Velo Asana

Here’s my report of the Death Valley Double Century. Whew! That was one tough ride. I’m sorry to say I didn’t finish. But still, it was a great day – any day upright on the bike is a great day.

I’m eager to tackle this ride again next year. I’ve got some unfinished business, you see …

The Death Valley Double Century goes from Furnace Creek to Shoshone, back to Furnace Creek, and then out to Stovepipe Wells and back. I didn’t do the Stovepipe Wells loop, and covered only 148.6 miles of the full 196.4.

Thursday, March 4, 2010, Phoenix to Death Valley

I check the forecast for Saturday, before my wife and I depart from Phoenix for Death Valley:

Low 35 degrees, high 55. Rain, 50% chance.

Drats! It’s been cold and rainy in Phoenix all winter. I was hoping for some relief in Death Valley – you know, 80 degrees and sunshine?

But like Phoenix, Death Valley’s winter has been unusually rainy too. It appears they’ve been getting waves of rain, right on schedule, every weekend. I guess this weekend will be no different.

We make the 300 mile drive to Las Vegas, and then westward the 120 miles to Death Valley National Park. Every time we stop for gas or to stretch our legs, I notice with some trepidation that (a) it’s windy, and (b) it’s cold. I can just imagine what the ride will be like on Saturday.

Friday, March 5, 2010, Death Valley National Park

The next morning we wake to … sunshine! We step out onto the balcony of our hotel room at Furnace Creek Ranch, and here’s what we see:

View from our balcony at Furnace Creek Ranch, the day before the ride.

I knew it! I knew those forecasters were wrong.

Actually, I knew there were probably right, and as the day progresses, the skies turn that tell-tale milky white, a sure sign that a storm front is on its way.

We spend most of the day resting. I also go out for a short spin on the bike to loosen my legs. We wander through the Borax Museum, looking at authentic artifacts from the early mining days in the valley, back in the early 1900’s:

Authentic lamp from the early mining days at Death Valley. Who knew they invented compact fluorescent bulbs?

At 4:00 pm, we make our way over to a grassy area on the ranch grounds, next to the swimming pool. AdventureCORPS is hosting a yoga class (how appropriate for this blog!) as a means to stretch out stiff muscles from all that driving, and prepare us for the long miles of tomorrow. We’re led by a gal named Elizabeth, who leads CORPSyoga, part of an AdventureCORPS event called CORPScamp that they held earlier in the week.

It would have been fun to attend this camp. Maybe next year.

Yoga in Death Valley. It may appear we are doing a twisting pose, but actually, we’re turning our backs away from the sprinklers that keep going off. (I’m joking, but only partially. We *do* have to move about on the lawn several times, as sprinklers seem to start up every time we get settled.)

4:30 am, Saturday, March 6, 2010

The alarm goes off, waking me from a light slumber. I feel calm and rested, having slept soundly halfway through the night, and lightly dozing the other half.

During those wee hours of the morning, my mind tried its best to worry about the ride. Worry, worry, worry. Would it be cold? Windy? Rainy? Would I suffer up the climbs? Have numerous flat tires? Be last on the course? Forget some critical piece of equipment that would leave me stranded?

You know, stuff like that.

But these thoughts are just momentary. Every time they start, I cut them off, and try to focus on something else. I know it does no good to worry. It’s not going to change the outcome. Whatever will be, will be. Que sera sera, and all that.

I sing songs in my head, and think about that novel I’ve been working on – “reading” pages from it in my mind. Later, I silently repeat mantras, trying to lull myself back to sleep, or at least to some sort of restful state. I don’t toss and turn like I usually do before rides like this. I guess yoga practice is paying off.

After rising, I eat a hearty breakfast of oatmeal, peanut butter and bagels, and a banana. By 6:00 am, I’m ready to ride the short distance to the start line. Leslie follows on foot, to take pictures and see me off.

Yours truly at the start line at Furnace Creek Ranch. Unlike most of the riders, I’m decked out for cold weather riding, even though it’s not really that cold. (The forecast had changed: 55 for a low, 70 for a high. Still a 50% chance of rain, though). I’m a wimp. I admit it. And from the picture it looks like I didn’t yet have my helmet screwed down all the way – or should I say I didn’t have my head screwed on right. There might be truth in that. There might be truth in that for anyone who attempts double centuries. Ha!

6:10 am – Mile 0, Furnace Creek Ranch, 178 feet below sea level

The double century riders leave in 10 minute waves, the first at 6:00 am. I end up in the 6:10 wave. We pedal up a one mile climb to the Furnace Creek Junction – all the way to sea level. Woo hoo! It only takes this first climb for most riders to leave me in the dust, just like that. I don’t worry. It’ll be a long day. Anything could happen.

The next 18 miles consist of a series of rollers, with a “dry” “lake” bed off to our right. There’s a double irony here. I put lake in quotes because this flat bed is usually dry, and I put dry in quotes because actually, this year, there’s water in said dry lake. They’ve already had more rain in Death Valley the past two months than they usually get for an entire year.

Death Valley has some of the most unique geography in all the world. Although the lake bed sits at 282 feet below sea level, standing right next to it is a mountain range – the Panamint Range, which tops out over 11,000 feet.

The Panamint Range (11,000 ft) with salt flats below (–282 ft). Photo by Leslie.

7:20 am – Mile 18, Badwater, 282 feet below sea level

I make the first rest stop of the day, at Badwater, in just over an hour. My average speed: 17 mph. I spent most of the time in the drops, staying out of the wind as much as possible, drafting when I could, but mostly riding by myself.

The rest stop is well organized. They have Perpetuem powder in small pre-measured cups, ready to be poured into water bottles. Same goes for Endurolyte pills. Both of these Hammer products make a good combination of carbs and protein (the Perpetuem), and electrolytes (the Endurolyte pills). I eat a half a banana as well, and stuff an energy bar into a jersey pocket, just in case. I would continue this fueling routine throughout the day.

I take off my jacket. Though I still feel a bit of a chill, I know it’s better to ride without the jacket. It’s better to have a few moments of evaporative chill now, rather than let the sweat accumulate underneath my jacket, and then spend all day being chilly.

Before I take off from the rest stop, I spend the time to take a picture from the rest area, looking southwest towards Telescope Peak, across the below-sea-level salt flats, all the way up to 11,331 feet:

The view from the Badwater rest stop. Telescope Peak looms in the distance.

Telescope Peak, 11,331 feet. Photo taken the next morning.

9:00 am – Mile 45, Ashford Mills, sea level.

It’s a 27 mile journey over small rollers to the next rest stop at Ashford Mills. I’m mostly riding by myself, but occasionally I pass a rider. I pass several that are wearing the famed California Triple Crown jerseys – a sign that these riders have ridden at least three double centuries in one season, sometime in the past. I wonder what this means – that I’m passing such riders. Perhaps my ambitions to attempt such a feat isn’t so far-fetched after all. Or perhaps these riders are getting older and slower.

Or perhaps they know something I don’t, like maybe I’m riding too fast this early into the ride. I don’t think so. I’ve been closely monitoring my heart rate, mostly riding in Zone 2.5. Occasionally, I get up into the Zone 3 range, but never beyond that.

I see a cyclist wearing a blue jersey off in the distance. After 10 miles, I pass him. He latches on to my wheel, and we trade drafts most of the way to Ashford Mills. I seem to be stronger, (well, I passed him, didn’t I?) But a mile from the rest stop, we make a short 6% climb. I get dropped like a rock. So much for my climbing prowess. Harbinger of things to come?

I roll into the rest stop, feeling good. I averaged 16.1 mph during this stretch. Not bad. About what I expected.

View from Ashford Mills. Photo taken the next morning.

And now the fun begins

After leaving the Ashford Mills rest stop, we have a few miles of relatively level riding, and at mile 47 we swing east. This is where the fun begins.

There are two passes to climb the next 30 miles. I had glanced briefly at the map and elevation profile before the ride, but didn’t pay that much attention. My reaction at the time was, “Oh, these climbs don’t look so bad. In fact, they’ll probably be easier than they look.”

Ah ha ha ha ha ha!

The first pass is Jubilee Pass. I did remember that its elevation is 1,290 feet. Since I was coming from Ashford Mills – from sea level, that means a 1,290 foot climb. But I don’t remember how long the climb is. I guess maybe 4 or 5 miles. I was thinking it was probably at a 2 to 3% grade, so no big deal.

As it turns out I get the length correct, but the grade? Try 5 to 6%.

Oops.

My speed slows to 5.5 mph, sometimes all the way to 7 mph when I’m lucky. My heart rate approaches Zone 4. I can stay in that zone for a while, but for 200 miles? Not. I back off the pace.

After a mile of climbing I reach a summit. Hey! Maybe this is the top of Jubilee. I knew it wouldn’t be that bad.

Ha ha!

I still have three miles to go. And those three miles seem to take forever.

Near the “real” summit, I see riders coming back the other way. That would be the first of the century riders, turning around from their halfway point. So now I know that the summit is near the 50 mile mark (it’s actually at the 51 mile mark, according to my GPS.)

Finally I see the sign for Jubilee Pass. A sag wagon is there, and someone is taking pictures. I believe it’s Chris Kostman, the founder of AdventureCORPS and organizer of this ride.

(Maybe I’ll post pictures from the AdventureCORPS website if I see any the next few days.)

The summit of Jubilee Pass, heading east, at the 51 mile mark.

Looking back west from Jubilee Pass.

After I take these pictures, the rider in the blue jersey passes me as I put my camera away, and I try to latch on to his wheel as we zoom down the other side. I watch the grades flash by on my GPS, noting with some alarm that I’m seeing 12% grades. These are 12% grades I’ll be climbing back up, later in the day.

After a brief respite from climbing, the route starts up hill again, on the way to Salsberry Pass. Mr. Blue Jersey stays ahead of me. I can’t catch him. I don’t try too hard. I stay in Zone 3 as much as possible.

To pass the time, I start doing calculations, (something I should have done before the ride, ya think?) I don’t really know how far it is to the top, but I seem to remember ten miles. Okay then, let’s assume that. The top, I believe, is at 3,300 feet. Jubilee Pass was at 1,290 feet, so we’re talking a 2,000 feet of climbing. So 2,000 ft divided by ten miles – that’s 2,000 ft divided by roughly 50,000 ft, which reduces to 2 in 50, or 1 in 25. I’m looking at an average gradient of 4%. That’s not too bad. I can surely do that.

Except, I don’t see 4% very often. Most of the time, I’m climbing at steady 6% grade. And it goes on and on. Since I don’t really know how far the top is, I keep hoping it’s around the next bend.

What a fool I be.

I realize at this point I do have the route sheet, complete with profile, tucked into a jersey pocket. I could get it out and look. Nah! That would take the fun out of it.

I’m even more of a fool than I thought.

My sit bone is connected to my …

About halfway up the climb there’s a water stop. Just before I reach the stop, a sharp pain shoots through my left sit bone. It had been bothering me for a while now, in fact all the way up the climbs. And now that I think about it, said sit bone had been bothering me the past few weeks, after the last long ride I had done – a 150 mile loop to Bartlett Lake, back in Phoenix. Something popped in my left hip/leg after that ride, and although I have otherwise felt no after-effects from whatever had shifted, my left sit bone seems to dig a funny way into the saddle, especially while climbing steep grades.

I take the opportunity to rest said sit bone for a while. One of the volunteers fills my water bottle. At this point, Perpetuem is getting unappealing, and I know for a fact you can drink too much of it. Your kidneys can only process so much of the powder. My body seems to know this, and it wants just plain ol’ water. It’s funny how our bodies seem to know what we need, if we just listen. I decide to keep one bottle with pure water, and the other with Perpetuem mix. That way I can easily control how much powder I consume, calibrating the amount to what my body seems to want.

As I click into the pedals, I wonder about my left sit bone. Will I be doing any more riding today? The answer is yes. My sit bone is fine. Well, let’s just say the pain is … “mostly harmless.” Okay then, onwards.

(At this point, you, the reader, are probably wondering if I’m really taking my own advice, listening to my body. Stay tuned …)

At the water stop, they had said it was 3.5 miles to the summit. About a mile up the road, I encounter a cyclist coming the other way, hauling $ss. That would be the leader of this race ride returning from the turn-around in Shoshone. Said leader is almost 30 miles ahead of me.

The grades, while sometimes slacking off to 2-3%, make up for it later by ramping up to 8 and 9%. And a 1/2 mile from the top, I’m seeing 10-12%. Oh, thank you cycling gods. Just what I need after 60 miles of riding!

A crappy picture of Salsberry Pass, just to prove that I made it this far, to the 61 mile mark. I was too spent to try a better shot.

Salsberry Pass – Mile 61, or 62, or whatever

I finally reach the summit and stop to pass out rest. That was one brutal climb. I guess in the future I need to pay more attention to route profiles, and realize that every squiggle on the graph means something – as in pain and suffering.

My overall average speed to this point is a lowly 12.2 mph. Now, that number is interesting, for that’s exactly what my average was a few weeks ago, at the 62 mile mark, after a lot of climbing on a loop to Bartlett Lake, back in Phoenix.

There are twelve miles of downhill to reach Shoshone, the turn-around point. I wonder about those 12 miles, for unless I’m mistaken, those are going to turn into 12 miles of uphill on the way back. I have no desire whatsoever to be riding uphill again. Never ever again. Not as long as I live. Never … well, until an hour or so, anyway.

I put my jacket back on, to brace for the chilly descent. I’m the only one who seems to do this. Oh well. Someone has to be the wimp. As soon as I round a curve, I see a sign that says 5% grades for the next 4 miles. Okay then, I know I have at least that much downhill. And it’s a good sign that it will level off after that – or does that sign actually imply even steeper grades further on. Nah! That couldn’t be the case.

It’s not. After 4 miles the grade levels off to a 2-3% drop, even rising for a while. At this point, I meet a lot of cyclists coming the other way. That would be most of the double century riders. I wonder, how many are still behind me? Am I last? I don’t think so. I did manage to pass a few on the way up Salsberry Pass. I do have some power in those legs.

12:15 pm – Shoshone, Mile 73, or 74 depending on who’s counting

I roll into the “big” town of Shoshone and find the rest stop. I had guessed before this ride that I’d probably make it into Shoshone by noon, and that would be okay. I’d still have plenty of time to finish. So by arriving at 12:15 pm, I’m on schedule.

I get my number tag marked, partake of some food, (mostly PB&J half-sandwiches), and head out, back the way I came. I leave with another rider, older and heavier than me. He’s a few seconds ahead. I can’t catch Mr. Older and Heavier. I try for the next 5 or 6 miles. No dice. He’s slowly rolling further away. This does wonders to my spirit, as you might imagine.

The saddle feels more like a brick each pedal stroke, especially the left side. I start a routine of sitting down and pedaling for a few minutes, and then standing to crank out of the saddle, whenever the pain starts “tapping me” on the bottom. I do this sitting/standing routine over and over. The time in the saddle gets shorter and shorter. Will I soon have to stand the whole way up the climb, I wonder?

I encounter riders coming down the pass. Those are the riders behind me, in the overall scheme of things. I count maybe a dozen. Maybe more.

I come to a short downhill, knowing that 5% uphill grades are next. I psych myself up for the challenge. Soon I see Mr. Older and Heavier. He’s by the side of the road, needing a breather apparently.

Ha! I knew I’d catch him. I just knew it! Ha!

Chanting in survival mode

If I thought the climb up Salsberry Pass on the way to Shoshone was infinity, the climb on the way back is infinity squared. It seems to take forever for even one-tenth of a mile to go by. I subconsciously start repeating a mantra I once learned in a Kundalini yoga class, many years ago:

“Sa-Ta-Na-Ma,” I say under my breath, each syllable corresponding to a pedal stroke.

Related to this mantra is Sat Nam. Loosely translated, Sat means “truth” and Nam means “name.” You can interpret that however you like. And you can Google these mantras to see what they are all about.

Now, I’m not trying to get all esoteric here, but I bring up these mantras to point out something related to cycling. In many respects, cycling is all about the truth. This is especially true (groan of unintended pun here) when climbing hills. When you are riding on the flats, you can fake your strength, power, and fitness by drafting behind others. But out on a hill – well, you can’t hide the truth. You either have the strength and power to do a climb, or you don’t.

Truth is staring me in the face – coming from the display of my GPS. It’s telling me I’m climbing at a breathtaking speed of 5.5 mph. At this pace, I might make it to the end of the ride in, let’s say, twenty hours?

Back in Shoshone, I had “cheated” and looked at the route sheet. It said the top of Salsberry Pass would be at the 86.3 mile mark. My GPS is now showing 84.3 miles. So it’s two miles to the summit. I just need to make it to the top – the rest of the ride will be easy. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

A rider catches me. He’s on an old steel-framed bike, complete with fenders. He’s wearing a retro jersey. As he passes by, he exclaims, “Some climb, huh?”

He could say that again.

I watch him round a corner, and to my amazement I see a green sign. That could mean only one thing. The top was near. But…I’m only at the 85 mile mark. According to my GPS I should have another mile to go.

Well, I’m not going to look that gift horse in the mouth. And I don’t … and then said horse bites me anyway.

It might only be a short way to the top, but we’re talking 12% grades. That’s what my GPS says, and that’s what my legs say too.

Jeebus.

85.3 mile mark – (Sit)bone-rattling descents ahead

I reach the summit to great relief and stop for a moment, thinking I should take another picture. Nah. Too tired to even try. But my pause means that Mr. Retro is already down the road a ways. And here I was going to draft with him. Oh well.

The road surface on these remote highways isn’t the smoothest in the world. Bone rattling is more like it. But the wheels on my bike – custom wheels with spokes tuned just so – make for a much smoother ride than the really stiff Bontrager wheels I used to use. Still, at 25-27 mph, the road buzz is a bit intense, and I find the descent almost as tiring as the climbs just completed.

Mr. Retro is descending faster than me. Within a few minutes, he’s a mile ahead. But somehow, as the road levels off near the bottom of the pass, I catch up. We round a corner and there it is: the climb I forgot about. The other 12% grade – the backside of Jubilee Pass. I brace for more climbing, but thankfully, this side of the pass is fairly short.

I reach the summit just behind Mr. Retro.

“Well, that’s the last of the major climbing for the day,” he says.

Yep. And I’m thinking it’s smooth sailing from here on out.

Heading west down Jubilee Pass. That’s Mr. Retro out in front.

2:30 pm — Mile 100

We quickly make the four mile descent to the bottom. Right at the 100 mile mark we turn northwest – straight into a stiff headwind. Oh oh. Does this mean headwinds for the next 100 miles?

The Ashford Mills rest stop is only a few miles away. It’s 2:30 pm. The official cut off time for this rest stop is 3:00 pm. We have 30 minutes to make those few miles. Can we do it?

One would think so. But I’m only able to muster 8 mph. Mr. Retro doesn’t seem to be faring any better. I shuffle in at 2:42 pm. Mr. Retro trails behind.

At this point, I haven’t given much thought about whether I have time to finish the whole 196.4 miles. I resolve not to dally too long at the rest stop. I quickly refuel, and head out just behind two other riders. I wonder about the dozen or so riders behind me. Will they be forced to sag, ending their adventure prematurely?

The next rest stop, Badwater, is 282 feet below sea level. Ashford Mills is at sea level. So ultimately, it’s a downhill ride to Badwater. Piece of cake.

Except it’s not. Instead, my GPS registers a 2% climb for a mile or so. I’m drafting behind the other two riders, who are pedaling along at 8-10 mph. Maybe they aren’t feeling the same sense of urgency that I am. Maybe they aren’t planning on finishing the whole enchilada.

I pull out to the front – straight into that stiff headwind I had momentarily forgotten about. I don’t last long up front. One of the riders comes alongside, saying why not take pulls for just a few minutes a piece, that way we won’t burn ourselves out. I concur. We form a three-man pace-line – which lasts for a few miles, until a little ol’ roller dumps me off the back.

I could – but don’t try – to latch back on to my temporary companion’s wheels. I don’t want to see anything remotely like Zone 4, not this many miles in – even if this means solo riding. In some ways, solo riding is better. I can focus on my breathing, and let the miles play out as they will.

The wind seems to be in my face no matter which way the route turns. I’ve heard that’s often the case in Death Valley, with its squirrely winds. Real or imagined, it seems you are always confronting a headwind.

I feel my power and strength ebbing. The gap to the other riders is widening. Soon they are a mile ahead.

Finishing this ride is getting doubtful. But I don’t look at the time. I don’t try any calculations. I don’t want to know. My only concern is making the next rest stop. Whatever happens after that … will happen after that.

Mile 120 – I catch a second wind

Right around the 120 mile mark, the route turns northeast.

Look Virginia, there is a tail wind!

And flat too – good ol’ 0% grade. I’m able to cruise along now, 18-20 mph. Even when the route turns back into the wind, it’s not a problem. I seem to have caught a second wind. It’s like I pocketed all that tail wind I had for a while and can now dole it out when needed.

This is a pattern I’ve noticed before. On long rides, I often catch a second wind around the 120 mile mark.

I’m feeling so good that shockingly, I round a corner, only to see those other two riders just up ahead. At the 123 mile mark, I’m right on their tail. How did I manage to close the gap?

I shrug. Who knows?

And then I hear a beep.

It’s my GPS, complaining that its battery is low. I knew it was running down, and was hoping I’d make it to Badwater before it died.

I was prepared for this eventuality. I stop and quickly hook up an external battery to my GPS, via a USB cable. I’m good to go for the rest of the day. Well, at least my GPS is.

The two riders are now a 1/4 mile ahead. I catch them, just before the Badwater rest stop. I’m feeling good – well, my left sit bone, not so much, but my legs feel strong and I’m in good spirits.

4:40 pm – Mile 131, Badwater

I roll into Badwater – the official “lunch stop” – at 4:40 pm. Ha! I eat a sub sandwich, and down a can of V-8. Boy that sure tastes good. There are many riders here, just getting ready to leave. I decide to top off my back tire, for it’s looking a bit low. As I fiddle with a pump provided for this purpose, I stumble, almost losing my balance and knocking over someone’s bike. Said someone is standing right there. I tell him sorry. He laughs. “Don’t worry about it. I know exactly how your legs feel.”

Yes, my legs feel like rubber now. But I feel optimistic about finishing.

Time for night riding

It’s getting late in the day, so before I leave Badwater I make sure my bike lights are ready for action. I also strap a small lightweight LED headlamp to my helmet. That’s so I can read the GPS while riding in the dark, and so that I can see properly if, god forbid, I need to stop to change a flat or make repairs.

While I’m doing this, I notice another rider has the same tail light combination on his bike that I do: a Planet Bike “SuperFlash” and a Nite Rider “Cherry Bomb.” I don’t know how long the batteries will last on these lights, just having installed them a few weeks ago. Yes, I know you aren’t suppose to change equipment at the last minute, but the light I usually use – a very powerful Dinotte LED tail light, doesn’t fit on the seat post where I usually place it, because I choose to carry a spare tire strapped to the bottom of my seat bag. It gets in the way of the light.

The other rider says these two tail lights will last all night and all day – he’s not really sure, but says he’s never had to worry about it. So I didn’t really need the spare AAA batteries I had just carted up and down the mountains. Oh well.

Upper center: Nite Rider “Cherry Bomb” tail light.
Lower left: Planet Bike “SuperFlash” tail light.

Both of these lights are very bright. So bright that later when I leave the rest stop and head for Furnace Creek, I can see the tail lights on the other guy’s bike in front of me, for miles and miles. No way is a car going to miss seeing them.

 

Tail lights in action.

Just for the record, as bright as these lights are, the Dinotte tail light I usually use is even brighter. That sucker is so bright that cars seem to make it a point to move way out of your way as they pass by.

I use a pair of Dinotte lights on the front:

Dual Dinotte LED lights, with a four-cell Lithium ION battery pack

View of lights from the front

These lights (200 lumens a piece) are very bright, more than adequate for night riding on open highways

4:54 pm – Heading for Furnace Creek

I leave the Badwater rest stop, just minutes after a large group leaves. They slowly pull away. I can see their tail lights from a long ways off. This reassures me that cars will see me just fine. I don’t yet turn on my headlights, because it’s not quite dark enough to need them, and I want to save the batteries for when I really do need them. That’s my only knock on the Dinotte lights. Even though they claim the four-cell battery pack I’m using will last two hours with both lights on high, I’ve never gotten anywhere near that. The lights have a high, medium, and low setting. On medium and low, the batteries last much longer – just how much longer, I don’t really know, since I’ve never needed them in the dark for more than a few hours. For that reason, I carry two spare batteries with me: another four-cell Lithium ION pack, and a two-cell pack, just in case.

(Note to self: You really need to find out how long these batteries will last on medium and low settings … Just sayin’.)

The group up ahead splits into several packs, appearing as clumps of tail lights. One set of lights seems to be dropping off the back. After a few miles, I pass these lights. It’s a couple on a tandem. They look like they are suffering. I wonder if they are going to continue on after we make Furnace Creek.

I began to wonder that myself. I have to stand more frequently now, to relieve the nagging pain in my left sit bone. It seems to be digging into the seat post even harder. The weather is getting blustery, and every now and then a bundle of rain drops splashes me. This becomes more frequent too. In the dim light of dusk, I can see sand being kicked up off the dunes, way off in the distance. That’s probably the dunes near Stovepipe Wells that I’m seeing – the place where the final rest stop of the day resides. I can see rain dropping from clouds off that way too.

Hmm … blustery weather, likely rain, and sore sit bones. As the miles accumulate my feeling of optimism slowly gives way to me being non-committal.

It finally gets dark enough to warrant head lights. I turn them on. They light up the highway quite adequately.

A mile ahead, I can see the Furnace Creek Inn resort situated on a hill. I have to climb partway up that hill. My legs aren’t too keen on that idea. I see a rider just up ahead – I’ve been gaining on him the last few miles. I pass him right as I reach the top of the hill, at the Furnace Creek Junction. It’s Mr. Blue Jersey, the guy I drafted with earlier in the day, way back at Mile 40, just before Ashford Mills. It’s funny how these rides work out.

It’s a one-mile downhill to the Furnace Creek rest stop – which was also the start line, some twelve hours ago.

6:10 pm – Mile 148.6, Furnace Creek Ranch.

Stopping. For good.

It seems like a good idea at the time – 6:10 pm to be precise.

Saddle soreness, a blustery wind buffeting my bicycle, and intermittent sprinkles convince me to call it a day. I roll in to the check point at Furnace Creek Ranch, after twelve hours and 148.6 miles of riding. If I were to continue on, it’s 50 more miles. It looks like headwinds are in store the last 25 miles, if not in both directions – for all 50 miles, (that’s how it seems to work in Death Valley), and rain is possible – if not likely.

To make the time cutoff of 11:10 pm, I have five hours to do those 50 miles. Five hours to ride out to Stovepipe Wells and back. Could I muster the 10 mph needed to make the cutoff? Probably. Do I want to? Part of me does – the part that wants to complete the first leg of a planned California Triple Crown series. My legs say they are up for the challenge too. But another part of me, the part I sit on, votes no. A big vociferous no.

Naysayers in my head also reason with me, whispering in my ear, saying “Yeah, you could probably finish, but are you ready for four or five more hours of suffering? What’s the point? What are you trying to prove?” They also say, “I’m sure your wife will be happy that you stopped sooner. I’m sure she’s not thrilled with you being out here on the highway in the dead of night. Besides, it’s going to be a chilly, blustery evening. You don’t want to catch pneumonia do you?”

To later regret, I let the naysayers win.

“Are you stopping or continuing on?” asks the lady at the check-in table.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably stopping.”

“Well, rest for a few moments and eat some food,” she says.

I do just that, refilling my water bottles, munching on a power bar, and downing the last Endurolyte pills of the day.

I go back and tell the check-in lady, that yes, I’m really done for the day.

“Okay. Be sure to get yourself a slice of pizza,” she says.

I wander over to the pizza table.

“Good job on your ride,” says the pizza server, as she hands me a slice.

“But I didn’t finish,” I reply. I didn’t finish, it sinks in. I’ve never not finished a double century. Okay, so I’ve only done two so far. But still …

“Hey, 150 miles is a pretty good day,” she says.

But it wasn’t. Not when the full distance was my goal.

“I wasn’t prepared for how tough those climbs were,” I say. “Salsberry Pass just about did me in.”

“It’s early in the season,” she says, shrugging. “Many people have trouble getting in shape for this ride.”

I suppose so.

But it doesn’t make me feel any better.

Chitta Vrittris run wild

The night before the ride, I had conquered those pesky thoughts in my head, the thoughts that worry, worry, worry. I had let them float by like clouds in the sky. But now, the night after the ride?

Ha ha!

I toss and turn all night, with chitta vrittris running wild. Why didn’t I keep going? Was my bottom really that sore? What kind of a wuss am I?

During the last two miles of the day, when I could see the resort of Furnace Creek Inn up on a hillside, knowing I’d have to climb partway up that hill, it made perfect sense to stop. My left sit bone wasn’t feeling right. I could feel it dig into the saddle every pedal stroke, unless I sat on the seat just so, especially when climbing. During the last twenty miles, the area where I could sit with comfort kept getting smaller. I imagined joking with other riders at the finish line, how I would decide to call it day, rather than stand up out of the saddle for the last 50 miles.

I had a legitimate reason for stopping. There’s no point in causing any injury. I tell myself that over and over as I toss and turn that night. But still, the regret lingers. Maybe in a few weeks, after all this sinks in, I won’t feel the regrets, but I feel them now.

Never say never – that should be my motto

I told my wife right after I finished that I felt the days for me doing long tough rides are numbered. I feel I only have so many tough efforts in me, and I may be nearing the end. The Solvang Double is coming up in a few weeks, and that may be the last double I do.

That feeling, of course, only lasts till the next morning. Of course I’m doing this ride again. I have unfinished business to attend to! Just wait till next year!

Wait a minute, a whole year? Why can’t this ride be offered again, say next month? I’m ready!