“Journey to the end of the 2008 BC Bike Race”

BCBR 2008 - My SECOND EVER bike race...

It’s been about six weeks now, and that changes things. I remember the heat when I think about it, and how debilitating it was, but I can no longer imagine it. I do remember vividly staring up at the snow on the top of the mountains as we came through Cowichan Valley, and willing myself to feel the cold of the snow to try to counter the heat pounding at me from that bright yellow sun. And I remember how sore  parts of me were, but again, I can no longer imagine it. 

I know it’s been a while, and that things have altered in my memory, because when someone asks me how the race was I hear myself reply without any hesitation - “way awesome”. In the days and even first few weeks my reply was a lot more hesitant, hedged with memories of suffering.  I am grateful to all the people that followed us along the race by way of the website, and am glad I was unaware of that at the time in case it made me even more nervous. I was riding my bicycle for something to do, then rode it out of fear and to battle the winter blues. Now I love to ride my bicycle, and am looking for more challenges. 

I don’t know quite why suffering attracts me, but epics are always more memorable and seem to be worth the effort of getting off the couch while normal adventures do not. The BC Bike Race definitely counted as an epic, and the couch and the cat that resides there have been very lonely for about 6 months. I haven’t returned to the couch yet, and the cat is getting rather angry about that.  But the cat loves it when I sit at the computer typing, so this story is dedicated to Lord Kelvin, the lovely black cat that tolerates me. 

Once upon a time, in a land far away, on an island on the west coast of Canada lived a girl named Liz. Liz wanted to race her mountain bike, so she called her friend named Marc. He phoned his wife named Nikki, and that is me. I told Liz the race sounds nuts, and I’ve never raced anything, much less my mountain bike. In fact, I mountain bike quite badly, having acquired a mountain bike less than 3 years ago and being quite short on natural talent.  But, over the next few weeks, the idea fermented like bad wine, and finally bubbled over. In the middle of December, I signed up for the BC Bike Race.  

Liz had been battling a knee injury for most of the previous year, and unfortunately had to change her mind about racing. Lucky for me, I have a friend named Andy with a fondness for suffering and an amazing ability to ride a mountain bike. And the patience of an elephant. 

Since I didn’t really know how to ride a mountain bike and was not in very good shape, it seemed like a great idea to abandon the housework and head to the trails. My work schedule means I have a lot of weekdays off and work a lot of weekends. I skate-skied by myself and with Marc, and rode my mountain bike through the mud and snow with Matilda the dog. Liz and I learned to clip into our pedals on mountain bikes, which was entertaining among the chaos of wet roots and mud, and I started trying to wear less armour.  The knee pads came off, then went back on. And later came off again. Blue spots started appearing in various areas on me, and Jezebel the bicycle kept falling over. The bicycle and I made a lot of trips to Simon’s cycles for repairs and advice. And I ate a lot. In fact, for a while I was suspicious that there was a tenant somewhere in the house, or maybe a neighbour that kept raiding the fridge. Eating is fun. Shopping is not really fun for me, but a pair of shorts and a T shirt weren’t going to cut it for seven days on a bicycle, so I slowly started to accumulate clothes. And bought bike shoes. And then - Sir Ullrick von Lichtenstein came along. A lovely blue and red Stumpjumper, weighing in about 10 lbs lighter than Jezebel. 

So I went biking. Road biking, mountain biking, bike commuting to work, spin class biking.... and some more biking. Matilda started to look rather trim. 

In February there was a ski race, and another one in March. April had a Snow to Surf team race. May I rode my first mountain bike race.  I had ridden Sir Ullrick three times. He had tires that won’t grip on wet surfaces, was light, jumpy and agile. Hammerfest in Parksville, in the rain, was really fun. I developed a lot of funny blue spots that lasted for weeks, but I don’t remember getting them. I do remember falling a lot, and since there were three laps I had the opportunity to fall on any one obstacle up to three times.  I came last in expert category, which was pretty cool for my first bike race.  The second race was going to be a bit of a bear if rumours were to be believed. 

The winter was long and solitary, although never lonely. Few people are foolish enough to ride over roots and logs in February mud, and the rain just didn’t want to stop. Local friends offered encouragement, and the group had gotten larger, even though we weren’t on the same trails. There was myself, Sir Ullrick, Matilda the dog, Marc on Mephistopheles on weekends, Andy in Vancouver on The Orange Bike, Jack in Vancouver who is partnering with Andy for the TransRockies in August, and Paul in Vancouver for moral support and instigation. And before I knew it there were other island riders coming out of hibernation and keeping the energy flowing.   

In May we had the official Fig Rolls Team training week in Penticton, where Andy, Jack and Paul joined Marc and I for a week of heat, biking and climbing. The heat was excellent, since the west coast was still cold and persistently wet, and turned out to be the only hot weather we encountered prior to the race. Andy came to Comox two weeks later for another week of training, and we spent a lot of time on bicycles that week too. 

And then, with only a bit of time to go, in the middle of what I was hoping would be my final training push, I was suddenly bone tired. So I pedalled around town and didn’t do very much. It was still ten degrees Celsius and raining.  My goal had changed - rather than just finishing, I did’t want to be the last one every single day. I hoped I could manage that, but I was a bit worried that now I’m aiming too high. 

Day 0: Morning dawned clear and dry, and seemed several months too early. Registration day. 

Day 1. Sunny and clear, forecasting a high of 33 degrees Celsius, with not a breath of wind. The start line is a sea of far too athletic people in bright clothes with fancy bikes. Shawnigan Lake school is gorgeous, and Marc and Matilda are very excited. My hands sweat cold now as I remember the tension in the air that morning, and we stood in the start line for an eternity. I almost ducked under the barriers to become a bystander, cheering safely from the shade. Suddenly the bicycles in front of me move away and we’re on our bikes and riding along. It feels great to be moving, released. The line of riders weaves along the curves in the road like a giant flowing stream, and loops along the road to a hay field. Unfortunately farmers cut hay when the sun shines, and an epidemic of mechanicals sidelines scores of people within minutes of entering the field. The hay hops on chains, loops around chainrings and twirls in deraillers. Hay can break deraillers, drop-outs, chains and even carbon frames, much to my surprise. Riders scatter beside the flowing pack to repair what can be done, and we loop back to the start gate, back along the road and back through the hayfield, through the gate and finally we’re set free on the trail.  There’s a great fern forest followed by fire road, and a fun rock face full of loose gravel. I decide to follow Andy down the rock, and am treated to a most amazing visual chaos of people inches away from me walking their bicycles down the rock as I ride a fast, steep, sketchy downhill chute followed by loose dirt and sharp corners. 

Andy and I waiting in the start line

Riding in a group is definitely an experience. I open a cliffshot package  just as the rider ahead of me is suddenly brought up solid by a root. I stop abruptly, squirting chocolate goo all over my glove, which somehow ended up all over my face. Not the easiest texture to get off while your hands are busy navigating a bike through the woods. Thanks to the photographers who refrained from taking that photo!

Eventually the trail leads uphill through a windless oven of a logging road, then a lovely shady forest which gives way to a steep technical grind up a sunny slope.  I bake. After about a million miles we ride through a forest to the aid station and arrive five minutes after all the water at the station has been consumed. We decide to wait for water, since we have 40 km and 6 more days left to go. After about 45 minutes or so we head down the trail with fresh water in our packs. Despite being a logging road, the next 20 km did not disappoint. Exhilarating doesn’t describe the rocket speed as we scream downhill, surfing around corners at speeds up to 55 km/hr, with dust so thick I can’t see the road ahead of me. If I sneak up on Andy’s tire I can see the road ahead of him, and know what’s coming. The last 20 km of flat terrain ended eventually at the giant inflatable finish line. We collapse in the shade, eventually clean our bikes, shower, change and eat. Marc and Matilda and Jack are there. We’re in 25th place out of 33 in our category, which is like icing on the cake, because I’d forgotten we were actually in a race. 

Day 2. Hot. Sunny. I am asked what my race strategy for the day is, and am unprepared for such a technical racing question, especially given my long and illustrious racing career. I decide my strategy is based on not developing heat stroke and ending up in the medical tent. Throughout the day we develop more and more creative strategies, such as “keep breathing” and “don’t think of how much your butt hurts”. I soak my jersey in the sink, then stand in the shade near the start with everyone else. No one wants to get into the start gate  because it’s in the sun, and at 8:30 am it’s already unbearably hot. Eventually the race organizers manage to herd everyone inside, and we’re off again. Today delivers 125 km of hot logging road, and the time passes as we chat and pedal. The leaders made a giant pelleton of riders, blasting along to the finish. Us frumpies chatted. And eventually we’re there, covered in road dust from head to toe, I can still taste the dust.  Marc and Matilda greet us in Port Alberni, where the daytime high apparently hit 43 degrees Celsius. A Mexican rider wore long pants and a jacket, and I can only hope that he warmed up through the day and didn’t need to dig out his gloves. 

Day 3. Hot. Again. A great trail out of Port Alberni followed by a very long and hot commute to Cumberland and my backyard.  Several creek crossings save the day, especially the one where I am up to my waist in snow meltwater. The last climb to the singletrack cries spontaneous combustion. The singletrack is a new trail. Spongy and hilly, it demands both control and power, neither of which I have left. Jeremy Grasby, the man behind the trail, is  a very sadistic human.  I try my best not to blow up. Andy does some sketchy hill climbing, trying to overtake without tumbling down the embankment beside the trail. These new trails are followed by one of my favourite trails called “Short and Curly”, and the curls are indeed lovely as we head through shady forest, then cut past the race volunteers to submerse ourselves in Perseverence Creek. We head down Bronco’s Perseverence at top speed, and rocket through the rest of my backyard towards yet another finish line, a shower, change of clothes and another giant meal. Joan and Marc are there to cheer us in. 

                                  Despite the heat and the 3 days of pain, we’re obviously still in fine form....

Andy enjoying a beverage.

Day 4. It’s 4:30 in the morning, an entirely uncivilized time for my eyes to be opening.  The rubber chicken sqawks it’s death cry into the megaphone that is the alarm clock and we crawl to the buses. I sleep, get on the ferry, sleep, get on the bus and sleep.  The view is spectacular, despite the fact I’m awake for only brief moments. In Earl’s Cove we get off the ferry and on to our bicycles, then head out of the start line at 11 am on another lovely hot day. The beautiful green forest is a tropical steam of windless air. Up and down hills, over bridges, ramps, along more awesome trails and eventually we’re once again at the finish line. We’re in 22 nd place. I’m not sure I care, but it’s nice to know. We collapse yet again. 

Day 5. Surprise, surprise, the sun is shining and it’s hot. My legs feel very odd, sort of thick and spongy, not painful anymore although they certainly have been. More forest, more steam, and lots and lots of uphill. Then, suddenly, the work is done as the trail turns down a soft sandy chute which spins and turns, sending us over ramps and surfing around corners on a steep downhill slope. We giggle like maniacs. The trail turns into the forest and we ride along steep embankments and over bridges with dire consequences of mistakes. I look at my bike computer and realize we have only 5 km left, and for the first time in the race wish that there was more rather than a lot less. Andy hops a giant log at an impossible angle, and I have to lift the bike off his foot so he can extricate himself. After 5 hours of hard riding we’re laughing. When it ends I realize I’m exhausted and hungry, but today was most definitely a highlight. We’re in 20th place, and I’m happy and feel great. 

Day 6. I couldn’t sleep. The airconditioner from the nearby Aquacenter was droning in my head all night and I kept waking up. I’m allergic to the grass we’re sleeping on and my face puffed up overnight like wierd bread dough. I can’t face breakfast, and force fruit down. The rubber chicken woke up an hour too early to utter it’s deathcry, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I nap in my riding clothes after breakfast, and line up in the start gate with no enthusiasm. This is the day I’ve been scared of. Squamish. Where they combined two epic mountain bike race trails to make the ‘ultimate’ 70 km race loop. We have moved up in the start gate, and the first 15 minutes definitely have more competition as riders jockey for position. Uphill leads to Tracks from Hell, where a boardwalk carries us through black swamp with brilliant green skunk cabbage, then more uphill to Rob’s Corners, a lovely section of bermed curves and corners. During the uphill Andy has been nicknamed “the Machine” as he kills extra time by repeating the occasional uphill stunt and climbs every hill. 

By this time in the race we are riding with familiar faces as we pass and are passed depending on the current challenge. The Mexicans - fun, happy and always cheering, are riding as hard as they can while making it look like a Sunday outing. There are racers from Whitehorse that train on ice roads in the winter, and a group from the UK that humble me on every climb and then egg me on to ride the nasty downhilly bits. The announcer team stays within earshot for days, no matter how hard we try. “ROCK.....STICK..CORNER” echoes along the trail. As it gets steeper we lose them for a while, but we’re intrigued - is there a way to say “rock, root, corner, steep down with 3 rocks and 4 big roots, around a corner, over a tree and 2 more rocks on the next downhill” all within 15 seconds as you blast over them? Or is there a shorthand version? “rock-roo-co-downro-ro-rock-roo-roo-roo-root corner”? or would they compile the list? “rock, root, corners-2, down-2 rocks-3 roots-4-2 tree-1”??? 

Squamish starts to turn into a rather lengthy adventure before we get to the first aid station. We eat and stash food in our jerseys and start up 9 mile hill. It’s terribly misnamed, as it is actually a gazillion miles long, but then maybe it’s actually 9 miles high, I’m not sure. The downhill is rewardingly fun, but I’m getting really tired. The team from Endless Biking hasn’t broken a sweat yet, and they cheer us on when we pass them as they sit and enjoy the view, then smoke past us and wait somewhere down the road for their teamates to catch up. I took a basic technique course from them two years ago, and hope I am doing their instruction justice.  Andy follows one of their riders through a jungle of walking cyclists down a steep mountain slope, ducking and dodging to get past trees and rocks and people, riding up the sides of the trail and hopping back down at amazing speed.  He ends up completely exhilerated from the visual overload. We get to the aid station again, and I wander almost aimlessly from oranges to bars, wondering why all the riders around me are rushing. Back on our bikes, more uphill and more trails for what seems like a very long time.  Eventually I start to crack, but have no reason to stop. My legs spin onwards, my body moving with the bike over dips and around corners. Through the brainfog I see another hill, and I truly don’t care that there’s another uphill. When we get to the finish line I find the effort of stopping overwhelming, and Andy looks a little puzzled as I stand in the finish gate and start sobbing like a three year old.  I pull it together before the paparazzi hit, make it to the shower, and then we eat again.  I manage about 3 platefulls of amazing food. Marc and Matilda are there that night, and we go to the pub for a sudsy drink and a snack. I focus on tomorrow, and start to anticipate a great day of riding.  My goal is to keep going without cracking under the pressure. And hopefully to finish the race. We’re still in 20th place, but I really don’t care. 

Day 7:

start line day 7       ....and....we’re off!

 

I slept like a log, never registering the air conditioner. Coffee tastes great and I eat a huge breakfast, then we pile into the buses to go to Whistler. Marc and Matilda cheer as we ride away, tires humming on pavement like a giant swarm of bees. The uphill wasn’t long in coming, and we climb immediately for about a decade. When it turns alpine we head down steep downhill switchbacks and then into a swoopy flowing delight of a trail, cross a bridge and then - uphill. For a long time we climb, occasional downhill teasers thrown into another giant of an uphill. The whole body fatigue is amazing, and today my mind watches detached and focused while my body struggles. My legs spin along at their accustomed pace, but anytime I need power they cramp and threaten to explode. Light flowing trail blends almost effortlessly, but any additional energy is getting very hard to find. 

A River eventually runs through it, and ramps and bridges challenge balance after days of riding. Andy rides the super sketchy bridge high above the rapid, while I (fortunately perhaps) am blocked by another rider walking up the ramp and frantically grab a tree to avoid a tumble over the side of the ramp and then walk across the great bridge. The adrenalin would have been welcome, but the fall would have been disastrous. The second aid station cut-off time is close, and I find unknown energy to climb a steep rooty trail. I tell myself that I don’t care if they cut us off, I know how far we’ve come and I have done my best, but I ride faster and faster in case we can still make it. At the aid station they’ve extended the cut-off, which we would have missed by mere minutes. Seventy-six riders are still behind us. We have 5 km to go, and I nod to Marc as I try not to gag on a raspberry cliffshot. Not my flavour apparently, but it needs to stay down. Fresh orange to hide the flavour, then back on the bikes. 

The trail is easy, but seems like a very long 5 km. At some point we ride into a building, then run up the stairs to cross above the road and head back down. Gently winding trails mix with cross country, and we hop among short trail sections until it all ends abruptly with a downhill run to the giant inflatable Finish. I sprint to catch the team in front, and am beside the other racer and gaining when my chain surrenders and wraps itself into a pretzel with my derailler in tow. I coast, then run across the line with my bicycle. 

As far back as I can remember I have woken up in a tent, had breakfast, then ridden my bicycle all day until a giant black finish line allowed me to stop. Suddenly I am standing beside my bicycle holding a T shirt and a pound of coffee, feeling surreal and unconnected to reality. Marc clicks photos, which show us looking puzzled as we stare at the coffee.  We’re still in 20th place, but I no longer know what that means. 

mmmmm.... coffee 

                               

                             I think I need to talk to the mechanics at Simon’s again...

Within minutes I am cold, and over the next few hours I develop a fever and an impressive chest cold. The final banquet is on the top of the mountain, but the amazing view has a hard time competing with the images of the last 7 days. The food is phenomenal. That night we stay at Liz’s place in Whistler, and the next day we drive home.

    Four days after the race Andy left for Europe to ride his bicycle across the Pyrenees and the Alps, returning in time to ride the TransRockies with Jack.  Initially I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to see my bike again, but over the next few weeks kept going out and riding out of habit. At the beginning it was wonderful to ride as slowly as I wanted to.  I would even stop and sit comfortably on a log in the middle of the woods and listen to the birds.  Lately I’ve been going a lot faster. 

The cat has gotten bored and left, and my tea is cold.  So I think I’ll have to end this story and head off to the trails. Hey - has anyone done the “24hr of light” race in Whitehorse? Andy said it’s a lot of fun. Maybe I’ll call Liz and see if she wants to do it too....