This Saturday was my 12 hour adventure at Dirt Sweat & Gears in Fayetteville, Tennessee. Last year the race was a war of attrition. Hard rain turned the dirt to clay and the top pros managed just 4 or 5 laps of hiking 100 pound, mud-caked bikes over a 10 mile loop. This year the promoters promised a back up B-plan in the event of rain. But the course, a mix of tight, technical trail, ripping singletrack, screaming descents and gear grinding climbs that add up to1500 feet of elevation per lap is mad fun, but no walk in the park even on a picture perfect May day….which Saturday was, and then was not, and then was again (more on that later).
I had set my sights on 10 laps as a goal for the day. But I had just one real desire: Ride smart, so I could finish as strong as I started. I got to the venue Friday afternoon to sign in and pre-ride the course. It was blazingly hot, into the 90s and I made a mental note to buy more water as I kitted up. The course was gorgeous, lush and pretty with nearly perfect flow. It was challenging, but not grueling, the kind of course that won’t beat you up, but, especially after 12 hours, could wear you down. I made mental notes of where to eat and drink as I rolled along. Back in the venue, I ran into my old friend Jon Cariveau from Moots who was racing duo. I was traveling and racing alone, so I didn’t have a tent and wasn’t sure how I was going to set up and work my pit all by myself. I decided to ask for a little “neutral assistance.” “Jon, this may be an obnoxious question; and please feel free to say no; but would you mind if I set up shop in a corner of your tent? I’m here alone…” He didn’t even let me finish my sentence. “Of course. Whatever you need. And we’ll help you out between laps too.” I owe them…big.
Race day broke misty, bright and pleasant. I loaded up on a giant breakfast, packed the car and headed over to the Cotton Mill Preserve. I set up, warmed up, and headed over for the pre-race meeting, where I learned an interesting fact. Any lap that finished after 9 p.m. would not count. I looked around. “Is he joking,” I asked the guy next to me, who smiled and shook his head. I’ve never heard a rule like that. It was like a simultaneous slap in the face and kick in the butt. A lap that doesn’t count? At the end of a 12 hour day? Cut offs are one thing. Discarded laps felt like heresy. I would have to think long and hard if I came in close to 8 p.m. Just another mental note.
The rain came, hard and fast. Coach Chris Eatough had said “I pray for dry conditions for you.” I thought he was exaggerating. He was not. I have never encountered conditions so completely unridable. The mud, where wet, was icy slick, where not soaking wet, it adhered like pottery clay to your bike. Here at home, the rocks are sandstone, so always grippy. These rocks were like Crisco coated marble. I had an instant, profound mental mechanical. As I trudged through the slop, barely making forward progress, I kept thinking, “I will not do this. I will not push a 70 pound bike around a 10 mile course for 9 more hours. No way.” I worked my way through the muck and abruptly hit a patch of trail that was bone dry. “Huh?” I thought. “Did it not rain here?” Indeed it hadn’t. I saddled back up and finished my lap with new found resolve. As I rolled in, Jon’s teammate Matty from Moots was sitting on the stoop of the van. He jumped up. “What do you need?” I shot him a look. “Okay, everything!” He got to work cleaning my bike and lubing my chain (thank you, thank you, thank you!). I shoveled down food and set my resolve on committed. The sun was shining, so I was hopeful. I rolled out for another lap to discover that the wet mud was now liquid cement. After another fairly hellacious lap with a 70 pound mud-caked bike, I rolled into transition to get the good news. “They’re running the short course,” Jon told me, grabbing my bike for another quick cleaning and lubing. “They cut out the mud.” “Okay,” I thought, feeling renewed, “Let’s do this.”
The rest of the day is almost a blur. I had no idea where Amanda was, but I figured it was way ahead of me. For the moment I didn’t want to know. I had good energy, so I wanted to roll out and keep racing. The day passed pleasantly. I kept ticking off laps, eating my sandwiches, draining my bottles, and enjoying the course. As we neared the end of the race, it happened. At 7 p.m., I heard a female voice. I glanced back and I saw a very fresh, very strong looking female charging up the trail. It was Amanda getting ready to pass me. Neither of us could recollect what actual lap we were on, but I knew she must be one up on me. “I think we could be done,” she said as she passed me, explaining that she had passed Jill, who was in third a while back. “I don’t think I’m pulling fast enough lap times to make it out for another.” I looked at my watch and thought, “You could definitely get in another, sister.” But I kept quiet and thought. First place was out of reach. Third place seemed too far back to catch. I seemingly had 2nd locked up. But something was nagging at me. “You don’t want to quit. You came here to race 12 hours. Don’t quit.”
I pulled into the venue at 7:45. Decision time. Amanda had done 10 laps and was done. I had just finished 9. Jill was still about midway through her 9th. As I stood there, contemplating calling it a day, Clay walked up. “You just pulled a 1:03 lap. You have time to get in another.” “You came here to race,” I thought. “You wanted 10. Go get 10.” I pulled on my helmet, turned on my headlight and rolled out for one more. It was a little slow going to start as I adjusted to dark. And I was starting to get tired and a little sloppy. About a third of the way through I looked at my watch and it dawned on me that if I didn’t get a move on, this lap would not count. “You have about 45 minutes. Put your butt in gear and do this. Or you’re going to be furious with yourself.” I found my second wind and started charging. It was awesome, flying through the trees, shadows dancing on the trail, cool night air streaming over me. I reached the final stretch. I could see the lights of the venue through the trees. I looked down at my watch. “You’re going to make it”! I charged over the finish line with six minutes to spare. “You’re staying for awards, right?” Grant, the other race director asked me. “Oh yeah,” I said. “Good, because you not only got second, but you’ll also get a little money for fastest night lap in the female division.”
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