The Prizefighter

I have no business riding a mountain bike, much less racing one.  Just to prove it, I entered the 6-hour Grind on the Greenway endurance race in Fort Mill, SC.  Situated just south of Charlotte on the Anne Springs Close Greenway, the Grind featured a ten-mile loop of twisting, rooty and rocky singletrack, 800-feet of elevation gain per lap, two tunnels and a swing bridge.  Ah yes, I would become intimately acquainted and nearly decapitated by said swing bridge (on a practice lap no less).  Thankfully it would be my only run in with that bridge, but not my only crash; I had too many of those to count.

The first came not a quarter mile from the start when they guy in front of me went down on a patch of flagstones.  I ran right over his bike and then landed on him for good measure.  I could see that this would be the overwhelming theme of the day.  Thankfully Taylor was waiting for me at the next turn.  Though he wanted to ride together and be a good teammate, I told him to go on and not wait.  We rode about half of the first lap together before getting separated by crashes and slower riders.  At the end of the first lap, despite the many bumps and bruises, I felt pretty good. I was four minutes behind Taylor and was sure I wouldn't see him again.

It was then to my surprise that midway through the second lap I found Taylor hunched over a flat rear tire aside the trail.  "Taylor!"  I said excitedly.  "Dude, I just about emasculated myself," he said.  "You okay?" I inquired.  "Yeah, I just gotta fix this flat."  He didn't want me to wait.  I passed him a tube and some CO2 and rode away.  I was feeling pretty invigorated by this.  I knew that he'd likely catch me and we could ride together again. Having company on the road or trail can do a lot to boost morale, but ironically I wouldn't see him again until I was on my death march.  We passed like two ghosts in the night.  I pitted to top off my water and grab some food and Taylor did the same; somehow we missed each other.

I was averaging just under an hour per lap, and at this rate, I'd log six very respectable laps.  Very respectable and not very realistic.  My hands we numbing and I hurt--in fact, I looked like Freddy Kreuger. (And since we're on the topic of bad 80's horror films, let me tell you what it's like getting chased down by some pro mountain bikers.  All you hear is the rustling of branches behind you, shadows zipping through the woods, and then they're on you.  Some Texas Chainsaw Massacre shit.)  I had crashed more times than I could count, each one taking with it some flesh and some confidence until I started to doubt what I was doing.  But know this:  I got up every time; each time slower than the previous, mindlessly yet instinctively throwing my leg over the bar, clipping in, and pedaling like some punch-drunk old boxer.  My pace had dropped off significantly and I needed a break.

After a quick break and half a PB&J, I set off on my fourth, and unbeknown yet to me, my final lap.  The short rest helped immensely, but things were going terribly wrong.  My body had rejected the food I just attempted to eat and, despite drinking nine liters of water, I hadn't peed yet.  In fact, I had no urge to piss, my kit was all salted-up and I couldn't drink any more.  I was toast after a quarter-lap.  Slogging away as if in quicksand, head throbbing, and hallucinating; the classic bonk.  I sought out a nice log to lay on, propped up the bike and tried to gather myself.  After reassuring about ten passers-by that I'd be okay, I got back on my rig and continued on in earnest. Futility, stupidity, and survival.

I managed to pass Taylor heading in the other direction.  "I'm done bro," I said, drooling on myself.  I finished my fourth lap in four hours thirty minutes--plenty of time for a fifth and possibly the start of a sixth, but it wasn't meant to be.  I've never felt so horrible on a bike before.  I turned in my timing chip and spent the better part of the next half-hour shivering and dry-heaving in the fetal position next to Taylor's car.  All of that for twenty-sixth place and some good times.