BEST ULTRA RACE IN THE COUNTRY?

Parts of me just returned from the best day of road racing ever.  Arguably not my best day, but more about that later.  However, for several hundred USACycling licensed athletes, it was a day that almost defies description.  So let me describe it for you as best I can.

Every year in late August, the wonderful folks of Wichita Falls, Texas, put on a weekend of cycling including crits, road races, and a mother of a leisure ride.  The central attractions are the nice town-folk who run this massive carnival with such smoothness one suspects they walk about on ceramic bearings, and the predictably challenging weather conditions one finds in north Texas in late summer.

Because of these factors, the Hotter’n Hell 100 draws more than ten thousand people seeking a long, hot leisure ride, and several hundred racers from dozens of states (and more than a few international ones) seeking to compete over a course up to 100 miles long.

As I’ve described recently (read this), I catted up from 5 to 4 for the express purpose of gaining a slot in the 100 mile race (the 4/5 group was racing a 100k, or 65 mile course).

Having had limited outdoor training this summer (I hadn’t sat on my bike seat since before the 4th of July), I was relying on punishing indoor interval sessions on the stationary bike, along with running, to build what form I could.

My riding friends were understandably skeptical about my lack of long, hard rides to put miles in the legs, and I knew that was potentially a big gap in my training program — but that was the best I could do at the time.

For literally a week leading up to the race, I had major butterflies in my gut thinking about the race and wondering how I’d do.  My wattage numbers on the Cyclops trainer looked better than ever, and my regular 10k runs showed that the cardiovascular fitness was well along, but there were still fears that loads of 1-2 hour workouts wouldn’t translate to hanging in for a 4-5 hour race in Texas heat.

Hoping to boost my chances, I made a few specific decisions about tactics.

First, I was going to sit in the peloton and do everything possible to conserve energy.  I’d get reasonably near the front so I wouldn’t face the slowing/surges that inevitably occur as a large group snakes around corners.  Secondly, I’d proactively drink FRS gels each hour for the high quantity of electrolytes and minerals they contain — and 400 calories a pop wouldn’t be bad either.  And finally, I committed to myself that I’d either finish with the group, or die trying.

In other words, I wouldn’t allow myself to float to the back, then off the back, and then look for little groups to work my way home with just because I wasn’t feeling comfortable or my heartrate monitor was sending nasty little messages (read this for a good laugh).  Anytime I’ve succumbed like that, I’ve literally loathed myself afterward for leaving something out on the road.  This time, there would be none of that.

What I’d heard about the race from the guys at the LBS was that the tendency was for a very fast start right out of the chute.  Speeds would immediately kick up into the low thirties with teams trying to break up the group early on, then after twenty miles or so calmness would settle in, and then it was a matter of survival against the elements.

I’d also heard that while the course was essentially flat, there were some ripples in the profile around mile 75, and one could sit at the start of these almost imperceptible inclines and hear screams of riders cramping up at the extra effort, however slight.  Given that the race was typically run in hot to very-hot conditions, dehydration was always a risk, and the race organizers staffed large SAG centers along the course with cots and IV bags ready to infuse riders whose fluid levels got dangerously low.

I found that knowledge less than comforting.

After the event, people asked me how I felt about it — and I had reason to feel a lot of different ways.  The obvious feeling – cutting right to the chase – would be great dissatisfaction at having registered a DNF and, for the first time in my racing career, crossing the line in a SAG truck.  Especially since there were over 90 riders in our group at the start and I believe I may have been the only one who didn’t finish — though a couple others clearly blowed up at some point and finished a half hour or more off the back.

And finally, it might have stung that so many of the Cat 4 racers did finish and most of them finished together.

But, but, but…

While these facts had clearly come to mind as I stood screaming on the side of the road a bit past 70 miles along the course and now massively cramping up and literally unable to pedal, unclip, or stand on either leg (which leaves one with no good options as to how to get off the bike, but more about that later) — my actual feeling afterward was one of terrific satisfaction.

At the start of the day, I’d hoped to make due with riding as smartly as possible, and see how far that would take me.  But I went in knowing that, as someone who’d scrimped on training (by necessity, not by choice), and who was racing his first time at a higher category, there was a good chance I’d come up short at some point.

The race had gotten underway with unusually favorable temperatures in the low 70s, and light winds from the north — much better than one could rightly expect, and absolutely welcomed by everyone.  And contrary to the warnings I’d heard, the initial pace was very civilized, with the first half hour or so rolling by at a leisurely pace in the low 20s and without any apparent attacks.

Needless to say, the gift wrap eventually came off the package, and a blistering race got underway.

By the time we’d finished the first hour, the group’s average speed had climbed to just under 24 mph, meaning that we’d spent the second half of the hour doing 27-29 or so.

Curiously, during this period we caught and passed the Cat 3 group that had started something like 5 minutes earlier than we had.  The collective thought within the Cat 4 group was that the 3s were simply smarter that us, and were saving their bullets for later in the race.  We expected to see them fly by in a show of force at some point in the back half of the course.

Going into the second hour, then, things actually speeded up a bit further.  Looking at my trusty Garmin, I frequently saw readings in the 30-32 mph range, and even spotted us at over 33 mph at one point — and I remind you that was on flat ground, because that’s the only kind of ground there was.  My Garmin swears that I topped out at 37.3 mph at some point.

Anyway, making such fine progress, we finished the second hour almost to the minute we crossed the 50 mile mark — nailing a solid 25 mph average over the first half of the course.

As someone who only a couple of seasons ago couldn’t finish more than a couple miles inside a group going that pace, I was thrilled about the speed we were driving, and wondering what kind of monsters were up front pulling us like that.

I was equally thrilled that it didn’t seem to be killing me, either.  At the halfway point, the legs were still feeling adequate and sending no signals that the party might come to an end.

Around mile 60, though, I received a slightly edgy Tweet from the muscle just above my left knee saying it wasn’t feeling 100%, and might be exiting the party just a tad early.  I downed another FRS and did what I could to stand on the pedals and stretch the muscles out to the extent possible.

During this stage of the race, we got passed by the Cat 3s, but not long afterward, passed them again.  At this point, it began to appear as if the 3s weren’t just being “foxy” about the race, but simply might not have been up to driving the pace the we were keeping.

How shameful for them, truly.

Somewhere after mile 70 we headed up a slight incline which I’d seen coming since about mile 50 (did I mention how flat Texas is?), and had tactically adjusted for by moving near the front of the group so I could take the incline at an easier pace and drift backward without going OTB.  Just like the text book says, right?

At the top of the rise, I bothered looking back to verify that I’d done it to perfection — I was now the last rider in the group, and there wasn’t a single rider left behind me.

Sitting at the absolute back of the pack worried me no small bit, so as we rolled down the slight grade on the backside, I edged along the left side of the peloton until I was maybe two-thirds the way to the front.

And that’s when we got to the second, and last, rise on the course.  And by rise, I’m talking maybe fifty feet of elevation gained over a quarter mile:  maybe a 1-2% grade.  I repeated the “pedal your own pace” routine and once again drifted toward the back of the pack.  When the last rider went by me, I tried to stick there.

At about that time, the major muscles of both legs undertook what is known in Silicon Valley as a “massive denial of service attack.”

Immediately, pain shot through my body as my legs literally stiffened to wood.  Quickly I looked up the road to see the peloton dissolving in front of me, like a heat-mirage sliding away into the horizon.  Then I looked down at my mutinous legs and was, for a moment, intrigued by the deformity of the major muscles, which looked like they were trying to bear-hug themselves.  How cute.

Then I stopped looking at anything at all, and started screaming as loudly as I could.  For what it’s worth, screaming didn’t seem to help anything.

My mind raced around the fact that I couldn’t pedal, couldn’t unclip, and certainly wouldn’t be able to stand on either leg if I did.  Therefore, it seemed I was about to fall in the middle of the street and suffer for a while.  I only hoped the wheel truck would come by soon and help un-pretzel me.

Jumping ahead about 30 of the longest seconds of my life, I did get the left leg unclipped, got it on the ground, and then stood there undergoing more waves of cramping above both knees, in one or both calves, and certainly in the major quads, left and right.

I think I was still screaming “NO!” at that point.  Next time I’ll definitely pick another word, since this one didn’t cut it.  Perhaps I should have invoked some holy being for help, but frankly I felt a little to close to the pearly gates at the moment, and didn’t want anyone inviting me inside.

But I digress.

The rest was uneventful.  Maybe 10 minutes later, a SAG vehicle came by and I crawled inside.  The guys driving it were very friendly and worked the radios to arrange my eventual return to the start.  I tossed them some cash I’d brought along – which they protested but finally accepted – and told them I’d bear their child or whatever.

So my good friend Steve, who’d driven down from St. Louis, finished with the pack and nailed a four-hour century.  Yes, I’d love to be able to say I’d managed to stick it out and done the same, but I’m extraordinarily pleased at having held such a pace for 70+ miles.

And the 3s?  – they got beat by the 4′s!

At the finish line, the announcer saw a pack rolling into town and told the crowd – which was huge, by the way – “Here come the Cat 3s!”  Moments later, he corrected himself and told the crowd that the 4s were coming in ahead of them.

In short, the entire peloton of the Cat 4s rode a faster race than the WINNER of the Cat 3 group.

So considering that, the fact that I’d out-rode the 3s for 70 miles made it all the more satisfying an outing.

My other good friend Bert, who’d also made the pilgrimage from Missouri, finished with the pack in the 4/5s race with an average speed in the 23s, which shows that these guys weren’t slacking off, either.

Had I chosen not to Cat up and rode the 5s race, I’d have finished with about 5 more miles left in the legs and quite possibly have had a nice position in the overall results — instead coming up 25 or more short of a pack finish with the 4s.  But weighing all that together, I wouldn’t trade the experience I had for anything.

At the end of the day, I’d ridden an extraordinarily and notoriously hard race, filled with almost a hundred strong riders, and I’d held my own right up till the moment my body failed massively.  I hadn’t gotten weak of mind or talked myself into easing off.  I hadn’t struggled to stay with the pack when it surged to speeds I would not have believed I could have held.  I’d raced perfectly finely and used my head quite well, sitting cozily in the group behind the largest riders, scarfing down calories and minerals and electrolytes and water like mad, and doing a fine job and having genuine fun right up to the moment the gas tank had run dry.

What more could you ask for?

In closing, if you’ve ever thought about the Hotter’n Hell 100, do it.  You won’t believe how well-run the events are, or how wonderfully the entire town supports every aspect of it.  I’ve never seen it done better.