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Pre Dawn
I’ve been colder.

But I really can’t remember when.

For 11 hours I’ve been riding in cold drizzle with the temperature hovering just above freezing. My lap times don’t approach those of the fastest geared riders, but they continue to pile up anyway. Somewhere out in the soup Steve Fassbinder and Chris Cosentino continue plugging away, but where exactly is anyone’s guess. We three single-speeders are on the same lap after 17 hours of racing, and despite the unfavorable conditions none of us want to cave in now.

The conditions are not optimal. At the moment I’m stumbling and sliding down the remnants of the trail. Rain was welcome at first to beat down the choking, blinding dust, but it continues to remove significant amounts of dirt from between the rocks and roots that make up this mountain. Traction is elusive. Racers have been teetering and falling over hypothermic, probably because they weren’t expecting the cold to come in the way that it has.

I’ve been chilled since the rain started, but continuous movement and calorically dense food have kept me functional enough to stay on-course. On the climb I’m comfortable despite being soaked, but the descent is too steep and fast to require much effort, and it chills me through every lap. I’m able to rebuild some heat on the way up, but never quite as much as I lose going down. All night long it goes this way; a little chilled at the bottom, almost comfy at the top, then a little more chilled at the bottom than the last time through. By dawn I have no choice but to admit that I’m borderline hypothermic.

There’s light in the sky but the sun isn’t rising quickly enough to warm me up. In the pits I procrastinate briefly, taking a long pull of lukewarm chicken soup and grabbing a less soggy pair of gloves before heading back out. Sunrise is close, and if I can stay on-course through it I might get a leg up on Chris or Steve. Shivering as I leave the pits, I know that I need to really attack the climb in order to get my core temp back up.

I never get the chance. Before I’m out of sight of the transition area the rain turns torrential, then to sleet, then snow, and the wind kicks up several notches. The relatively comfortable wetness of the night is quickly forgotten—this is a level beyond. By the time I slip through the woods and into the transition area I can’t feel my hands and am shivering non-stop. I drop the bike in the pit and run for a heated building.

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Pre Race
Following a disappointing Grand Loop and a cancelled (due to forest fires) Great Divide Race, I felt like my race season was incomplete. Apparently, so did Pat Irwin, as he kept calling to bend my ear about doing 24-hour Worlds. He mentioned how much fun we’d have on the road trip up there, then reminded me how these events are fun before, during, and after because of the camaraderie developed between riders. Pat pointed out that everyone loves getting together afterward to share war stories. I countered that no one really enjoys living the war stories; they just enjoy embellishing them once the race ends. He was unfazed.

In the end, I’m a sucker for a road trip, and his endless haranguing eventually bowls me over. That, and I’ve long wondered how well I could do at a 24 on a single. After I verbally commit to going he utters a phrase that I’ve heard him say at least a dozen times before. Now that it’s directed at me it actually has significance: “Solo means solo—no crews”. Click.

My first reaction is to curse him, but slowly a smile spreads across my face, and I begin to see the beauty of it. Solo on a single with no crew. Inasmuch as racing around in circles makes any sense, doing it truly solo on a single sounds pretty sensible to me.

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Early hours
In addition to the 75 geared-bike solos, there are seven solo single speeders signed up. Before the start I figured the race for the single speed title would be between Pat and Steve Fassbinder. Pat has won the last two 350-mile Iditarod Trail Invitational races, placed 11th at ’99 24-hour Worlds, and 8th at ’00 24-hour Worlds, all on his single. He’s the reigning king of ultra-endurance single speeding, not to mention the unassuming creator of the genre. Steve placed 8th at ’01 24-hour Worlds on a single, and has consistently been a top-ten 24-hour finisher. An outside shot at the title belongs to Chris Cosentino, who won the Tahoe 24-hour race (on a single) the weekend previous. As strong as Chris is, with that little rest I doubt he’ll be able to stay with Pat and Steve.

We take off at noon exactly, heading away from the cacophony of music and screaming spectators. Typically the start is a full-on anaerobic blast, followed by a gradual tapering into a sustainable pace. In dozens of previous 24-hour solo events I’ve always found myself near the middle of the pack at the end of the run no matter what I do. This time I tried a little experiment—instead of duking it out with the fast guys or the team riders that would be resting in an hour, and instead of doing the usual trot-around-the-loop-and-try-to-look-like-a-runner, I sprinted the first 100 yards to get around the corner and off to the side, out of the way of the amped-up guys, then I backed off the throttle and slowed to a walk. I walked about 90% of the foot loop, and then rode very slowly and even walked some of the prologue loop.

In addition to not having gotten my heart rate above 150 (it stayed closer to 125), I lost a whopping 4 minutes to the leaders. 4 minutes, with over 23.5 hours left. That’s not a lot of time. If I keep my transitions smooth throughout the event, I can make that time up no problem. But for now I’m almost dead last and need to start moving up.

The 1500’ climb to the 6300’ summit mostly follows smooth dirt tracks, narrowing and becoming more technical and steep toward the top. The whole course is rideable, but for this length event you have to weigh the benefits of grinding up some of the steeper pitches at 35 rpm. I look at the steep climbs as a break--I walk 'em instead of grind up 'em, and at the top I'm a little fresher and I can make up any time lost very quickly.

Once through the summit aid station, the trail is technical singletrack almost all the way back down. The descent is alternately fast, rocky, rooty, and very steep, but through all of that the common theme is dust. There are also a handful of really steep off-camber rooty drop-ins interspersed. I fancy myself a solid technical rider, but some of the drops are just a bit over the top for me. I clean all of them at least once, and most of them repeatedly, but in the dark when I’m not at my sharpest I play it safe and slip-slide my way down them on foot.

Pat and I had been doing a rain dance for a few days before the event, hoping to get some foul conditions to slow down the rabbits. When the sky opened up at sunset, dumping sheets of cold rain across the mountain, Pat and I happened to be coming through the pits at the same time and we just grinned at each other.

The fastest, fittest racers are not necessarily the ones that do well in longer events. Pacing, strategy, equipment selection, and plain old luck take on greater significance when you’re riding for a day. Put simply, the way to do well in a 24 is to not have any surprises. Ride within yourself, stay hydrated and fed, and don’t stop. It's just that simple. Of course, the length of time we're out there does add some likelihood that a monkey wrench will get thrown in at some point. Having finished dozens of these events, I've had most of what can go wrong happen at one point or another. Unless it’s an injury it just becomes a matter of fixing the problem and limiting time lost.

I came back through the pits and was surprised to see Pat’s bike still leaning there, but no sight of him. As I stuff food into my face and pockets, I ask if anyone has seen him. I gather only that Pat pulled out of the race just after dark.

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Late night
Sometime after midnight I find a rhythm while climbing out of the saddle. My pace is not fast, I’m just consistently sawing back and forth on the bars and making the kind of predictable progress that allows my mind to wander from the task at hand. It’s in this mindframe that a certain irony reveals itself to me.

I typically prefer to compete in ultra-endurance mountain bike races of varying lengths, anywhere from 400 to 1100 miles, usually self-supported. Those races are a true test of equipment, clothing, food, and tools because no competitor is foolish enough to use something that’s not going to get them back home again. Across tundra, ice and snow in winter, through the mountains in summer, in the desert year round, myself and my competitors wouldn’t dream of using anything that we don’t trust completely, because in many ways our lives are on the line.

Our sponsors are lukewarm about backcountry events because there is minimal media coverage. It’s hard to argue with their rationale; they want to get the most bang for their marketing buck, so they encourage us to do lap races because they get the most exposure via write-ups in this and other rags.

But what the sponsors are trying to show (by providing gear and dollars to athletes) is that their product is capable of taking more abuse than similar products for a given weight or price, and hence more worthy of purchase. The irony staring me in the face is that these lap races prove nothing as far as equipment durability or clothing comfort, for many (if not most) racers bring at least two bikes, spare wheels, tires, derailleurs, chains, cables and housing, etc. It’s not uncommon for the leaders to switch bikes every lap just to allow their crew to give the bike a once over to keep potential problems at bay. What’s really proven at a 24 is the worthiness of a competent pit crew.

The only way to prove the value of any product at a 24-hour race is to eradicate pit crews and mandate a one-bike rule. Mountain biking is not just a test of rider skill, training, and ability; it’s a test of self-sufficiency. Mechanicals happen to everyone, and dumping the bike in the pits runs counter to that self-sufficient spirit. I’d love to see the emphasis return to run-what-ya-brung, to see a little more self-reliance out here. The fast guys would still be fast, but they’d probably have to rethink their equipment at least a little bit; sturdier wheels, coil/oil forks instead of air, carrying tools, tubes, and pump instead of quick-fills in case of multiple failures.

I really doubt that anyone would go for that, but while steadily ascending on one of the simplest machines in this race, I fancy how wonderful it would be to level the playing field between the sponsored guys and the weekend warriors.

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Predawn revisited
Peering out into the deluge, Pat Irwin sees me running for shelter and opens the door. I skip the pleasantries and head right for the shower—nothing gets the core body temp back up like warm water inside and out. I yell out to ask Pat why he dropped from the race. It’s difficult to understand his exact reply over the noise of the shower, but I gather that it just wasn’t his day. I file away a mental note to give him a full-scale verbal assault for talking me into this race and then bailing on it, but right now I have other priorities.

A few minutes under the high-pressure heat completely rejuvenates me. Leaving a pile of muddy clothes on the bathroom floor, I borrow some dry clothes from Pat. As I strap my helmet back on I happen to look out the window and notice that the wind is blowing sheets of sleet sideways. I pause, briefly, thinking about how comfortable this warm, dry room is. I start to notice the blankets on the couch, the pillows on the bed, and then Pat interrupts me with “Can I getcha anything else?” I snap back into motion, rinse the mud from my Oakley’s and gloves, then run to the pits. I’ve worked for 18 hours and I ain’t gonna throw it all away just because the weather has gotten a little pissy. After a few huge gulps of cold chicken soup I hop on the bike and power back onto the course.

In the few minutes that I was gone the course became a war zone. Tubes, bottles, bikes, clothes, garbage, tents (or pieces of them) and even people are strewn everywhere. Some racers obviously got so cold that survival took priority over everything else—hence the ditched bikes.

Rain and sleet continue to fall, driven by gusts of cold wind coming across the mountain. The doubletrack climb had two rideable lines before the deluge began. Now the ‘good line’ is a stream, so everyone has moved over to ride the relatively smooth bad line. My core temp has risen because of the shower, but my mood hasn’t improved now that I’m back out in the weather. Searching for a rhythm on the gradual ascent of the mountain, I find myself wondering out loud, “What the hell’s the point of this? What does this prove? Why am I still out here?” I don’t have an answer, but I do have a few more hours to think about it.

The freezing precip at the top hasn't made things any slicker, but the puddles have gotten deeper. I can't see what’s underneath, and that’s dangerous because of all the hatchet rocks, cut off stumps and off-camber roots. I roll both ankles several times on this lap.

Near the bottom of the descent I catch Chris, finally putting a lap on him. I’d expected to be excited when I caught him but it’s hard to when I see the difficulty he’s in. He’s as wasted as the rest of us, but he’s also having trouble keeping his feet warm, and so walks to keep the blood pumping there. The real difficulty is in his knee, and it shows in a pronounced hobble in his gait. We chat briefly but I want to ride, so I leave him to shuffle on his own. When I drop into the transition area I see concerned looks on the faces of his crew, obliging me to stop and assure them that he’s still moving forward and should be here soon.

By 10am the rain has stopped. While the day is still gray and the skies loom heavy, the course has improved to the point that almost everything is rideable. With good trail and full visibility, my body switches over to autopilot. I know precisely where to pedal standing to motor over small rises, and exactly where to sit back down to conserve energy. Descending lines were memorized 16 hours ago, allowing me to flow over the course with minimal output and little thought to the task at hand.

I know that this lap will be my last, and I’m still wondering where Fassbinder is. I don’t have the patience to stop in the transition tent to figure it out, and couldn’t speed up much right now if I had to. I make a quick stop in my pit, but haven’t much appetite and so I simply take a bottle of electrolyte and a Luna Bar with me. Often the last lap is the easiest, mentally speaking, because the weight of the day has been lifted from your shoulders. Today I feel nothing but solemn dread as I wind it up for the last time on the climb. I’m uneasy because the descent has become so sketchy.

The last climb is memorable only for its’ lack of surprises. I waste no time in the gale up top, and am able to descend at a cautious pace, thereby avoiding mishap and injury. Near the bottom of the course, with less than two miles to go, Fassbinder appears behind, genuinely excited to see me. And why wouldn’t he be—he’s just put a lap on me and sewn up the single-speed title. I congratulate him and tell him that I’ll see him at the finish, then continue to cautiously pick my way down.

Finishing a 24-hour solo race is one of those desire-triumphs-over-common-sense kinda things. We finish as a means of preserving our own integrity, not because it’s a fun thing to do. We finish because we started, because to quit would be poor sportsmanship. Anyone who’s ever quit one of these events voluntarily (myself included) probably regretted that decision until they were able redeem themselves by riding out the next one. Today there is no elation, no giddy celebration, simply a solemn relief at not having to go back out.

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Afterthoughts
The best part about single speeding is that there really are no mechanical problems compared to a geared bike. The setup is so simple that you don't need to do any maintenance for a full 24 hours or longer. Even with the dusty-turned-goopy, sloppy conditions here at Silver Star, I'm 99.9% certain that my bike received zero maintenance the whole race. In other words I never switched bikes or wheels or tires or anything, and the bike ran as well at the finish as it did at the start. I know that Michael Madden and Steve Tower tried to clean and lube my chain, but I don't think they could get through all the mud.

Since I spent zero time suffering in my granny gear I think that my legs are in better shape than they've ever been after a 24. My knees don't hurt and aren't swollen like they are when I do a 24 with gears. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that there’s no pain associated with single speeding, it’s just that the pain is in different places--shoulders, forearms, and back. You use your upper body a whole lot more hauling a single up a mountain for a day.

Organizationally, of all the 24-hour races I've been to, this one was as close as possible to perfect. From the length of the course to the amount of climbing to the technical nature of it, not to mention the obvious experience the Trilife crew has at putting these events on, everything was grand. The transition tent and solo pit had great flow and an abundance of personnel to keep us moving forward, with encouragement to boot. The one detail that didn’t make any sense, and never has, is why solos are made to carry a baton. In a team relay it makes sense, but whom do the solos hand off to?

Nicest guy award has to go to Chris Eatough. Each time he passed me on the course he’d call out a polite, “Looking good there, solo” or “Mind if I pass?” as he went by. Then he’d thank me and say something equally polite as he motored away.

Chris decisively won the ’00 and ‘01 world’s races, yet somehow the mainstream media continue to focus on two ‘other’ guys. It seemed paradoxical to me that most of the pre-race and in-race media attention went to two athletes who failed to finish the Worlds race in ’01, and who also bailed before the end of this race, while Chris went on to win his 3rd straight 24 Hour World Championship.

Selfless humanitarian award goes to Eric Warkentin, who abandoned his top-ten placing without a thought to assist a hypothermic and barely conscious Ryan Draper.

Motivating rider award goes to Janice Tower. I only saw her once on-course, and despite the conditions she wasn’t angry or tired or frustrated, she’d simply resigned herself to dealing with the conditions. I wouldn’t go so far as to call her chipper, but she just kept plugging away to finish a strong fourth due to grit and determination.

Big thanks go out to Michael Madden, Joanne Shand, and Steve Tower for their attention in the pits when they had others to look after. I may have started the race crewless, but I couldn’t have done as well as I did without their consideration.

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Full results and ’03 qualifying information can be found at www.trilife.com.

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Story by Mike Curiak
Photos by Mike Curiak and Michael Madden