Shifted: Mountain Biking with Shimano Di2 Electronic Shifting

Last fall I picked up a 2018 Scott Spark 900 Premium that came stock with Shimano’s XT Di2 electronic shifting.

I’ll cut to the chase. I put about 500 miles onto the bike before switching to mechanical shifting.

The bottom line: I lacked confidence in the system.

Nothing happened, I don’t have an epic fail story to share. I’m not a Di2 hater, I don’t think it’s bad.

The story really was: I couldn’t sleep at night.

This was the wrong bike in my quiver for this technology, in my mind.

Di2 presented too high a risk for failure, too high a cost in price and time for repair, and meanwhile I did not experience a significant enough performance gain given those risks.

I’m not riding some disaster-proof metal tank. I’m on an all-carbon frame, carbon wheels, tubeless tires, etc. Any of these components could fail too in their effort to improve performance and reduce weight, and they too could leave me in a bad spot if they fail and could cost a lot to replace. Yet, they’re all less likely to fail; they may be expensive to replace or they may not but regardless they are all easy to replace; and given all of that they provide enough of a performance advantage that far outweighs whatever their potential failure risks are.

 

Why not this bike?

To be clear, what I was most concerned about happening, never happened.

I tested this bike for its first 500 miles mostly in California, and riding trail systems close to home in Anchorage. The bike only went on one backcountry ride in Alaska with Di2.

That first 400 miles I put on in Cali was a nice honeymoon for this bike, but it’s place in the quiver is as follows: high-mileage weekend backcountry adventure stead, endurance racing bike, and Lower 48 bike vacation bike.

For an important point of reference: I retired my previous bike in this category after 3 seasons with 4,264 miles (GPS logged, not estimated).

During the summer, I will regularly put in 75-125 miles of backcountry trail riding in a single week on this bike.

The emphasis here is on backcountry.

The trails are point-to-points, lack regular trail maintenance, sport heavy brush, and provide no end of opportunities to do things to your bike you just shouldn’t do.

More, Alaska’s summers are short. Heavy winter snows, late springs, fast-growing vegetation, and early fall rains can all conspire to further shorten the riding season.

Missing even one weekend of riding up here may mean not riding a trail at all, all season. You can’t control the environment, so, missing a weekend because of mechanical failure is not an option. Period.

What became very clear to me, was that, this system was going to fail.

No, not because it’s electronic per se, but because drivetrains are the most failure-prone part of any mountain bike.

Derailleurs get ripped off by mishaps with brush and rocks, shifter paddles get snapped off in crashes. It’s just part of life for mountain bikes, no matter where you ride.

While the electronic components of the drivetrain have been thoroughly vetted and tested by pros for a half decade who put their equipment through far more severe conditions than I, the electronics too are certainly bound to fail in some way in their own right.

While one may easily conjure the “electronic failure nightmare” of a severed wire, shorted junction box, fried shifting motor, or dead battery, 15 miles from the trail head, the reality is, the failures of the electronic components present no greater adversity in the immediate situation than any other mechanical failure on any other part of the bike. They do add a few more “fail points” perhaps, but at what likelihood, I can’t say.

It doesn’t matter though, electronic or mechanical, you’re still in the same boat: you’ve got a compromised drive train and have to limp out or start jogging.

I’ve been there, done that, and will certainly have to do it again.

If all I was trying to avoid was a catastrophic mechanical in the backcountry, I’d ride a single speed and blow out my knees instead.

The nightmare of a catastrophic mechanical with Di2, at least in my mind, starts when you get back to civilization.

If you rip off your 11 speed mechanical Shimano derail while out on a ride, or any other part of your mechanical drivetrain for that matter, good news: if you want to ride tomorrow, every shop in North America has the replacement parts, in stock.

It might be from a different groupset, it might be more than you want to pay, but you can buy it and install it yourself in an hour or so.

Got Di2? You are likely in for another kind of slog.

Even living in an outdoorsy and bike-crazy town like Anchorage, there are only a handful of cyclists with electronic drivetrains. So, unless you have the replacement part personally on-hand, you’re very likely out of luck. Most in-town shops will doubtfully carry the spare parts in stock. They can of course order the part for you, but it won’t arrive for a week, and you’ll likely pay full price.

You can go online and order the part yourself and get it shipped overnight or 2^nd-day, but of course you also pay the premium shipping cost.

While you’re online shopping for that replacement part, you will of course note that every Di2 component costs more than $100. The same mechanical component may cost anywhere from $30 to $75.

Also, depending on what the repair is, you may or may not be able to do the replacement yourself. Di2 is not a simple system. If you can’t install the replacement part yourself, you’re likely still going to need to get your bike in the que at the shop.

So, ya, you obviously had a bummer of a ride this weekend due to the drivetrain failure, but there’s also still a good chance your bike will still be out of commission for next weekend.

Whenever you do get it up and running again, you will have likely paid a lot for that repair…a lot more than you would have for the same issue on a mechanical system.

Here’s scenario 2.

I’m on a bike vacation, and, bang-snap! A shift paddle breaks; or the derail gets ripped off.

If I’m near a major metro area, I may actually be OK, perhaps even in better shape than I would be at home, and will find a shop that can replace the Di2 part – again, for a pretty penny, especially when I have to pay a bribe to get my bike worked on ASAP so I can continue my trip.

If I’m in the middle of nowhere -- often where I like to take my MTB vacations -- I can almost assure you, the local bike shop does not have the Di2 part.

I easily foresaw this playing out for me, and then foresaw having to plead with said local shop to unceremoniously rip off the Di2 and replace it with whatever drivetrain they had in stock, paying full price and maybe that bribe too, just so I could finish out the trip. That, or go running and hiking for the rest of the week while my friends all shred.

When I described this scenario/nightmare to a good friend who spends several weeks every year bike vacationing around the US, he said: “Ya, I’d carry an entire spare groupset if I was you.”

No thanks!

So, ya, it did not take too many nights of tossing and turning on these possibilities before I assembled the replacement mechanical shifters and derails online for a grand total cost of $200, or the equivalent of less than 1.75 Di2 components, and had my shop carefully remove the Di2, and re-install the mechanical parts.

I can’t say I ever looked back on that decisions, and since that time, I’ve put 1700+ miles on the bike mostly here in Alaska, as well as Montana, Washington, Idaho, and Wyoming.

 

But, as I said, none of my nightmare scenarios actually happened. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, and dreading it. I knew failure was imminent, I just did not know how, or when, and I wanted more control over what happened afterward.

From a basic performance standpoint, I liked the way electronic shifting felt. It was fast, smooth, and crisp. I loved that there were no cables to clog with mud and dust, no barrel swivels to adjust, no half shifts and ghost shifts. I liked the synchro shifting for 2x, and being able to simply hold a shifter to get multiple shifts.

I would not hesitate to use electronic shifting on a different bike such as my road bike or hard tail, maybe even a snowbike? Those bikes however, never go far from home, and won’t break my heart if they are out of commission for a week or two.

Electronic makes a lot of sense on bikes in general, and maybe one day it will on this particular bike.

I definitely want to see electronic shifting succeed too. In this day and age of technology, mechanical shifting is archaic. Lousy shifting is something that should be eradicated like an ancient disease.

If electronic does catch on, I think there is a possibility to wholly re-visit the layout and design of the cockpit of modern mountain bikes. What if shifters no longer had to be levers and triggers? How small could they get? How could we redesign dropper and lock out levers, and might those too soon be controlled by teeny motors? Who knows?

I will say that I’m most hopeful for wireless systems such as SRAM’s Eagle eTap. Avoiding an intermediary junction box, wiring harness, and battery, seem like no brainers from a maintenance and re4liability standpoint, though I assume that cost and parts availability issues will remain issues well into the next decade. I guess we will see.

Racing 2017

Season notes:

This was a fairly short season compared to other years, and not particularly all that exciting for me.

I missed 2 regular season races, the Double Down, the 6-12-24, and the season finale. On the upshot, part of the reason I missed most these races was for riding and racing in Washington and BC, so… ya pretty hard to complain about that.
In short, my riding this season was geared toward sustained endurance power –intentionally and accidentally.
This yielded to feeling a bit frustrated at the mid-week races as most the courses were flat – also, intentionally and accidentally. The flatter courses generally all resulted in very fast paced races that rewarded top-end power. My best race overall was Race 5 on Hillside, which was obviously, hilly.
While I was frustrated that at many of the Kincaid races I felt I could not match my cohort for sub 120-minute sustained speed, in hindsight I realized that the reason I started doing these races to begin with was to force me to do these a types of efforts.
I don’t have a problem going out and throwing myself at one grueling climb after another, or putting in long rides. I do have a problem with intensity. These races draw that weakness out, and I should be happy for that.
 

Photo: K. Dee

Arctic MTB 1

The first race of the season is typically low-key in terms of technical difficulty or climbing, but big on turn out. That was mostly true this year, for all the right reasons. These mellower courses don’t necessarily help me out much, but, for the growth of the sport, I think it’s a really good philosophy the bike club has adhered to over the years. That being said, this year’s first course actually had a fair bit of old school roots, along with a nice mix of STA flow trail, and double track, so you never spent too long on any one trail type. Anyhow, the race went remarkably predictable for me overall. Less than halfway into the first lap, I glanced around to see that Nick, Clint, Megan and I were all grouped up.

“The posse is back together,” I shouted as we tore into the banked corners on Bolling Alley.
The 4 of us traded pulls for the next few laps, though Nick was usually 5-10 seconds out front.
About a quarter way through the third lap, my lower back was starting to feel very sore and tired. The high speeds, and the rooty sections, were taking their toll, but I was likely also feeling the effect of the previous weekend’s running race up Government Peak. We hit a stretch of double track, and though I like to drill these sections, I just didn’t have anymore top-end power, and Clint pulled away. Megan pushed me through the next stretch, but she had a little more leg, and came around as well. The four of us all finished within a 60-second window. I could not complain. Even if it were not for Government Peak, I had not put in any exceptional efforts on my hard tail as of yet, so, at the time, this race qualified as the hardest ride on that bike, hopefully leaving lots of room for improvement.

 

Arctic MTB 3

The next race on my docket was Arctic XC 3, nearly a month after XC1 (I missed XC2 for work stuff).

I knew this was not going to be a strong race from the outset. For starters, I was putting in some good mileage on the weekends, and bagged two 6-hour+ Kenai rides the 2 weekends prior. As typical, I was reaching a mid to late-June performance peak.
The race was supposed to be held on Hillside on the Hillside Classic course, but after a series of bear maulings in the preceding weeks, numerous reports of an aggressive brown bear sow with cubs roaming the Hillside, the race directors prudently decided to make a last minute change of venue to Kincaid.
The alternate course was very flat and smooth.
I knew immediately that the race was going to be all about top-end speed.
Anyway, making excuses for myself, I think that going for my normal 10k run on Monday was a bad idea. It’s not like it hurt me a ton, I wasn’t hobbling around, this is the same run I do every week, but, in hindsight, it didn’t help me either.
I knew this to an extent on Tuesday as I did a trainer ride (raining), and could feel that my legs just weren’t going to have pop.
On an upshot, Nathan raced his first MTB race ever, so, he and I went to pre-ride the course and warm up. Three moose blocked our route though, and I can’t say it was much of a warm up as a result!
Surprisingly, the race didn’t go out as hot as I expected, and I was able to tag along through about half of the first lap, and even make some descent passes. Once we hit Bolling Alley I started to drift back a bit.
Because the course was flat, I tried to push my big ring up front as much as possible. This worked great the first lap, but as my legs faded early, I found it was causing more strain as my RPMs dropped through the second lap. By about halfway through lap 2, I was really suffering trying to push the big ring, and finally relented. I continued to feel like garbage until a little ways into lap 3, at which point, my legs started to respond to the higher RPMs, and my riding evened out and felt smoother. At this point of course, it was too late. I was alone.
The race was a little disappointing, but timing wise, I tend to hit a physical slump in late June early July most years, so, it was consistent, and really didn’t bother me that much, other than I wished I’d had the legs to at least chase my cohort group for more than one lap.

 

Arctic MTB 5

I missed Arctic 4 as I was out of state racing in Washington, so my next race was race 5 in late July. I probably would have skipped it anyway as it was a short track race.

Arctic 5 was the second planned race on Hillside, but since Race 3 had to be moved last minute, it became the only hillside race of the season.
The original plan was to race a course I designed last season that used the Brown and Black Bear trails, and only climbed part way up the Hillside trails. The motivation for designing that course in 2016, was that we raced on Hillside 3 times, and in short, climbing all the way to the top of Hillside for the third time of the season seemed, well, stupid and unfair. I wanted to have a course on Hillside that featured some faster rolling terrain, two of Anchorage’s most tech trails, and wasn’t just and up and back down race.
Since this year this was the only race we’d be having on the Hillside, and the other courses this year had been really flat, I had a quick thought the week before the race, and came up with a new course idea to throw at the board. They went with it.
Designing courses on Hillside is pretty fun as the trails all snap together nicely. My only goal was to break the climb up, and maximize the descent.
A misty rain fell Tuesday and Wednesday night, leaving the course greasy in places. The single track was generally fine barring a few low spots, but my biggest concern was wiping out on Spencer Loop, as the high speed double track can get a surface similar to black ice when damp.
Megan made a helpful comment while warming up though, about basically leaning out over the bike and leaving the bike itself in a more upright position through the corners. It really went a long way for me.
The race went off in a typical sprint. My legs weren’t there for it, per usual for this season, and I couldn’t get clipped in on one side for the longest time.
I entered the single track in a line up behind Clint, someone I did not recognize, Patrick, and Chris, with Nick on my tail.
We headed up through lower Queen Bee, losing sight of the next pack as we made it around the first bend. Our small group slowly drifted backwards.
Then as we went into the short Lama descent, Clint showed us how not to ride over a root! Nick and I lit into him without mercy, letting him know that there would be many more roots and rocks to come, and maybe he should learn how to ride them!
We’re really supportive of each other!
When we hit the short climb on the Spencer oxbow, my legs were feeling good, and I attacked the pack.
Nick stuck the move, and the group seemed to hold on through the Janice-Stinger mini loop. Once we hit the base of Yellow jacket, I had started to build a gap. I drilled the climb, and extended my gap.
Descending Hive, I occasionally caught sight of Megan in front of me, but did not catch her until passing the start/finish. She hung on through the lower portion of the course with about a 10 second gap through lap 2 until the base of Yellow Jacket.
My legs still felt good though, and I was hitting every climb hard. It hurt, and as much as I worried about blowing up, I kept reminding myself that if it hurt for me, it hurt for everyone else. Even though my first lap was my actual fastest, my second lap felt the best. I only climbed 10 seconds slower on the second lap, but for whatever reason, descended 20 seconds slower. The irony, is that on the third lap, I actually descended faster than I did the second lap, and only 10 seconds slower than I did the first lap, but I felt like I was going much, much slower than the previous 2 laps on that descent. I have no idea why that would be, but I was partially convinced my rear tire had burped, and was going flat. It was fine.
I caught sight of Andy for a second on the second descent, but after that, I was pretty well alone the entire third lap. I still felt pretty good, but my attempt to completely blow myself up on the last climb on lap 3 seemed mediocre at best. I kept reminding myself that there could be someone 5-10 seconds up ahead just tanking it, and if I got to them before the top, the position would be mine for the taking, but once we got to the top, making a pass on the descent was unlikely.
Unfortunately, as with other races this season, I have not trained well for explosive efforts, and have failed to deliver them in the races.
Just as I dumped it down the last rooty Spencer exit single track, I came up on Nico, and rode his wheel through the finish.
I expected to see a few riders blow themselves up in this race, and was hoping to pick them off, but it seemed most people rode really well.
It was nice to finally have a race where climbing and handling mattered. With the greasy course conditions, and mix of roots and lots of single track, this course felt like an homage to the east coast, or at least, as close as they can get up here without just dumping a pile of slick boulders in the middle of a trail…that’s not a bad idea…

 

Arctic MTB 6

The last race of the season for me, this marked the end of a shorter and lighter season for in-town racing.

The course was a good one, punchy and rooty, using some trails on the west side of Kincaid we haven’t raced in a long time.
With only a 3-day buffer post Soggy Bottom, I wasn’t sure how my legs were going to respond, and figured it would be a good indicator of how tired my body was overall.
Unfortunately, despite having some of the nicest summer weather we’d seen all…summer…the rain, and fall, finally showed up just 20 minutes before go time.
Pre-riding the course, while still dry, I had no problem on the roots with the hard tail, but the 20 or so minutes of gusting wind and driving rain managed to make them slick and slimy, and traction proved to be a major limiting factor for me. I probably could have gambled on lower tire pressure, but I’ve been burned so many times on low tire pressure on Kincaid’s high speed flow sections, or burped as it is, that I’m always really hesitant to run that risk and end my race. Going a little slower over roots at least keeps me in the game; burping a tire means game over.
The race went out, and as a pretty good indicator, I stuck with the sprint up through the sandy Leikisch climb. I think that’s the only sprint I really stuck all summer.
Nonetheless, I knew a junk show was coming as soon as we got on the skinny/rooty ridge trail, and let a few faster racers slip in.
I was going slower than the guys in front of me, but I didn’t feel too bad about potentially letting a gap open. Riders up ahead were having a lot of trouble, and just keeping my pace steady and smooth, I easily closed any gaps when fell without having to dab or stop myself.
There was a bit more passing between the second stretch of Leikisch and C$, and then we were back on roots and soon enough on the sandy bluff trail.
I was surprised to see at this point that the race was still pretty bunched up. The typical fore runners were still in sight. The loose sand of the bluff definitely challenged a lot of people.
We hooked back on C$, and then banked a U-turn to rip Lees Train, which, was expectantly very slick.
I slowed down and rode the next section from Lees to QFB conservatively.
Despite allowing a small gap to open yet again, when we hit the bottom of the jump line on Good Greef, I looked up to see that still, things were surprisingly bunched up.
I had hoped to drill the climb up GG, as it was the only sustained climb on the whole course. There was a rider in front of me I didn’t recognize, I could tell he was at his limit going up the climb, and at one point he started to separate. I encouraged him to keep after it, and he obliged.
It seemed by the time we got out to the Biathalon ski trail exit, the gap up to the next group had opened a bit more. A little chaos ensued on the ski trail-pave-Roller Coaster section.
A group that included Chet, Clint, Nick, the rider I didn’t know, and myself, all hammered it out. Just before we hit the top of RC, I sensed the group slowing, my legs responded again, and I punched the last hill to take the hole shot into Second Breakfast.
Second B-Fast is one of my least favorite flow trails in Kincaid: it’s dank, gets slimey when wet, and has some really awkward transitions. The roots on Middle Earth were no better, and I felt a little bad when I hit one on of the 90s over roots really awkward and stalled, causing a chain reaction behind me. That being said, it’s a little bit on the racer to anticipate those types of issues in wet and rooty conditions and buffer.
Back through the stadium, there was more attempted shuffling, but, when we topped out Leikisch and headed into Ridge, I had again out climbed the cohort and took the hole shot.
Once we got through Ridge, Clint made a move to get onto C$ in front of me.
He proceeded to kill it, and was able to chase down the next group, about 30-seconds in front of us.
Clint has always been faster than me on Kincaid’s fast and smooth flow trails –wet or dry – but he really put on a clinic.
I still chastised him for apparently sand bagging over the weekend in the Soggy just so he could beat us all up on a Wednesday race!
The cohort was now down to Nick, Chet and I.
With no one blocking me in, I slammed the Greef climb hard, nearly reeling Clint in along with the next pack in, but it wasn’t enough. Nick and Chet were able to re-close the gap less than 10 minutes later on Middle Earth. On lap 3 Chet started to fall off the pace a bit on the Ridge. I sensed Nick that was trying to make a move on Leikisch on the way to C$ and I made that goddamn hard tail dance over the rutty ski trail to hold him off, much to his chagrin.
I figured having got the hole shot, I was going to attack again on Greef, and if he caught me before the stadium roots, I’d let him around.
Fast forward, 10 minutes later, having attacked and dropped him as planned, he was able to catch back up about halfway through Middle Earth.
I wasn’t going to make him try and make some crazy pass through the slippery roots, and as we hit a wide swath, I told him to come around.
BOOM-CRASH!
Nick did exactly what I was trying to let him avoid doing, and skidded into a mangled and dead alder.
After confirming he had not skewered any vital organs, I lit into him (verbally). I let him around at the next descent spot, but warned him to avoid trees this time. Funny enough, we were closer to the stadium than I realized, so I rode in a few seconds behind him.

Race Report: Northwest Epic Series Sun Top 60

The short:
Creative credit for finding this race and making the logistics come together goes to Chuck and the Parker clan.

Chuck and I went down to Washington mid-week last week, borrowing his in-laws camper, and then camping with them, to race Northwest Epic Series’ Sun Top 60 miler: two 30 mile laps that featured two long grinding fire road climbs and bombing down sweet singletrack each lap, for a total of 11,000’ of climbing! The field was shallow, but I took 6th in the mens open, and 9^th overall, out of 25 starters.

 

One of the only pics from race day

 

The long

I’ve been wanting to do an endurance mountain bike race Outside Alaska for the last few seasons.
Racing in Alaska, everything is familiar, from the competitors to the trails. This would also provide an outlet so all my endurance racing eggs weren’t in one race (the Soggy).
The set of criteria to guide what made sense to race was pretty narrow.
I don’t want to race before mid-June, I don’t see the point in paying to race at altitude, and any race needs to have a minimum of a two week buffer on either side of the Soggy (always the first Saturday in August).
Despite the limits, that still leaves quite a few options fortunately.
Chuck sent me a link to the Sun Top race. With a very low ($60) entry fee, plus the ability to do it all on the cheap and in relative comfort thanks to help from the Parkers, it was a no-brainer.  

We got to the venue Thursday morning. The race was based out of the Buck Creek Campground, which, quoting Trenton, Chuck’s brother-in-law, is a dusty $4!7hole. It was ideal for the staging the race though, and cost $5 a night. Sadly it was completely trashed and abused. Broken glass, garbage, piles of empty beer cans, swaddles of toilet paper, and random fire pits everywhere, and I’m not exaggerating. Chuck and I filled 1/3 of a contractor bag with garbage from our site alone. Super lame.

On the other hand, we were right at the doorstep to some great riding, and set off to pre-ride the entire course.

The course:

The course consisted of an “internal” and external loop. From the start/finish at the campground, the race set off on the shorter internal loop, climbing a 5-mile fire road that gained about 1,300 feet, before teeing into the apx midway point of the Sun Top Trail. The course dumps down the lower half of Sun Top trail back to the campground, losing all that vert in a hurry by blasting down straight line traverses broken up by hard switchbacks, and peppered with numerous series of mini drops.
Riders passed back through the campground, closing the “internal loop”, exited the campground again, but then split right at the base of the fire road, and headed into the woods on the Skookum Flats Trail to begin the “external loop.”
Skookum was by far my favorite section of the course: a 5-mile stretch of old-school single track that passed through ancient river-bottom forests, and oscillated rapidly between fast flowy sections and slow technical rock and root features. A and B line options abounded.
Skookum spit us out at the base of the main climb up to Sun Top summit, accessed via a 6-mile fire road climb that gained nearly 3,100 feet of vertical. The road climbed at a steady grade of between 8-12% from bottom to top, and never flattened or rolled to provide a single section of coasting. It was basically like sitting on a trainer with the resistance cranked all the way up for an hour+. Stop pedaling, stop moving.
From the 5,280’ summit and active fire tower, the course hit the beginning of the Sun Top Trail.
A rather short 500’ rowdy descent ensued. Up here, the trail consisted of loose, fist-sized rocks, more mini drops, and switchbacks, with some no-fall sections.
The Sun Top trail loops around from the summit and actually crosses the road we just climbed
The course description warned that after this road crossing, the Sun Top Trail had a nasty climb in store.
They weren’t kidding. The trail climbs from the road crossing through open pine forest for 600 vertical feet over about a mile. With a 3,000 foot climb hardly in the bag, this section was absolutely miserable on the mind and the legs. Worse yet, it keeps getting steeper as you climb.
The trail finally hits the high point of the day though, and begins to run downward along the ridge line. Two more short punchy climbs stood between us and the beginning of the true descent, but once it begins, it dive bombs in one awesome and fast uninterrupted contour back to the top of the first climb of the day. From here, you are back on familiar ground in the lower half of Sun Top trail, and tip down the twisty switchbacks back to the campground to complete the “external loop.”
The whole course was 30 miles long with 5,500 feet of climbing.
Now just repeat, and you have the 60 mile race…Gulp.

Photo: C.D.

Chuck and I realized we had not given the race enough credit. Fire road climbs and single track descents sounded like hammer fest to the top and sesh the downhills. The second half was fairly accurate, but the climbing was long and laboring. Dieseling was a better descriptor.

We don’t have fire road climbs up here. Even our road climbing tends to be broken up with rolls and flats between pitches allowing for short mid-climb recovery.
I was targeting a time of 7:30.

On Friday we re-rode the external loop. Riding Skookum Flats again, I dialed in all the features. I also changed up my climb strategy middle ring in a low cadence, to keeping it cool in the little ring with a high cadence. It felt way more sustainable.

Friday afternoon, Doug, Shelly, Trenton, Brandy and their little crew all showed up, along with all the weekend campers, and mountain bikers. The campground came alive.

Through the twisted timbers on Skookum

There were some massive old trees

The active fire lookout at the summit of Sun Top

Sven, or Vern... he likes to talk, a lot.

Photo: C.D.

Photo: C.D.

 

The Race

The 60 milers went out an hour before the 30 milers. The field was shallow, only about 25 riders, compared to 90 or so in the 30.

We lined up, and they sent us off.
What ensued left me laughing, and gasping.
People sprinted!
My warm up had consisted of riding about 500 feet from the camper to the start line!
There was basically no choke for 5 miles and 1,300 feet of climbing. I could see no value to hammering, and was having none of it.
What I say next could come off the wrong way, but, I’ve been riding a bit, and have a pretty good sense of both my limits, and sometimes, those around me. What I’ll say, is looking at some of the other riders, I got a sense that some of the people around me didn’t know what they were getting into.
This point was going to get proven to me.
Fifteen minutes into the climb, and slowly getting into what would actually be my ride speed, I began to catch up with a few riders. As I would catch up, htye’d start shooting glances back, and in several cases, as my front wheel would come up alongside, a few of these guys would suddenly speed up.
I watched, almost in disbelief as they were “counter attacking,” and my clock only read 15 minutes in.
Are you serious?
We dropped into the first descent, and as expected, there was no passing, though there were a few riders pulled over with mechanicals.
I actually did catch one of the riders who was “counterattacking” me earlier, near the base of the descent, but, as we hit the flats through the campground, guess what, he took off through the flats and “attacked” again.
I decided about then that I’d probably start making passes near the top of the second climb as these guys wore themselves out
I also got the sense my day was going to be a scavenger hunt, and would basically be on, picking off people riding stupid.
I was only partially right.
I rolled into Skookum Flats, and as the trail began to duck, dodge, and weave, I found myself on the guy’s wheel pretty quick. I passed him, and fairly quickly caught another rider.
In the next 5 miles on Skookum, I’d take a total of 4 placements!
I did not see that coming.

I nailed every feature on Skookum both laps on race day, a definite help in closing positions. Photo: C.D.

We spat out from Skookum, and I was riding alongside Matt from BC. He was a really good technical rider, so I was actually looking forward to having someone to pace with on the climb, but as we hit the base, he dropped back.
I rode up to the summit through the long grind, with another rider just up the road from me. This rider would occasionally look back, but I had no interest in burning it up.
After completing the initial descent from the top of Sun top, we went into the awful singe track climb. Not even a ¼ the way up, I found the rider I’d been tailing the past hour walking, unable to climb the steep pitch.
I muttered something about how much this pitch sucked, and he asked me if I knew how much longer it went on…
I paused for a second, before I prefaced my response with: “I’m seriously not trying to get in your head.”
Continuing, “but it’s not going to be over soon, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. I’m sorry.”
It seemed like a hard thing to say, but, wtf, it was the truth. I had to learn that on Thursday.
The second punchy ascent along the ridge had a gradual lead in, and though I should have known better, it still caught me off guard in a really tall gear. I had to strain to keep moving, and cursed at the pain of the stupid move. Once the descent began though, it was fantastic. The cool morning air leant a bit of dampness and tack to the trail. It felt like the best descent I’d had yet.
Crossing the internal loop’s road and beginning the switchback descents, I was pleased by the lack of dust (every descent but this one down this section was dusty due to other riders nearby.)
The one caveat, was that the 30 milers had come though, and this descent would also shift in shape each passing. Some corners were notably more blown out, but the worst was a steep double drop though an S-turn that went off camber over super loose dry soil.
I rolled in with too much speed, slamming the double drops, and realized I was going into the steep off-camber duff next.
The bike immediately began to suck downward.
Oh fuck.
An axel-height rock followed immediately by a switch back was all I could see. I could either try and roll the big rock and hope the suspension ate it, or let the bike sink deeper off the duff and into the brush, hoping I didn’t snag, and fail, and assuredly sending my into the switchback at way too sharp on an inside angle.
I aimed for the rock and pulled back. The yeti didn’t like the rock, but it pulled over it.
I could literally see skid marks through the forest litter leading out of the switchback from where at least a few human bodies had slid.
Rushed with relief to have avoided what would have been a nasty wreck, and pissed at the chaos that had clearly caused the change in the trail, I swore out loud.
Oh, there’s an elderly volunteer medic staged at this obviously dangerous spot…Ya, the look on her face said it all. It was a nice to have a little comic relief.

Rolling back through the campground, I swing off at our cooler and snapped in the new bladder. I ran with 2 liters of water per lap, and drank around 1.75L each lap. I might have drank more the second were it not for the water being ice cold from being in the cooler. It really helped.

My second internal loop of the day felt really good. I was all alone, the climb was staying shaded, and I never saw anyone on the way, but my legs were feeling better than expected.
Into the internal loop descent, a 30-mile rider closing out his external loop shot by. I heard another 30 miler coming as I opened the suspension, and assumed that these front runners would likely catch me on the descent. No such issue, the guy I heard coming seemed to fade further and further behind.
Back through the campground for the last time, and on to Skookum to start the second external.
I was still alone, and began to think that was it for the race.
Due to crash on Skookum the night before the race, the organizers had instituted a mandatory dismount section with a volunteer on site to ensure everyone walked.
As I passed, I asked when he’d last seen another 60-miler.
“Right there” he said, point down the trail.
No kidding, a white helmet bobbed just around the corner.
A few minutes later I caught the rider at the base of a 10-foot ledge we all had to hike-a-bike. He waved me past and I shouldered the bike for the quick scramble, but when we remounted, he was able to hang on the next mile or so to the road.
As we popped out of the woods, I saw another racer, stopped, draped over his bike and clutching his quads. 
I swung by the cooler Doug and Trenton had dropped off and grabbed my Coke. The guy I had caught on Skookum was still on my wheel, and asked if maybe I had a cold beer in the cooler too, ha!
Not yet I told him.
As we started to climb, I offered him some of my drink, but he declined, and then dropped back, disappearing.
“Two more placements thanks to Skookum!” I congratulated myself.
The caffeine and sugar did it’s job and the bottom 2/3 of the climb seemed to go by a little easier, but around mile 4, the guy I thought I’d just dropped reappeared. In the next 2 miles, he would go from being out of sight, to within 10 seconds of my wheel as we hit the summit.
I was deflated. So much for not getting passed.
I knew I could put a little time into the guy down the nasty descent, but I still had a pretty narrow lead with the hardest climb ahead.
“Ride smart through the initial descent. You cannot crash. Don’t look back.”
I popped back out to cross the road, and went into the steep single track climb.
I knew if I was still getting tailed, he would be able to see me ahead, and I knew if turned around, it would only defeat me further.
I dug in, hoped I didn’t hear breathing, passed a couple exhausted 30 milers, and hoped for the best.
As I neared the top, I finally shot a glance back.
Just a quiet and empty forest.
The last descent was one of the hardest descents on my life. Getting sloppy or lazy at these speeds would mean a really bad crash. I had to ride smart, but my legs were starting to seize. Climbing was actually easier on them then descending.
Despite all the use, some sections of trail felt like they were riding better, and I ended up passing a couple more 30 milers.
I didn’t really think there was anyone close, but I drilled the stretch through the campground with what little I had left.

 

Feeds: The race offered 3 aid stations. The first was just past the start-finish and had food and water, the second was water only and was about halfway up the big Sun Top Climb, and the third was another full aid station with food etc. at the top of Sun Top.

I never used the aid stations other than to toss out an empty can of Coke. Thanks to Doug and Trenton, we had a cooler in the campground near the start where I had a second bladder to swap in mid-race, and another cooler at the base of the big Sun Top climb where I had a small can of Coke for the last climb of the day. Swapping bladders took 30 seconds, and I drank my Coke on the wheel.
I had all my food onboard in a gas tank bag: Cliff shot bloks and Honey Stinger Waffles. I ate 2.5 packs of bloks (no caffeine), 2 waffles (one chocolate), and the Coke, feeding every 45 minutes starting after 90 minutes.
Not stopping at aid stations gave me a definite edge over all the racers I passed. The rider who nearly caught me at the top of the second lap stopped at the aid station. I have no idea why. He should have pushed through, he might have taken me down.  

Takeaways:

This event really lived up to all that I personally hoped it would. I got to race somewhere else, on new trails, against some new faces, and enjoy some summer weather that has kind of been lacking in AK.
The race organizers were really cool, friendly, and full of stoke for their participants – no egos.
The bang for your buck value was incredible: $60 got you the following:

• A really well marked course .
• Medics stationed all over the course as well as onsite.
• A well-thought out evac plan for numerous locations on course.
• Hard time limits.
• Two staffed and stocked aid stations and one unstaffed water station.
• Live results.
• A post-race BBQ with burgers, dogs, drinks, and snacks.
• Cold beer.

Ya, you read that last one right.

Would I do this particular event again? No. On the upshot, talking with the race directs after, it sounds like next year they will make the 60 just a 50 and get rid of the second internal loop. That will be a good change with basically no impact on the feel. They also plan to market it a little differently and emphasize that this is really challenging.

I would certainly recommend the event to someone, but, since I have to fly a long ways, it was a good experience, but there are definitely other races to check out. I’m really intrigued by NWE’s Capitol forest race, which I take is kind of their premier event anyway. Based on this race, I would def give the race org’s kudos, and recommend any of their bike or running races.

Chilling out Saturday night.

The compound.

Personal takeaways

In the big picture, I can’t say I had any major takeaways from this race, which is OK. Obviously, the trails were new, and the riding style, particularly they extended fire road climbs, were new, and challenging.
This was a climber’s race, and my Yeti is an obvious handicap in a marathon race with endless smooth climbs (it’s kind of a handicap in any race, but it’s also a great all-around bike). A typical 4x4 XC full suspension rig was clearly the choice for the 60 mile event, and I think a strong technical rider with climbing legs on a hardtail with a 120 fork could mop up the 30 mile.
Otherwise, my only real takeaway was that I generally played my cards right. I basically made all my passes on the most technical section of the course on Skookum. That is a real ego booster, as that was some true-to-the-roots of the sport techy riding. I thought I would pick off some riders on the climbs, but not so much. I put a little of that on the bike. The Yeti does really well for its size and build on trail climbs, but is definitely not an attack bike on smooth dirt roads. The descents were too short and rowdy too do much damage there. All I noticed on descents was that I extended my leads.
Really, my next biggest advantage came from endurance experience. I didn’t stop at aid stations, amp my pace in response to those around me, and my feeds and hydration were on point.
The one conversation Chuck and I had was whether I would have benefited from going with the initial sprint.
Having had the chance to look at the re-play on Strava, the answer was no, in this case. My next closest competitor was out-climbing me on every ascent. If I’d gone with the sprint, the guy still would have driven a harder pace then I was on the ensuing three climbs. Basically, assuming that going with the sprint did not have a negative impact on my performance later (who knows), my delta would have been 2 minutes on the next position, instead of 8. In a broader picture, had there been a thicker field, or had the guy in front of me not driven his climbs with as consistent gains, then yes, it could have. Food for thought.

Two Favorite Kenai Epics

Russian-Res-Devils Loop

Distance: 76 miles

Climbing: 7,000 feet

Season: June, or late September

The gist:

Start at Devils Creek Trail Head, take the Seward Highway 2 miles to Tern Lake Picnic Area, and head down the Old Seward Highway to where it meets up with Crescent Creek Road/Quartz Creek Road. For a 90 miler and an additional 1500’ or so of climbing, add an out-and-back on Crescent Lake Trail. Otherwise, follow Crescent Creek Road to Quartz Creek Road to the Sterling Highway. Cross the highway, heading left toward Cooper, and take the first jeep road immediately on the right. The jeep road climbs steeply. Stay left past the junction with a cell tower. After passing a high point with a great overlook, the road spits you back down on the highway briefly. Ride the shoulder carefully for about 100 feet until you spot the ATV trail heading into the woods on the right. The ATV trail is actually rather techy in places, even though it parallels the roadway. It will briefly spit you back out on the shoulder twice on the way to Cooper: first very briefly onto a gravel shoulder before heading back into the woods; and again to cross a driveway (take the driveway for 20 feet and the ATV trail will dive left off the driveway), before eventually joining a utility corridor. The corridor can get a little mucky, and trail will exit to the left to follow a wide and safe gravel shoulder the rest of the way to Cooper.

This ATV segment sounds more complicated than it actually is, and is a million times safer to ride than riding the shoulder of the highway! The short section of highway between Cooper Landing and Quartz Creek Road is not safe to ride!

Head through Cooper, cross the Kenai River (pedestrian bridge is located on downstream side of bridge), and cross the highway onto Snug Harbor Road. Take Snug up to Russian Lakes trailhead. After riding the 20-some miles of Russian Lakes trail, it may be worth taking a quick side trip toward the campground to refill on water. This is close to the mid-point of the ride. When you hit the trail head/parking lot, go left, up the campground road toward the campgrounds. Water is available at the RV dump station on your left, maybe ¾ of a mile.

From Russian, head down to the Sterling Highway, go left on the highway to the Resurrection Pass Trail Head.

Take Res Pass Trail to Devils Junction, and drop down Devils Creek Trail back to the TH and your car.

Hints:

This is a really smooth link up, with a lot of gravel to tie the trails together, with very limited pavement. The trails themselves are pretty easy: Russian is about as advanced as things get, but it’s a “descent” on this route. As noted, the ATV connection between Quartz Creek Road and Cooper Landing sounds complicated, but it’s literally an ATV trail next to the road, just keep following it. Also as noted, it has a few short techy sections to keep it interesting, and is a major asset to have as an alternative a connection to avoid a very dangerous segment of roadway.

Water is available at the Tern Lake Picnic Area (two people to use this pump), Quartz Creek Boat Launch (spigot), and the Russian River Campground (spigot).

The season on this ride is pretty much June onward, and is limited by snow in Res and Devils Pass early in the month, and vegetation on Russian later in the month. It’s pretty likely that this ride will include some snow drift cyclocross action through Devils Pass.

This loop could open up in September-Early October in cold and dry autumns.

I hit this loop for the first time on 2016 with Carey G, and again this year with Chuck D. Both years, the early to mid-June timeframe seemed to be the money spot for low veg and few snow crossings.

Both years, I opted for the simpler 76-mile option, and both years, the total ride time was around 7:45 at a reasonable pace, though could easily be driven down by quite a bit with more motivation.

In a head-to-head between this loop or the Resurrection-Devils-Johnson Loop (90 miles), I pick this one as my favorite.

Res-Devils-Johnson 2017

90 miles

8,000 Feet climbing

Time: Mid-June through July 4

I’d completed RDJ in various formats and rig choices in 2013, 14, and 15, but I just wasn’t super pleased with this route, and I took a break from the RDJ last season. The forecasts and fast-growing veg on Johnson last year didn’t inspire me to get after it.

This year, I had a choice for the weekend of June 24-25: do Arctic MTB’s Double-Down Race on a course designed by Ryan G, and well suited for someone who does well on climb-heavy and rooty courses (ya, that’s me), or head to the Kenai. It was a tough call, but the forecast was spectacular, and with July Fourth the following weekend – a holiday I try not to spend on the Peninsula – and a summer so far lacking in sunny weekends, it seemed like a Kenai Epic was a worthy pursuit.

Meredith was interested in riding the trail portion of the RDJ this year, and after mulling some different options, we came up with a new twist.

For starters, we’d ride the route clockwise, which is the opposite direction of how I’ve always ridden it. We’d also start the ride at the North Johnson Pass Trail Head, and this time, I’d employ a road bike for the long road segment.

The key element to this plan was just that: we’d be leaving my road bike at a colleague of Meredith, Doug’s, cabin, outside Hope. 

The bane of this loop is it’s 28 miles of road (24 paved) between North JP TH, and the North Resurrection Pass Trail Head. This long stretch of pavement has long steered the counter-clockwise routing of the ride, as at least that put the bulk of the hateful road riding pointed toward sea level.

I tried to ease the pain of this long road connection in previous renditions by riding a hard tail for the whole loop, or having a hard tail staged at the North JP TH for just the road portion.

I wasn’t sure that riding a road bike after 67 miles would really make me think better of this loop, but it was obvious almost immediately: the 24-miles between Doug’s and the car went way smoother and faster with drop bars and 28c tires. Lest I say it, I really enjoyed the road connection!

The other two benefits however, were less apparent beforehand, but definitely afterward. First, riding Johnson Pass north to south right off the bat gets the most technical part of the ride out of the way immediately, and second, climbing Devils and up to Res is downright pleasant compared to the opposite. Climbing the north side of Res is the most tedious, dull, and hateful section of trail on the Kenai…not that I have strong opinions on it or anything...

Early on in the day, we bumped into Kenai 250 riders Aaron, Dusty, Anson, and Kevin. I had a feeling we might see a few of the boys later on.

The clouds lifted as rode through swarms of hatching bugs on Johnson, but temps stayed reasonable. In the south Johnson TH I popped my helmet off my head, and a mass of dead midges fell from my head!

We stopped at the “rust pipe” at Tern Lake Day Use Area on the 7-mile road connection between south JP and Devils for a water refill. Up Devils we caught back up with Kevin, and could see Anson a little ways off as we neared the high point.

For time management (Meredith’s ride would end around 67 miles at Doug’s cabin, while mine would continue another 24 miles to the car) we decided this would be a good time to split off.

I bombed through the descent to Hope, and onward to the cabin. Having learned from before, I left the clock running through my turnaround for feed-management purposes. I dumped my pack, changed to road shoes, snapped in some dark lenses, and made sure to grab my car key.

I felt really good, and as I steered the road bike out onto the Hope Highway, my legs told me to give it all I had.

I had an absolute blast powering up Hope Highway and onward on the bike path to Johnson.

About a mile or two before I made it to the car, my legs started to fizzle, so I tapped a little deeper, casting aside the thought of a cool down, and spinning the Solace’s slick tires over loose stones right up the short gravel road to the car.

I rolled in an awesome and complete physical and mental wreck.

Great ride.

Ready for a Kenai July epic?

Here’s my favorite:

Hope 96

Soggy Bottom 2016

Short version.

I finished in fourth (again) in 9 hours 53 minutes, accomplishing my goal of cracking 10 hours, and frankly, doing better than I anticipated, given the actually soggy conditions this year. That being said, the trail and weather could have been a lot worse, so I’m thankful.

Also on the awesome front: Meredith, riding the 85 mile Petite. This girl had never ridden more than 20 miles at a shot before this summer. She killed it in her first endurance event, 9:06! Look for her in the 100 next year.

Despite a slower start to this season, my legs felt good for the effort, and had it been dry, I would have been shooting for sub 9:45. I kept my feed and water strategies essentially the same this year, but employed a way faster turnaround method at the check points by simply swapping packs, and kept all my food onboard the bike in a Revelate gas tank bag. Definite success.

 

Crossing the invisible finish line in Hope, 9:53. Photo: C. Renfro

Long Version

I knew the soggy was going to be cold and gray this year. Obviously, I didn’t really, but sometime back in June, I just had this feeling it wasn’t going to be hot and sunny like the last two years.

To an extent, I hoped it would be a little cooler, and somewhat wetter, than the rest of our summer. I rode the course, sans the road leg to and from Hope, in mid-July during an extended heat wave. It was incredibly hot and dry, too dry, sections of trail were loose like I’d never seen.

On that ride, I did 96 miles (9 shy of the actual course length) in 9:40. My pace was good, but I was in no particular hurry at the Cooper and Devils trail heads where I met Dave – who was generously supporting both myself, and Jessie and Meredith that day. My transitions were close to 10 minutes that day as I leisurely chatted, and I stopped a couple times on the ride to chat with others. Still, it was a good sign that things were shaping up. I knew aiming for 9:45 on race day if conditions were similar was a good goal.

I would reiterate here from other years, the best way to train for an event like this is not actually doing 8-10 hours rides. Most my long rides are 6 hours or less, but I don’t stop. One or two rides in the 8-10 hour range over the summer is good for mental training, but pushing a faster pace and not stopping for breaks on 4-6 hour rides is far better training.

Anyway, my predictions on the weather were unfortunately correct. About 2 weeks out, the hot and dry pattern started shifting. Just a week out, the initial onslaught of rain had done little to the bone dry trail, but the weather guessers promised steady rains in the days preceding the race, and on race day itself.

Sure enough, it started raining Thursday, and it looked like it might not let up all weekend.

I set the no-go mark at 1.5” of rain in 48 hours as the cutoff. For comparison, 0.75” in a similar timeframe would have been the mark for riding the trail in general.

By Thursday afternoon, the rain gauge in Cooper was already at .75” with no apparent end in sight and I basically said I was out. It let up that night though, and Friday it really didn’t rain.

Meredith was committed to riding the 85 mile Petite, come hell or high water, so I was going regardless, whether to ride, or to support her.

I swapped out tires on the Yeti, loading my standard front tire, a Maxxis Ardent 2.25” on the back, and putting an Ardent 2.4” on the front. Normally I would run a 2.2” Ardent Race or even a 2.2” Ikon on the back.

I knew traction was going to be essential in the trail’s peanut butter mud compared to any weight savings or reduced rolling resistance.

We made the final preparations on Meredith’s bike that afternoon, and got everything ready.

I was back in.

I slept with ear buds that night to be sure if it started raining I wouldn’t hear it and let it pervade my restless sleep, but there was no mistaking the steady thrum on the roof when I awoke to the 4:30 gloom of the belching alarm.

Mentally, I was out, again.

Still, I checked the rain gauges…only a quarter inch.

When we pulled into Hope around 7:30, the off-and-on rain had just barely stopped.

I set up Meredith’s bike, got her all checked in and signed off.

Oscar, Nick, and Clint came over and hassled me to suck it up and ride.

I didn’t want to talk too much about not racing. No need to spread my negativity to others, right?

With Meredith good to go, I walked to the beach and stared at the radar, and toward the Pass, and thought about it.

Some little sucker holes were showing up, and the radar promised that at least for the next 4 hours, it really wasn’t going to rain.

Both Meredith and I had put towels in our checkpoint bags so if we decided to bail out we could sit on the towels in someone’s car. I figured if I got to Cooper and the trail totally sucked, I could always bail. Likewise, if the weather flipped on the way to Devils, I could just quit and ride straight to Hope. This is an easy day and event to bail on.

I knew if I didn’t race though, I was going to be way more ticked off. The worst thing that could happen if I rode, was that I would be ticked at trail conditions and quit; that was far better than the alternative of being ticked off for the next 365 days that I didn’t even try.

I looked at my watch, it was 7:56. I waited 4 more minutes, and went and signed in.

What a massive amount of mental energy just to race.

The biggest takeaway: I need to pick another event Outside, a 50-100 miler, with enough girth on either side of the Soggy, to race as well. It sucks to have all your eggs in one historically wet basket.

I got some encouraging grins and more hassling, but my attitude remained quite dark, even on the start line.

Off we went.

There was no neutral start to Res Road, and things were pretty road racy to the trail head, definitely much faster than last year.

Once we hit the trail head, I fell back into position.

Adam, Chuck, Brian, Kevin, Owen, and Chris all disappeared ahead of me, and I slowly passed relay riders.

The trail was wet and muddy where it normally is, but overall, a lot of sections that could have been muddy seemed to have been too hard packed to let any water permeate.

Basically, one could literally say about the entire course, “if you know how bad Res gets when it’s wet, it could have been worse, a lot worse.” There were some really lousy sections for sure, but I think standing water was more pervasive than actual mud. As the day wore on and the weather held, the trail actually improved.

Just a little over the pass, descending into a mist, I caught what I’m pretty sure was another relay rider, when: Bam Hiss!

He was the first victim of many I would see during the day to have their tires shredded.

A combo of bad luck, slippery rocks, and perhaps insufficient sidewall protection would send many riders to the side of the trail during the day to fix flats.

I ran higher pressure than normal. My traction on slimy rocks sucked, but the tires had a bit more bite in the mud, and better resilience to sliding off the sharp-edged rocks. It’s also not a bad idea to invest in fresh treads for this event either.

As I passed Devil’s Junction, Chris was off to the side of the trail, also fixing a flat.

The descent was just a hoot through the slimy rocks…and I was definitely worried about uphill traction on the way back up, but it was otherwise uneventful.

Once I hit Juneau Lake, the good times and drier trail conditions came to an end. The stretch from Juneau Lake to Bean Creek Junction is a ditch. I hate it.

I came around a corner on the shore of Juneau Lake and saw Brian, soft pedaling, riding his rim. Bad luck struck again for him in this event, two years in a row. His race was done.

I pointed out at least he wouldn’t have to ride through this swamp again and he laughed and wished me luck.

A minute or two later I heard what I thought was Brian, splashing behind me, which sort of surprised me, given his lack of a tire. When I looked back, it was Chris.

I let him around me, but his pace seemed just a titch faster than mine so I latched on.

We ended up riding together to Bean Creek Junction, chatting the whole way, mostly about racing and riding hard tails (which he was on). The conversation and company was immensely helpful in making this boring stretch of trail go by quicker.

Compared to other years, this race was crazy social for me. I would ride with three others before reaching Hope, compared to riding almost entirely alone last year.

I pulled away from Chris as the trail began it’s descent to Cooper, but I figured if things worked out, he’d probably catch me on the way back up, and I might be so lucky to have someone to chase/ride with back through this same stretch.

Unfortunately, Chris flatted again about three miles above Cooper and had to jog down and fix the tire at the check point. He was still able to finish though.

The Cooper check point felt chaotic. Little Gus and grandma Carol were standing at the trail head, and when I called and waved to Gus, he came gliding along with me on his strider to the support area. Obviously, being a Reimer, he was hauling right along, when suddenly he face planted!

Fortunately, also being a Reimer, I think he puffed the grit from his little face and puffed more at the indignity of having such a public wreck, but he was up a second later.

The Susitna Bike Institute provided neutral mechanical support at the checkpoints and start this year, and I found their service to be excellent. I had hardly pulled up to the table where Carly and Ted greeted me, before one of the mechanics rushed over to see what my bike needed.

Truthfully, all I really needed was an extra hand to hold the bike, and some mental focus, but I felt a little overwhelmed, despite the simplicity I had in mind for my transitions.

I had 5 things to do at the checkpoints this year:

• Shove a snack in my mouth and take a few swigs of water
• Pour water on my drive train
• Squirt lube on my chain
• Empty the wrappers from my pockets
• Switch backpacks

I rode the first leg with my camelback on, loaded with 1.5L of water, a spare tube, pump, and an old Voler vinyl shell.

I gave Carly a box that contained another camelback backpack with the same contents (sans the shell); as well as a third bladder filled with 1.5L was water. I would trade out backpacks in Cooper, and Carly would simply put the fresh bladder in the first pack for me so I could swap back out again at Devils. The only thing I could have done better was perhaps throw my nice rain shell in one of the packs so I didn’t feel obliged to swap them. That being said, I never wore a shell once, and had it been sunny, I would not have taken it at all. It was kind of just there for superstition.

Like years past, I had a snack for the transition (some type of fruity/sugary Kind bar) a water bottle to take a few swigs from, a jug of water to pour on the drivetrain, and chain lube.

Unfortunately, I tried to do everything at once, so chaos ensued. Carly and Ted were great though, and the mechanic was ready to take my bike and tune it if I had wanted. Everything was good, but I asked him to give my fork’s rebound a click as it was feeling a tad slow, which probably seems simple, but in such an addled mental state, was huge for me. I think he scrubbed my chain with a brush too, which might not have been needed, but was nice that they were there to do.

I was glad to trot away back to the trail.

This year, I was also careful to jog very slowly in short gentle strides through the parking lot.

I noticed in years past, the climb out of Cooper was unreasonably painful. Thinking about it, I think I damaged muscle tissue running too quickly in the parking area. The descent is long, and body position is relatively static, allowing tired muscles to tighten up. Then all of a sudden you jump off the bike and slam muscles through motions they haven’t done once yet all day? Ya, that’s probably not a good idea when you spell it out, huh? I’m going say, it probably made a difference, the climb wasn’t that bad this year.

I was still really nervous. The trail was slick, the brush high, and an accident with a descending rider seemed very likely.

I rang my handle bar bell incessantly, and again, it worked. I feel like every rider in the race should be required to use one, they cost $10 and weigh 5-10 grams, but dang they get heard. Bear bells are maybe helpful for slower-moving hikers, but are worthless for oncoming riders.

Descending riders were remarkably respectful; many of them came to a full stop, which, though not always even necessary, is still greatly appreciated.

The shining moment though, was seeing my girlfriend, Meredith, leading Jill and Amber down to Cooper. She looked great, confident, and strong, in good company.

Before this year, Meredith’s longest ride was 20 miles. She’d worked up to 65 this year, and has been racing the XC races in the expert division, but this ride would be her longest yet. She had learned as much as I had probably learned in years of riding in a matter of months, sometimes the hard way. It was really paying off.

As I pedaled on, I was so proud of her, and I wondered if she would continue to ride with Amber and Jill, and if they would try to convince her to go for the full 100 with them.

She had a chaotic turn around in Cooper and lost the two (they thought she had already turned around and was ahead of them). Otherwise, I think she would have gone for it with them. Next year, expect a packed and strong women’s field in the 100.

The sun came out on the way to Devils, and I felt great.

This was the worst leg for me last year by far the last two years.

Not this year.

Just as I started hiking up the switchbacks on the summer cutoff above Swan Lake, I heard something behind me, and saw a Revolution kit through the branches.

“CLINT!” I yelled in shock.

No, it was Oscar, racing on a relay team with Pete and Janus. He was hoping to sneak up on me and ask to pass, like he did in the 24 hours of Kincaid.

Failed in that joke, I had good company for the annoying hike-a-bike section, and made sure to return some of the ribbing he gave me in the morning.

The sun was out, I was halfway through the race, and the last stretch of lousy trail lay just ahead. Things were looking good.

I really didn’t want to dab or get knocked off my bike going over the slippery rocks on the last pitch of the south side climb, so I kept my pace slow and steady, leaving my rear shock open through the rocks to ensure my tire stayed glued to the trail.

No problem, never dabbed once.

I rolled through Ryan’s bacon station where I’m pretty sure I got heckled for not having bacon or whisky in my nutrition plan. I love the Devils Pass cheering squad, mentally, they break through the pain wall for a second.

Devils Junction, enroute to Devils Pass, the whisky/bacon/cheering squad. Photo: W. Ross.

 

Anyway, I was on a mission, I was closing in on Kevin and Owen. Riding through Devils Pass, I could see them less than a minute ahead.

Devils was raw, a stiff headwind the whole way down to the brush line and a cold misty rain in the alpine. The descents to both Cooper and Hope featured convenient tailwinds this year (don’t ask me how the winds split in Res Pass, but I see this often up there), meaning you could stay warmer on the way down, while staying cool on the climb. Devils felt harsh comparatively, but it’s also fast and short and I knew I just had to get below the thermal layer; good motivation to ride harder.

One definite advantage to being so far up front in the pack, I was only concerned about three uphill riders: the Team Speedway relay rider (the only relay rider in front of me), Adam, and Chuck.

I was actually surprised to see how close I was to the latter two. I also noticed Adam looked a bit rough, but Chuck looked good.

This was going to be a good race for Chuck, and I wondered if he’d catch Adam on the way to Hope. It’s a funny thing to have two of your best riding partners going head to head. It’s hard to know just who to root for.

Anyway, once I saw Chuck, I shut up and went into stealth mode.

I caught Owen just above the bridge at the base of the main descent.

He didn’t look good.

He stuck with me though, which surprised me once we began the steady climb from Quartz Creek to the trailhead.

If he was suffering, why was he fighting to stay on for this relatively short climb to a check point?

We caught up with Kevin within ear shot of the road, and positions 3-5 all rode in together.

Craziness.

I felt charged, and figured the best bet was to rush Kevin and Owen and give them no rest.

Ted grabbed my bike, and this time, I nailed my transition.

Mouth stuffed with the remnants of my snack, if I was turned around and ready to roll in any more than three minutes, I’ll be surprised. I signaled my number (my race plate was heavily spackled in mud and my mouth stuffed) to the surprised timer.

Owen must have jumped, and was back on my wheel at Quartz Creek. Kevin caught up as we began the climb in earnest.

Owen was possessed it seemed. For someone that looked to be at the end of his rope, he was digging deep on the climb, and latched onto relay rider Janus, who passed all three of us.

I asked Kevin if he wanted to come around, but he said he was good. We rode together to the end of the rock gardens, around mile 7 or so.

There wasn’t a lot of extra oxygen for conversation, but it was nice to have two sets of eyes going up the climb. More than once I put my head down to dig into a pitch, only to hear Kevin whoop at an approaching rider I might not have seen. Again, descending riders were super awesome and respectful.

I was also bit more hesitant to ding my bell on this climb with Owen just out front. I didn’t want to give him too much leverage on his lead.

Above the rock gardens, the misty Pass in front of us, we could see Owen about 30 seconds ahead.

I knew Kevin had to have a stronger pace in his legs, and told him to get after it. Third place was on the line.

Kevin took off and slowly built a lead. I watched Owen briefly try to latch on, but quickly dropped off.

I caught Owen a few minutes later just above the Devils Junction.

He latched onto my wheel and hung on as we tore along the rolling trail in Res Pass proper.

I really don’t know for sure where I dropped him. I was too nervous to look back until practically Fox Creek.

Eventually, I did glance back along one of the straightaways and didn’t see him.

On the opposite side of Res Creek, my legs were really starting to fade. I’d hammered all the short climbs between East Creek and Caribou, but I was struggling with the short canyon climbs now, and cursing them.

Fortunately, I still had ample power for the flats.

When I hit the road, I hung onto the underside of my bars and powered time trial style to Hope, happy to see I was amazingly going to crack 10 hours.

I passed the start, and I guess not surprisingly, felt completely overwhelmed. I dug really deep the last hour.

I rode back to the start line and got a high five from Kevin. I asked how long he’d been in, and he said two or three minutes.

I thought he was being nice, he had a beer in hand, I figured he had to have been there for longer, but was really surprised later to see he was dead serious.

It was a solid ride, a solid race. I didn’t feel like I had a whole lot more I could have done on the last leg.

 

After thoughts:

The two backpack system was awesome. I will surely be doing that in the future.

I also used the gas tank bag on my top tube to carry all my food. This meant less hassle at the transitions, and less hassle digging in jersey pockets. The waist straps on my packs cut off access to the pockets, sometimes making them hard get into.

I also had a realization during the Double Down XC race this year that a crash could make it hard to access jersey pockets, something you won’t realize until it happens, but could have a big effect.

I carried three gluten-free Honey Stinger Waffles, four non-caffeinated Cliff Shotbloks, and two caffeinated Shot Blocks. Like last year, I saved the caffeinated stuff until the last leg to avoid getting strung out. I have not been using caffeinated nutrition this summer while riding either.

The reason I used the GF waffles was not nutrition, but consistency. The GF ones seem to be less prone to crumbling or breaking, and frankly, a bit more tasty. Don’t expect to see me on a GF tear here, I just found them more reliable.

I ate all three waffles (one per leg), 3 non-caf blocks, and 1.5 caf blocks, plus a Kind bar at each check point.

My feed frequency has stayed the same, approximately 100 calories approximately every 45 minutes starting at 90 mins, alternating between packs of blocks and waffles, and making use of slower sections of trail (short climbs) to get my feeds.

I probably could have used at least one “bonus” feed somewhere in there, or have taken my first feed after 60 minutes, as it seemed my pre-start snack was insufficient. If the Yeti could conveniently carry a water bottle, I’d definitely carry just a titch less water per leg in my bladder and use something like diluted Gatorade to help with said “bonus” feed.

Lacking this option, I’m not sure exactly where I’d throw in this bonus feed. I’ll have to think about it.

I also might have liked a high-caf gu, like a Cliff Mocha Shot, for the final 10 miles of the last leg, instead of another shot block.