These damn things are like Velcro, I still got both pairs in spite of dragging them through multiple seasons of CX races, throwing in in bike bags, shoving them in jersey pockets, etc. There is one thing about free sunglasses, the optics are not quite worth what you pay for them.

Back to the race. Another couple miles of climbing and then we drop into another singletrack decent that winds through a forest. The trails are dry and the cloud of dust stirred up by a large group of mountain bike racers is immense when you try and ride through it at speed. It occurs to me as I am flying down the hill totally out of my comfort zone but trying desperately not to hold those up behind me, that I cannot see shit. On a straight section a grab the glasses off my face. Wow! I can see! I have been healed! The el-cheapos go in the pocket for the rest of the day.

Issue #3..... but it seemed like the right choice at the time...... Earlier in the week, I decided to race with two water bottles rather than a camelback for multiple reasons. With 5 aid stations placed along the course, I figured that two large bottles of water would be plenty. Plus, I committed myself to drinking both bottles dry before each aid in an effort to stay hydrated. Before long, I figure out that there are two significant downsides to this. 1) The vision of a 6'3" roadie tying to grab a water bottle off his bike frame while hurling down a singletrack is every bit of the impending crash that you could imagine it to be. 2) I have not seen this many waterbottles littering the course since I road through the first set of cobbles on the Tour of Flanders course in Belgium. I only bounced one bottle out, and was lucky in that it hit my leg on the way out so I knew it happened and stopped to go back and get it.

At 16 miles in, we hit the first of five aid stations. All the guys with Camelbacks blow right through. I stop and fill up both bottles. The feed spread is amazing. These guys have pretty much the entire Hammer Nutrition catalog out on the table plus much more. I fight off the urge to stuff my pockets with enough product to carry me through the entire CX season, grab a few gel packs and head out. As I am coming back up to speed, I suck down and gel and then eat a bar. All the while trying to convince myself that it is a good idea to not try and ride the next 55 miles with that canister of drink mix.

About 20 miles in, the course drops down a steep ravine, crosses a stream and goes straight up the other side. I cross the stream and start to climb out. Two turn of the cranks and my chain sucks completely up into the front derailleur. I get off, jerk the chain loose, hop back on and start to climb again. Two pedal strokes later and it occurs again. Now, I have no choice but to push the bike up to the top of the ravine and see what is up. After a bit of gawking, I figure out that somehow I have twisted that crap out of two links in the chain. Every time they go over the chain ring the twisted link is sticking to the tooth and thus the mother of all chain-suck issues. CRAP!!! I have never seen this before... How the hell am I going to fix this? Turns out, if you calm down a bit, Richard Dean Anderson (The 80's Mullet wearing version, not the current graying crew cut version) will come to you in a vision and you will realize that you can shove the screwdriver from your multi-tool through the chain and straighten the twisted links back out. After following MacGyver's expert advice, I was back and racing.

Several miles later, I come up on Gerry Reynolds from Crossniacs. We chat for a bit and he gives me the one single tip that ended up being the main reason I was able to finish. This is his 3rd time doing this race and he simply states "The first 40 miles are easy, the last 30 are killers". From that point on, I try to save energy every place I could.

And so the race goes one. Up one steep climb, down a rock-laden decent, along a gravel road.....repeat. Never once do I get the thought of "Jesus, the is fricken boring" that I would get if I was riding 70 miles on the road. Aid #2 comes along with it's complete cafeteria plan of food and drink. I refill the bottles, and like before, I add mix to one and drop an electolyte tab in the other. I suck down another gel and head out. Along the route to Aid #3, the course turns on to a "singletrack" that heads parallel to a barb-wire fence. There are a few thing that I learned while growing up on a cattle ranch. One of them was that this is not a IMBA singletrack. It is a cow path. Yup, we are riding along a path carved into the earth by cattle walking towards water. Only in Wyoming would a bunch of mountain bikers get together and make something like this course. "Dude! From this road, we can go through this gate, then follow the cow path up to this road used by the local rancher which will drop us off or at this bike trail, and then we can go down to...." But, I must say, it is perfect for a course in Wyoming. The course has everything you can ask for. Anything from the uber-technical, to gravel road sections for the pure power guys, to water crossing, to flowing singletrack. Throw on top of that big meadows of wildflowers, large aspen groves and pine forests and a variety of there beauty.

By the time I get to Aid #3 at 40 miles, it is starting to get hot. When we get to Aid #4, it is really starting to bake and riders are starting to decompose. This includes me. I have been draining water bottles and eating electolyte capsules but along the way to aid #4, I get the first onset of cramps in my quads and abductor muscles. My pucker factor starts to go up. This is about to get painful. I drink an extra bottle of water while at the aid station, refill and eat another gel.

Issue #4...... but it seems a good decision at the time..... I had be told by several people that there is no need to take any of your own food on the ride. The aid stations are fully stocked. This is absolutely the case. It worked out very well to only have to carry the food you would need from one aid to the next. However, as some of you know, I follow a fairly restricted diet and this decision to heavily partake in the feed at the aid stations would come back to get me in the end.

By now I have figured out that I have not eaten this much simple sugars (in the form of gels) in quite some time and my stomach is starting to revolt. At Aid 4, one of the aid station volunteers tells another racer "You only have 20 miles left" to which the racer replies "Yeah, but these 20 miles are absolutely brutal". As I am about to roll out, a guy rides in, drops his bike, falls on the ground and is rolling around in pain. None of us are sure of the cause of his agony, but we wall have a general idea. There is an ambulance sitting at the aid station (and by now I am figuring out why) and after a bit, one of the medics walks over a casually asks the racer if he would like to be in the shade to roll around in pain. We all get the feeling that this kind of behavior was not uncommon at aid #4.

The course to Aid #5 is filled with some very steep but rideable climbs. By now, I am fatigued enough that any small technical challenge is becoming a major obstacle. Any resemblance of technical skill is eroding. As we head down a particular single track, I have two guys right on my ass. The path crosses over someone rocks and cuts between two trees before going smooth again. I pick the line I need in the rocks an shift my focus to spit the trees. The next instant I am full stop and balanced entirely on my front wheel. I still don't know what I hit, but I damn sure hit is square. I hear two sets of brakes fully lock up wheels behind me and the guys try not to turn this into a mountain biker dog-pile event. Somehow, I manage to unclip the same foot that is on the side I am falling towards and keep from going down in a heap. There is a chorus of "Great save man!" behind me. We hammer on.

Nearing Aid #5, I pass a guy taking his perfectly good, race number laden mountain bike for a walk. "How much farther too aid 5?" he asks with more than a hint of desperation. I reply "One or two miles or so... not far." His response....."Dude! I have been walking my bike for like two hours!". I am thinking the heat must really be getting to him. About a half mile later there is a volunteer working a corner on the course making sure everyone takes the correct path (Yes, they have these guys out in the boonies all day making sure that all the racers have all the info they need. Truly top notch race support). He tells me that aid #5 is about a half mile away. I tell him "there is a guy back there walking his bike that is really going to like the sound of that".

I hit aid #5 as they are filling up one of the coolers with fresh water. Nice! Racers are staggering of their bikes. Some are just collapsing in the shade to rest before going on. I hit the water cooler. One bottle goes in me, one bottle goes on me and two more go onto the bike. By now, the stomach is in full revolt to all the sugar laden race fuel I am shoving in it. Back at aid #3 I had picked up a espresso hammer gel complete with 50mg of caffeine and saved it for this moment. Since I don't drink many caffeinated drinks, this stuff is like rocket sauce to me... or so I hope. Now is the time to pull that bad boy out and fire it up. Turns out, that trying to suck down an espresso gel on an upset stomach when your are half-way through heat stroke is a bit of a challenge. My body invokes a gag reflex like that of a high school sophomore trying to please her senior boyfriend. So, there I stand, covered in dust and dried sweat, my body making the same convulsion that our chocolate lab does just before the pukes on the front room rug, trying to force down just one more gel. I finally get it to pass down and notice one of the volunteers staring at me with a complete "What in the hell are you doing to yourself?" look on her face. To tired to even respond, I stagger back to the bike. 7 miles to go.

7 miles, with the hardest climb of the whole fricken race in it. The course goes up a gravel road for a few miles and then turns through a parking lot for the trail head onto a single track. In the parking lot there is a group of guys offering free shots of whiskey. I shit you not. Right out there in the sun is a big as bottle of cheap whiskey and paper cups. I glance at the bottle and look away so that I do not reenact the dog puking scene while on my bike.

Just as we are heading onto the climb, I come up on a lady racer and she tells me to go on by before it goes complete single file. I try to speed up, but got so little power left that I can barely passing her. The trail threads narrowly between two trees and not wanting to cut her off, I keep as far over to the left as I can..... until I slam my left shoulder into the tree and come to an abrupt halt. She lets out an "Oh No!" that sounds like it is part "Oh, no! Are you OK?" and part "Oh, no! You fricken moron! Why the hell did you just run into that tree?" A slur my apology, remount and start up the singletrack climb. There is another lady ahead of me. The caffeine is kicking in so I think I can keep up with her. On the simple stuff, I am faster, but several places on the climb are laden with rocks and other obstacles. This girl can easily ride them as I struggle through. It is faster for me to get off and walk the more technical sections rather that crash. However, each time I do, my quads cramp with every step forward. I look back and notice that everyone has the same problem. I make myself keep with this better rider as a way to get to the finish line quicker. We get to the top of the climb and come up on a guy who is in spot of bother. He is still riding, albeit very slowly, but his is wailing and moaning like a 5 dollar hooker in a 10 dollar town. Not sure why, but I can only guess it is leg cramps. She passes him on the left and I pass him on the right. She holds off to let me go ahead and I say "Nope, you are a better rider than I am, you go first." That is probably one of the better decisions I made that day. She gaps me a bit at the top of the hill through yet more twisting single track. Then the next couple miles are a decent as steep as the climb and even more technical. It is just fully littered with 2 foot rock drop-offs and other such carnage. I never see her again. She smokes me so bad on the decent that I don't even see her dust trail. Hell, I did not even see her at the finish.

I pull across the finish... shot. Completely shot.

The atmosphere at the finish is great. There is a live band. New Belgium Brewing is there with 4 taps in full flow. For those unlike me that have a desire to eat, there is feed from multiple different Laramie restaurants. I am too sick to give a shit. I ride back up to the truck, change out of my cycling clothes and head back down to the finish to wait for Buzzsaw to come in. After a while I convince myself I deserve a beer and think I can keep it down. With a full beer, I grab some shade and sit down right at the finish line. For the next hour or so, every time I don't keep my legs straight, they cramp. But oh, the human carnage I see. Some come in strong, but there where others that are well past their limit. I start talking to one of the race officials about the heat. He proceeds to tell me..."this is not that bad. Hell, four years ago it got over 100 degrees out on the course at Aid #3". After a while Buzzsaw arrives. He can only muster two words......"Fat Tire". I give him my shady spot and hustle off to get him a well deserved beer. As we were getting him recovered, I go to get him a follow up beer and notice that they are giving away all sorts of swag via pulling racer names out of a hat. The problem is, it is getting late and most of the people have left. So then they resort to Laramie Enduro trivia. The 2nd question the announcer asks is..... yup, you guessed it..."What temp was exceeded in the hotest Laramie Enduro?" Boooooooya! I shout out "ahunert!" and stagger up to dig through the swag pile for something suitable for my refined tastes. Down low in the pile is a long sleeved New Belgium wool jersey. Sweet, these things retail for something like $70 bucks. That almost covers what I paid to race. Hell, if I could somehow get back out to aid #5 and clean it out of hammer product, I may never have to come back!

Buzzsaw and I declare it is time to drive back to Denver. I check the results on our way out. I ended up 9th in the Clydesdales with a total time of 7.5hrs. I was nearly 15 minutes off of 8th place so even without the mechanical, it was to be 9th.

I will take it.

b.