TD 2010 Entry #6: Eureka – 70 Miles

5:00 AM could not come soon enough for me.  As I lay awake most of the night, mentally reviewing my performance thus far, I determined that Day 3 of the Tour Divide was going to be a turning point.  For starters, I expected to gain a triumphant mental boost by crossing the border today.  More importantly, I would satisfy my urge to make up miles after a disappointing 87 miles on Day 2 and a subpar 110 miles on Day 1.  I would do at least 130 miles today come hell or high water.  Hopefully my riding buddies would agree with me, but if not, I would race on without them.  That was a sad thought, but the knowledge that I’d been falling more and more behind the main pack over the last two days was gnawing at me, and I certainly didn’t want to wind up being the very last SPOT dot on the tracking map.  In general, I just expected to right all the wrongs I’d done so far in this race and get back in it.  I’d been learning divide racing lessons since Banff, and I was eager to correct my mistakes and become a faster, more efficient racer.  Yes…today would be the turning point.

Well, there was a turning point alright.  But it wasn’t the kind I was hoping for.  The end of this day would prove yet again that my plans were but piss in the wind to the mighty Divide.

After a quick breakfast of cashews and candy, Bob, Suzanne, Tom, and I layered up in our cold riding gear and made our way into the frosty morning.  We were in the saddle by 6 AM, which was an hour later than I had lobbied for, but it was still much better than the previous day’s departure time. 

Something I haven’t mentioned yet about the Flathead are the copious amounts of Jersey Shore episodes laying around on the trail.  Oops, did I say “Jersey Shore episodes?”  I meant to say “steaming piles of bear shit.”  Sorry, those two things are identical to me.  Anyway, we were seeing lots of bear scat all over the trail, but so far I hadn’t seen any real live bears at all.  I’d been looking forward to seeing some cuddly bruins…from AFAR mind you.

Well it wasn’t long into the morning when my wish was answered.  I was a little way ahead of the others, and as I rounded a long bend, I saw a small blackie sniffing around on the side of the road.   After my initial surprise, I came to a silent stop and managed to snap a couple of blurry pics before he saw me, studied me for a few moments, and then darted off.  I was exultant.  To my chagrin, this would be the only bear I saw with my own eyes.  Later, Tom would scare one off just before I got a chance to see him. 

Soon, we were attacking the morning’s first obstacle, Cabin Pass.  We’d been mentally preparing for this one for a while….it was going to be a doozy.  It was a 10 mile climb, and a steep one at that.  It turned out to be every bit the nut-buster I’d been imagining.  As we grinded our way to the top, I had to smile.  It was tough, it was slow, it was cold, and damn it all, it was fun.   At least for me.  At the summit, Suzanne was in tears.  She was suffering with excruciating knee pain, but had somehow managed to keep pace and make it to the top with us.  My left knee was still in ample pain from when I impacted it the day before, but I could ignore it as long as I was in the saddle.  Suzanne’s pain was on a whole other level.  I felt horrible for her…we weren’t even out of Canada yet and her knees were blowing up.  I feared that her days were numbered.

We took a good long break at the summit, and then pushed on through the Wigwam section of the route.  Tom, suddenly feeling the full spryness and vigor of his 20 year old body, left us during one of our water treatment breaks, and I wondered (as I always did when one of the group splits away) if that was the last I’d see of him.  At some point during this run, Bob and I left Suzanne as she soaked her gams in a cold river.  I was certain we’d not see her again.  About an hour later, though, she caught up to us.  Wow!  I admired her tenacity.  Maybe she would make it after all??

Soon, the highly anticipated Flathead singletrack reroute was upon us.  And by “singletrack,” I mean “a barely distinguishable, unridable trail.”  OK, you could ride small sections of it, but otherwise, there was lots of walking, terrain-negotiating, and water jumping.  This was not your local city’s well-manicured mountain bike park. 

Then came “The Wall.”  Looking back it now, the point at which I came around a corner and beheld the base of the infamous wall was probably the funniest moment of the entire race for me. 

Here’s the thing:  I’ve learned that when humans describe something that they’ve experienced, they exaggerate almost every time.   It’s just what we do.  “That was the funniest movie ever!  This place in south Houston has the best pizza in Texas!  This girl I’m setting you up with is AMAZING!!”  So you experience these wonderful things for yourself and find out that the movie is lame, the pizza sucks, and the girl gives you gonorrhea. 

Not so in this case.  Everything you’ve heard about The Wall is true. 

Bob and Suzanne were ahead of me.  “Wait ‘til you see what’s around the corner,” said Suzanne as I caught up to them.  They were standing at the base, necks craned upwards.  When I saw it, there was no time for the shock to even set in.  I spontaneously unleashed a mighty stream of profanities into the unsuspecting wilderness.  Flowers in my immediate vicinity withered and died on the spot.  A squirrel’s fur seared from his flesh as he bolted into the woods.  One mile away, a group of grizzly cubs began to cry. 

OK, so we’re back to the exaggeration I was talking about, but when I recovered from my shock and began hearing myself hurling expletives into the Four Winds, I could only start laughing.  It was just so absurd.  It’s an hilarious memory for me.

Seriously, The Wall was very close to 90 degrees in some sections.  In those spots, there is mud and roots 6 inches from your face.  Even though the weather had been gorgeous these last couple days, the face of the wall was very muddy because of the ever trickling runoff.  I had to measure each and every step as I scaled it, and I found it necessary to maintain 3 points of contact in those vertical spots.  I also had the added worry of Bob and/or Suzanne tumbling down on top of me with bike in tow. 

Don’t get me wrong…as shocking as it was to see the Wall, and as tricky as it was to climb it, it was a great experience.  How could it not be?  Here is a video I took from the base of The Wall.  As with most pics/videos, it simply does not fully capture the steepness, but it gives you a good idea.

With The Wall underneath us, we continued our journey into the clearcut section.  Here is the relevant cue:  Emerge into clearcut, which is the deadend of  Phillips Creek FSR. Navigate scattered clearcut deadfall 

This is one of the many times I was glad to have my GPS with me.  The trail through the clearcut was not clearly defined at all, at least not to my eyes.  The cue should have read “unclearcut!”  I followed the little purple line on my Dakota display screen until the route became obvious again. 

Onward we charged, and soon, we caught back up to Tom, who was having gastrointestinal issues of some kind.  He’d had a hard time putting down food lately, and it was catching up to him.  This is a good time to mention that all of our crew had been having their battles with eating at some point or another.  Their systems were upset or they couldn’t eat at certain times…maybe the junk food was tearing them up a little bit.  Me, I was eating like a madman and lovin’ it.  If you’d have asked me pre-race about what advantage I may have had over other racers, it would be eating.  I could eat the shittiest shit that was ever shitted, and lots of it, and my body would process it unquestioningly. 

We continued on to the next big obstacle of the day: Galton Pass.  I joyfully machined up the climb until I hit the edge of this weird, thick, white substance laying in the road.   It was snow, of course, something that we Houstonians see only in movies.  By some bizarre happenstance, Houston got some snow in December of 2008, and I swear that people (my family included) were venturing outdoors in wonderment, running around madly and shrieking with delight.  And here was a big thick blanket of the stuff right in front of me.  The others caught up to me as I ogled and snapped pictures, and we proceeded to slowly post hole our way to the summit and beyond.  This being my first such experience, I actually had a fun time with it. 

However I did realize something.  I came to accept the fact that my feet were just not going to be dry, so stop trying.  Between the meltoff, the mud, the post holing, and the rain on day one, it was pointless to even bother.  My Seal Skinz “waterproof” socks were saturated from water sloshing into them from the top…in fact, they actually held water inside the sock quite nicely.  I would wind up throwing them away.  They were too heavy and provided zero waterproofing.

Once we had traversed the snow and could ride again, we began a hellacious descent down the backside of Galton Pass.  Here is the relevant cue:  Once topped out at pass, ride ripping downhill to Hwy 93. Descent is high grade FSR but features very few switchbacks. Gradient + no switchbacks makes for potential for extreme speeds. It’s a real “humdinger”.

Check, check and check, but severely understated, if you ask me.  In fact, I would suggest the cue to officially change to:

Once topped out at pass, make damn sure your brakes are in optimal condition, then ride ripping downhill whilst yelling “Holy Shit!!” You WILL top 40 mph as your bike and gear rattle and shamble violently on the bumpy terrain.  One moment of inattention could spell your demise.  Urine may escape from orifices other than excretory organ.  Make concerted effort to live.

I  have it on good authority that one racer, who shall remain nameless (and no it wasn’t me or anyone I was riding with), reached the bottom of the pass, got off their bike, and curled into a fetal position, repeatedly chanting, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”  Not a joke. 

That being said, it was an exhilarating experience.  Adrenaline fired through my veins as I rocketed down the slope.  I risked a glance at my Cat Eye…43 mph.  Yikes!  When I rounded the final switchback and reached the bottom, I let out a victorious yelp, then turned back to see who was next. 

Though I didn’t realize it at the time, the following moment was the turning point of my race.

I see it now in my memory as clear as I saw it then.  I turned my head back just in time to see Bob flying through the air at the end of the switchback.  His body landed violently with a massive thud in the channel, and his bike crashed in after him.  A cloud of dust went up around them. 

Suzanne appeared from around the bend and got to him first.  After my initial shock, I dismounted and ran back up the mountain, fearing the absolute worst.  When I reached him, he was not moving.

In May of 2008, my best friend, James “Bear” Sparks, died in a motorcycle crash.  As I looked down at a silent, motionless Bob, memories of James’ accident came flooding back into my head.  Bob was a new friend, sharing a spectacular adventure with me, and now I was about to find out that he was dead.  At least, that was my immediate fear.    His bike lay next to him, mangled.

A wave of despair washed over me in those initial moments.  I stifled the urge to let my emotions get the best of me.  Suzanne and I had to think clearly.  If he was still alive, maybe he could be saved.  Looking around his body, I saw no blood or anything protruding out from where it shouldn’t have.  I was considering grabbing his SPOT messenger and pushing the Help button when he let out a moan. 

It was possibly the best sound I’d ever heard.  It had only been a few moments since we’d reached him, but an eternity had passed within that time.  Bob moved, and soon he had regained consciousness and was able to speak.  A crushing weight was lifted, even as my mind danced with vivid fears about “what could have been.”

We asked Bob if anything felt broken.  “My collarbone,” was his immediate reply.  Luckily, that was it.  At the speed he’d been going, if he had landed on a jagged rock or something….ugh, I don’t even want to think about it.

In time, Bob was able to walk down to the base of the pass while we gathered up his bike and possessions and brought them down.  Although he said he could try to walk to the border station, which we could see over the ridge just a few miles away, we insisted otherwise.  We decided that Suzanne would ride down to the Port of Roosville and summon help, while I waited with Bob. 

Off went Suzanne as Bob and I moved into the shade.  I put his arm in a sling and began situating/packing his bike and gear as best as I could.  I hoped the ambulance would be able to fit it all in.  

I’d always heard that broken collarbones were extremely painful and hard to come back from.  But aside from moving gingerly and wincing every here and there, Bob seemed to be taking the pain very well.  Seeing him walk around, talking normally, and not complaining, I had to ask, “Dude…does it hurt?”

“Fuckin’ A.”

As we waited for what seemed like an eternity for an ambulance, Bob had a lot of time to think about the depressing fact that his race was over.  His dream, everything he had trained for….all gone in a split second.  I could offer no solace…I could only remind him that it could have been infinitely worse.  He could still go home to his wife and kids in Wisconsin. 

Suddenly Tom came whizzing down the pass.  He’d fallen quite a ways behind as he dealt with his gastrointestinal issue.  He rode right past without seeing us.  Looked like he was on a mission to catch up.

Almost two hours after the time Suzanne left, a Canadian ambulance finally arrived.  Apparently, a U.S. ambulance could not cross the border to come pick him up.  This one had been dispatched from Fernie, some 30 miles north of the border, and had gotten lost trying to find us.  I helped pack Bob’s stuff into the ambulance, and after we said our goodbyes, I saddled up and followed it to the border station.  With Bob no longer in my immediate presence, the emotions of what had happened were free to have reign over my psyche.  The fear I’d been restraining washed over me now.  All I could keep thinking about was seeing the accident and how similar it was to the one that took my best friend’s life.  What the hell was going on?  Was Fate trying to warn me off of this ride?  That could have easily been me that crashed, and probably should have been, based on my experience level.  The cold truth is that I was not an expert elevation rider… before two days ago I’d never ridden down a steep mountain pass.  I was a noob out there.  I’d been lucky so far…how long would that last? What if I’m next?  What if my head gets cracked, like my best friend’s did?  What if I’m alone when it happens?  Can I possibly go on now, with the image of Bob’s accident freshly emblazoned in my mind??

It was really messing with my head…hard.  It became overwhelming.  I wanted to break down and yell or cry or curse the heavens, something.  As the distance widened between myself and the ambulance, I let it all out.  No one was around to hear it.  I’m glad for that.

I tried to pull myself together at the border station.  The guard didn’t seem to notice that I was in turmoil.  He started fucking with me…asking me stupid questions and giving me a hard time.  I suppose he thought he was being playful or funny or something.  “Yeah, my friend is in that ambulance right there, so, is there anything else?”  He stepped back and let me pass.

I figured Suzanne and Tom had pressed on long ago while I waited with Bob.  But, no, their rigs were sitting outside the First and Last Chance Saloon just past the border station.  They had waited for me.  I had mixed feelings about that.  While it was obviously awesome of them to do so, I wasn’t looking forward to talking with anyone right now.  I was a mess, and I was on the verge of breaking down again.  I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.  I needed time alone to process things for myself. 

On the other hand, I couldn’t be an asshole and just ride on after they’d waited for me.  I took some deep breaths, choked back my anguish, and entered the bar.

Tom and Suzanne were glad to see me, and I filled them in on what had happened.  They had long since finished eating, but were happy to wait for me as I ordered and ate an entire pizza.  Could Suzanne detect my emotional turmoil?  If she did, she thankfully didn’t press me on it.  I wondered if she was holding back some anxiety of her own.  Tom was full of levity and seemed emotionally unaffected.  He hadn’t seen the crash or experienced the fear and panic that we had, or at least that I had.  He was lucky.

A drunkard began to badger us.  He asked stupid questions and babbled about trivial bullshit, unable to detect the magnitude of what had just happened to us.  I wasn’t in the mood for it…not by a long shot. 

“Duz your jeansh ever get caught in tha chain?” he slurred.  Are you serious?  Do these look like jeans, you moron?  My turmoil was rapidly focusing into anger as this oblivious sack ran his mouth.  He wouldn’t leave us be.  I had an intense urge to take the guy down off of his barstool, but Suzanne and Tom just laughed him off, and I checked myself. 

I went outside and called my wife from the payphone.  She hadn’t answered when I had previously called from Sparwood, so when I heard her voice, I lost control.  I blubbered as I told her about what happened, feeling like a big weenie for doing so.  It was surprising to me, as I’m typically not the kind of guy that succumbs to such things.  At the time, I couldn’t pinpoint why it was affecting me so thoroughly…I mean, Bob hadn’t died.  He’d broken a bone and now he’s in good hands.  Done, move on.  Right?  But in hindsight, I see that the entire event had awoken some of my darkest fears about mortality and re-triggered a deep seeded grief over James’ death.  It had me feeling vulnerable, angry, and wallowing in despair.  It was not my finest moment.

Amy’s voice was a godsend.  She was everything I needed at that point: understanding, supportive, encouraging, and uplifting.  She told me of how everyone back home was glued to the leaderboard, watching my progress, asking her questions about how I was doing, and just being generally excited for me. They gave her inspiring messages to relay to me.  Suddenly, in the midst of one of the most trying emotional times I’d ever experienced, I was able to laugh a little bit as her words hit home.  That kind of support was overwhelming.  She gave me a massive boost, and helped to lift me out of the funk I’d been swimming in. 

“So,” she said tentatively after hearing me lighten up, “you’re not thinking of quitting are you?”

I had thought of it.  I had never thought the Tour Divide was an insane or crazy event as others had.  In my mind, it was nothing short of a spectacular adventure.  But yes, now I was questioning the wisdom of continuing.  But it wasn’t a strong thought. I would not hastily make such a big decision after having spent so much time preparing for this race.  I would ride on to Eureka at least, and see what tomorrow brings. 

After speaking with Amy, I called MTBCast and left my first report.  It was not the message I’d been hoping to leave.

With plenty of sunlight left, Tom, Suzanne, and I made the easy 11 miles to Eureka.  The short ride did a lot of good for me.  For the first time since the Flathead turnoff, we were in big, open country rather than on forested mountain dirt roads .  An enormous blue sky lorded over the impressive landscape of Montana.  The vast, open beauty was a simple form of therapy for my beleaguered mindset. 

By the time we got there, I had made up my mind that I would go no further that day.  Though I felt great physically, I was emotionally exhausted.   I didn’t care that the day would only turn out to be only 70 miles.  It just didn’t matter right now.  I would stuff myself with hot food, turn in early, and hope that tomorrow would be a bright new day.

Suzanne was also for staying in Eureka.  Her knees were absolutely killing her, and I once again suspected that the end of her race was fast approaching.  Tom saw no reason to continue without us.  So we all split a room.  At the hotel, a door popped open and out walked Jeff Kerby and Jim Helms (I think).  Their race was done.  Jeff cited a desire to get back to his family, and Jim….well, let’s just say that certain bodily fluid had made a surprise exit from a place that it shouldn’t have.  He would not risk it further.

They filled us in on race news.  Several other riders had dropped as well, citing illness or injury.  Someone out there was riding the wrong route and was risking disqualification if he didn’t correct himself.  I suddenly felt quite good about what I’d been able to do so far.  No navigation errors, no illness, no serious injury…I was way behind where I wanted to be, but hey, I was still here.  It gave more encouragement to continue.  Just not tonight.

Another couple of riders pulled into Eureka some time after us.  I forget who they were now.  Jeff Boatman of Carousel Design Works was with them.  He was out riding the GDMBR for fun.  Wow…must be a nice life!

After discovering that the local laundromat had closed (I really reeked…I could smell my own wretchedness) I settled for a warm shower, a big microwaved burger from the convenience store (the restaurants were also closed), and a few hours of fitful sleep.  It was the most sleep I’d had since the race started.  Maybe I’d had about 5 hours total since Grand Depart.   The damndest thing is that I never really felt zapped.  Not physically.  5 flippin’ hours in 3 days and I just wasn’t sleepy.  It was utterly absurd. 

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