Mohican 100

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It rained all night.  Lightning, thunder, downpours, then drizzle.  The dread I was already feeling couldn’t get much deeper so, what the hell, I didn’t really worry about it. 

On the start line I recalled the line from Jeremiah Bishop in the latest BIKE magazine, “You know the really tough races cause those are the ones you just dread to toe the line.”  That’s what I was feeling, without ever having seen the course.  Memories of the black out bonks from all the other 100s kept me sober.

Low expectations are the shit.  After a smooth start I rolled into the Mohican woods with Jeff Shalk and Chris Eatough.  The ground was wet but spongy, no puddles despite an inch of rain.  Cool morning temperatures and a placated forest were serving up deep lungfuls of fresh air.  I felt good.  I felt relaxed.  “They must be taking it easy,” I figured.  We were just warming up.  Or was I just feeling that good?  I have no idea.  I reminded myself that I’ve never finished a 100 without hating the last 30 miles.  I’ve never thought is was possible to ride that hard for that long without necessarily destroying yourself.  But, as only few truly understand, the human body is capable of incredible feats.  Pain makes you stronger and sometimes, a lot of pain will make you stronger still. 

Despite the paucity of words, I enjoyed the company of the celebrity Trek boys.  They had little idea of who I was.  I imagined myself the upstart. It’s a coveted role; no one claims it for long; too much success and your part of the establishment. 

Seasoned riders understand the irony of the the rest stops.  They are always points of attack.  The weak and ill prepared will expose themselves, tempted by the piles of fruit, PB&J, ice cold water, and chain lube.  To compete you send bottles to the rest stops in a bag with your number.  “Seventy-two,” I called out at aid three, 45 miles in.  One bottle was all I had.  Should I fill another?  In one eye I see those Trek boys sprinting out of the gate.  I wasn’t ready to get taken out, so I took off. 

Following Jeff Shalk’s wheel when he’s on fire is scary.  He’s not human.  I lasted in his draft in the 2007 Shenandoah 100 for about 15 min.  When we hit the 10 mile rails to trails section going into rest stop four Shalk pretty much took over.  He wasn’t interested in taking turns.  He was determined to punish all who dared suck his wheel with the shear embarrassment of blowing up in his draft.  I was out of water, dying a slow death, but loving the rail-line speed.

At rest stop four I stopped.  “Are you alright?” Garth yells, disappointment in his voice.  The boys attack.  I sucked down water, two bites of melon and they’re are out of sight.  I set out to nurse a recovery.  You got me, you fiend.

Towards the end I came back around and finished strong.  Walking the bike back to the cabin I couldn’t help but crack a smile through a mud caked face, “I crushed it.” I gave myself that.