Riders eager to hit the course for the 2012 Bailey Hundo.
100 Miles of Insight
October 17, 2011
As the Miami Dolphins and New York Jets prepare to square off on Monday Night Football, I begrudgingly climb aboard my road bike, firmly mounted in a way-too-expensive trainer. The 2012 Bailey Hundo workouts have begun.
This is my new Monday night thing. When the game is in session, I cruise at a moderate pace. When commercials come on I throw it into the hardest gear and grind for a few minutes until the action resumes. At half time, it’s hill climbing time. I fight it out for thirty minutes standing on the pedals, sweating and grunting while my slightly frightened pets look on. Then back to the action/commercial routine until the game is over.
This whole indoor training thing is a boring and somewhat miserable experience. It is nearly blasphemous to be exercising during Monday Night Football, an event custom made for beer, nachos and sloth. Any other year, I’d be happily glued to the couch, inhaling massive amounts of greasy calories and griping about my fantasy football stats. A glance down to the sweat-ravaged note taped on my handlebars reminds me why I’m doing all this in the first place:
Bailey Hundo 2011 Results: Racer 98 James Dziezynski – DNF (Did Not Finish)
The mocking note is no larger than what you’d find in a fortune cookie and its implications are every bit as mystical. Defeat is mounted on my handlebars and weighs on my spirit like a thorny albatross.
Choosing to ride in the 100- mile mountain bike race was sort of an odd decision in the first place. I come from a mountaineering and climbing background. I love mountain biking but never took it too seriously. Most of my rides were 1- 3 hour forays into technical terrain, never with the thought of racing. I did have half a dozen centuries on the road bike under my belt, a few modest Olympic distance triathlons and plenty of epic rides that made it into double-digit hours – par for the course for a normal Boulderite. So, how hard could 100 mountain bike miles be?
Mountain Bike Madness
Adding to my bravado is the fact that the Bailey Hundo is almost exclusively non-technical terrain. 45 miles of loose and fast singletrack give way to dirt roads and a little bit of pavement. Even the nearly 12,000 feet of elevation gain were not all that intimidating because, hey, what goes up must come down.
It’s worth noting that in 2011, I didn’t initially make it into the race. I was put on a waitlist and it wasn’t until about 6 weeks before the actual event I was notified that there was a spot available. It wasn’t a lot of time to get ready, but in my mind I was fine. I wasn’t oozing off the couch and onto my mountain bike for the first time, I had ridden a little bit here and there. On the other hand, by the time race day came around, I didn’t even have 100 total miles put in on the mountain bike. Oops.
When I look back at the long, long list of mistakes and oversights, I cringe at how ill-prepared I was. Besides minimal training, I had absolutely no nutrition strategy. I was riding a heavy, full-suspension, 26er mountain bike with two fantastically untrue wheels. I had 100 ounces of Gatorade but no water and planned to subsist on bagels. I expected a 10-hour day. No biggie, I’d done much longer days than that climbing mountains in Colorado – and those were at high altitude. Turns out hiking fitness and biking fitness don’t translate all that well.
On the 2011 race day, it didn’t take long to be very, very alone on the Buffalo Creek trail system. My strength in mountain biking, speedy technical riding, was all but useless on the fast, non-technical trails. In the spirit of my road-bike centuries, which had all been events and not races, I stopped at nearly every aid station to hang out, play with dogs, chat it up. About 30 miles in, I was starting to feel very tired and noticed that as I approached most aid stations, they were closing up shop. By the time I reached the lunch-drop off aid station 60 miles in (and the end of the single track) the place was a ghost town. A lone volunteer kindly pointed out that yes, I was near the back of the pack but hey, it’s lunchtime!
Wait? Back of the pack? Me? How? I was exhausted and pushing it, I was a good 7 hours in and while I had 40 miles to go, it was on roads. What the heck was everyone else on?
After eating a very dense lunch, I pushed on. The sun beat down with nagging intensity. I had already drained one Camelbak and was annoyed that my replacement was water and not something sweet. I droned onto the next aid station, where my first reality check hit me.
“You’re not going to make the next cut-off,” said a volunteer, which was both offensive and sobering. He wasn’t being a jerk by any means, but I took it personally. “You have a big hill climb coming up. If you can, go for it,” he added, most likely seeing the flash of panic and futile defiance in my eyes.
The truth was, I had been running on empty for some time now and my heavy lunch only made things worse. I was over ten hours in. The winners had crossed the finish line some 3.5 hours earlier and here I was, fighting to make it up the dirt roads to Stony Pass, not even 75 miles in. I was exposed completely when I had to dismount and walk my bike up a short dirt section before the aid station at about mile 84. I limped in, where a small staff was still manning the tent. A guy on a radio relayed that the last rider on the course had arrived.
It took me a second to realize he meant me.
The next moments are burned into my mind, vivid as a recurring nightmare. The charred, burned out path to Stony Pass curved into damning infinity on the horizon, resembling the scarred, lifeless forests of a World War One battlefield. Even though I had only 16 miles left, weakness radiated through my body. Tacky lines of salt coated my skin and my legs were withered twigs. I hadn’t officially bonked and was still in my right mind but I knew if I pushed it any further, I was practically begging to end the ride hooked up to an IV, dumb and defeated.
I took a deep breath. With a subtle, final beep, I stopped the timer on my watch at 10 hours 23 minutes and let the race officials know I was out. We could all go home.
Breaking Down
I was given a lift to the finishing line by the race doctor, a very nice fellow whose brain I couldn’t resist picking on my shameful escape. What had happened to my body? Where did I go wrong? How come those stupid gel packets and Gatorade didn’t work? In my thoughts, I got nasty. How come these other riders, some who look like they couldn’t bike a football field, how on earth did they finish and not me? What the Hades had just happened?
The rest of the day is kind of a blur. I drank rehydrating liquids prolifically, but it wasn’t until 5 hours after the race I had to pee. I was beat but oddly not terribly sore. My only silver lining was I had the foresight to take myself out of the race before I did any real damage. In fact, the following day my legs didn’t hurt and only a general, fatigue-based soreness lingered in my back.
Hundo – 1, James – 0.
After initially vowing never to try that stupid race again, it took a mere week to decide to ride and complete it in 2012. In order for that to happen, I realized only part of that was going to happen in the saddle.
Formulating a Plan
I looked at everything that had gone wrong. Objectively, I analyzed my performance – the good and the bad – and came to rather blunt conclusion. I’m not a racer. Never have been. I had no idea what I was doing.
Luckily, I’m a classic overthinker and this was the perfect opportunity to learn a lot of things. I asked friends and fellow riders for their advice. I was deeply grateful for fellow EO Contributing Editor and pro mountain biker Sonya Looney‘s patient answers to my questions. Sonya had won the Hundo’s women’s pro division the last two years, so I couldn’t have gone to a better source. I continued to arm myself with knowledge and Googled late into the night about everything from 29er bikes to the best sunblock to wear.
And so it came together. I knew that six months was not nearly enough time to knock the race out of the park, but with dedicated, smart training I could “compete to complete”. I moved over to a sweet, hard tail Yeti 29er as my race bike. I studied and tested nutrition and came up with a solid system. I did long rides in all conditions, from snow to searing heat. And I rode the actual race course to formulate a solid race-day strategy.
June 16, 2012 – The Moment of Truth
As I lined up at the start of the race, I felt calm, strong and ready. Of course I wasn’t going to win. In fact, my only sort-of-goal, besides finishing, was to hit a 10 MPH average for the day. A 10 hour finish would be nice, but ANY finish would be a major victory.
With a startling shotgun blast the race was on. Even with all my training, I marveled at the stronger riders as they drifted into the distance. I felt good and as the miles went by, I stayed amongst packs of strong non-pros. A flat tire two hours in was a minor bummer and took about ten minutes to patch up but wasn’t a major deterrent – flats are part of the game.
When I reached the lunch aid station, I was right in the middle of the pack. Excellent. I knew I’d lose a lot of ground on the road section, since I’m not a big road rider. Within the framework of my own race however, I was riding strong at mile 60 and was spot-on for my pace.
I cranked up the hills, in my middle ring nonetheless, that I had walked the previous year. I passed the aid station where I gave up last year with little incident. Uncharted territory, sweet! Everything was falling into place, with the exception of the apocalyptic thunder clouds gathering over Stony Pass. I glanced at my watch. Right on time, like most Colorado summer days.
The sky had gone dark in the distance and thunder booms began to echo closer and closer. I was in a pack of six riders who were cruising to Stony Pass, the most exposed section of the climb about 90 miles in. As we reached the wildly exposed pass, the heavens opened up and unleashed a ferocious maelstrom of hail, lightning, snow and rain. Colorado storms are usually short-lived and we all took a chance by riding on, well aware of our highly attractive metal bikes.
Thankfully, the storm abated after ten minutes of touch-and-go conditions. I was still riding strong and best of all, my mind and spirit were unrattled. Our little pack of riders began to break up, a few pulling ahead and a few falling behind. The sun came out. The last few miles went by peacefully and while my legs were not at full power, they still felt pretty damn good 95 miles in.
As I came up to the last mile, I noticed that if I had anything left I could push it and come in just under 10 hours. Amazingly, I did have a bit of kick.
The finish line came into view. There were the smiling faces of friends and dogs, the usual crowd of finishers and revelers. It was a good finish and the announcer correctly pronounced my last name. My time was 9:59:00. I felt grateful for the reality of the moment. Our immortal years don’t last forever and hopefully, I’ll still be cranking well into old age. Regardless, I felt very privileged to be there, finishing in good style. Somehow, all the training rides, the Monday Night Football, learning to adapt to the flavorless assortment of effective training foods had all been worth it. In the weeks to come, I’m sure it will sink in more but for now, it’s simply nice to be done.
Afterthoughts
Of course, it’s humbling to look at the winning time – 6:28 by Specialized pro Scott Tietzel – as well as the long list of riders ahead of me who had strong days at the Hundo. I ended up 151/250. Perhaps in the past, my ego would be have been nicked by being in the lower half of the draw, but not this year. I fought hard for that time and in the process, transformed myself from a total hack into a partial hack – but a hack that finished.
Many other riders will surely be off to another big event in the coming weeks. For me, I am glad to be taking some time off the bike and hiking with my dogs and friends, climbing new mountains and eating multiple, puffy pretzels at Coors Field. I had counted on feeling something like redemption at the triumph over my previous defeat, but in the end it was never that serious. Rather, this was more like a year-long spirit quest, an adventure of both body and mind. Life goes on and I am reminded that yes, when you work for something, sometimes you actually find what you’re looking for along the way. Sometimes it is quite rewarding to work hard for something and actually do it. Who knew?
It’s worth noting on race day, I changed the note I had taped on my bike from my 2011 DNF to something from John Steinbeck:
“Somewhere in the world there is a defeat for everyone. Some are destroyed by defeat, and some made small and mean by victory. Greatness lives in one who triumphs equally over defeat and victory.”
Or to put it another way, that’s one small ride for mountain bikers, one giant crank for Jameskind.
