Some decisions truly seem to be no-brainers - the right choice is immediately obvious, at least so far as the immediate circumstance is concerned. Like, when I found myself at the Pharmacy counter in the Manhattan, KS Walgreens Thursday evening: "Sir, before I can sell you this Sudafed, can you sign here to confirm that this is only for medicinal purposes?" the nice Pharmacist asked me. The pain and pressure trying to eject my eyeballs conferred ever-so-briefly with my nostrils that hadn't felt a breeze in days, who then checked with my eardrums feeling they were about to burst and all were in agreement that this tightly regulated medicine was my only hope of making through the next 24 - 36 hours. "Oh, most certainly!!" After a few days of head & chest cold, having just completed several hours of lifting/moving all of a close friend's possessions into a U-Haul, contemplating the next day's 8 hour drive to central Arkansas to take part in an eight-hour-plus mountain bike race on Saturday, there was no clearer "right answer". Or...was there? Enter Syllamo's Revenge.
There's surely more history to this event than I took the time to find out, but it was regarded as a regional, somewhat national, all-well-regarded "epic event" held in north-central Arkansas. Held in the Midwest's "mountain range", there are two flavors to choose from: the 50 mile Syllamo's Revenge and the Syllamo's 125 - "125" meaning 125 kilometers, or ~75 miles. Given the geography, I knew that 50 miles was probably plenty, but that registration had closed...so...whathehell, 75 miles it is! Besides, I wasn't (yet?) into it for race results, but simply time in the saddle on tough trails. If I felt 50 was enough, then bail on the last 25, DNF, talk smack and compare times with the other "real" 50 mile participants. I kept it all in good perspective - this is just another ride that some folks will be racing, but the only person I'm competing with is me. In continued preparation I kept to riding when/whatever I could - off-road, gravel, even almost-nearly-hangin' with the "A" group on a couple local road rides. The more I rode, the more realistic it seemed that I could complete 75 miles of trail and reviewing last year's results had me (for no good reason other than creating a goal) telling myself that 8 hours was what I'd shoot for.
We arrive in Fifty-Six, AR Friday afternoon in time to grab the bikes outa the truck for a little course "recon" and other general touristy-type wandering. I wanted to see the start - one mile of uphill double-track gravel at 11% grade. I needed to ride up it once just to get a taste, or a visual, or a sensory impression of what the first of 75 miles was gonna feel like. To the legs? I gotta say, it didn't feel all that bad. The lungs? They seemed to be functioning as they should. But...why do I seem to feel all parts of my body...jiggling with every rock, root or lump my tires touched? Having been hitting the water bottle or Gatorade all day (all week, actually), why is my mouth/throat feeling like I just finished smokin' a bowl???
It hadn't yet "clicked" that the relief that 2 doses of the little magic pill had brought me would soon be my downfall, but I decided to only take 1/2 of one the night before the race - didn't want to risk any "post-med haze" come the 7am start time. Another good night's rest and it was go time - light breakfast, more liquids, dress, stretch, spin around, and then at 7:00 sharp me and 150+ of like-minded lycra-clad souls were off with a bang: nuts-ta-butts, elbow-to-elbow for a brutal first mile of just...hell, getting somehow sorted out by the time we reached single-track.
I got to the top breathing loudly (like, people were looking at me kinda funny sort of "loudly"), but feeling as good as Friday's pre-ride. The single-track was plain yummy, albeit rocky, loose, and seemingly all up-hill. I wasn't out to set any records, tried to get into my own pace, but making a point of being sure that anyone who I let pass me on a climb felt my knobbies rubbing theirs on the next downhill. "Drink before you're thirsty, eat before you're hungry" kept ringing through my head, and I did just that...but...very early on, things just didn't feel....right. My legs were dead. I seemed to keep blindly staring at the trail instead of surveying it to find the next best line. It was 59 degrees, but within just a couple miles I'd filled the pads of my helmet with sweat that was now splashing about my face on each rough(as all hell!) downhill. I kept feeling like "surely, my legs will 'warm up' annnnnnny minute now...?"
By mile 5, a quick inventory of all systems told me rather bluntly that 75 miles was out of the question - focus on 50 - some thing's not quite right. I'm not that sick. I've prepared well. I got a great night's sleep - why do I feel so entirely whooped already? Next? Somewhere around mile 10 I realized I was no longer sweating. Like...at all. It was warming up quick, the trail damn-sure wasn't getting easier, my efforts remained the same, yet I had goosebumps all over me and only growing in actual size.
Between then and the first check-point (you get a different colored wristband as pictured above at each stop), the "oh hell no you're not gonna quit! You're 15/50th's done with this mo-fo, and you're here to ride, dammit!" discussions were in full swing between my ringing ears as I re-filled bottle and inhaled a PB & J. From there I started chastising the trail, out-loud, in as inappropriate verbiage I could muster as I watched my average speed steadily drop with each diminishing press of the pedals. Mild panic-attacks would start to fester, thankfully interrupted by gnarly trail that demanded full attention.
Around mile 23 I reached the 2nd check-point and found my responses to the volunteers asking "how you doing, man?!?" involved way too many words, but none of them really clear to either of us. I wanted to quit. I mean, like, badly wanted to quit. "You puss! You're just about half way - suck it up, re-mount, re-lax, and keep moving" thoughts somehow won out over the "dude, swallow the pride and ask for a ride" chant growing louder and louder. The next couple miles lasted forever. We crossed a road shortly after 2nd check, and I stopped to ponder gambling which way might lead fastest to my truck. More scared of being lost off the course than miserable on it, I continued on. It took me an HOUR to cover the 25th mile. Frequently stopping to second, third, 27th-guess my decision to leave the 2nd check, and/or my choice to continue on instead of hitch-hiking.
Two creek crossing later I find myself tucking the front wheel in about 10 inches of water, then promptly losing my shit - to the tune of hucking the ol' GT about 20 feet downstream, loudly cursing its existence much to the amusement and/or concern of passing riders. Now, I'm soaked, seemingly physically broken, and...sobbing...literally! To the "I just wanna go home!" type tantrum of a pouting/scared/hurt little kid. "OK, OK, jeeezuz, OK - it's time to quit. Frankly, it might be about 2 hours past that time to quit...but...now what?" I crawled out of the creek and started back-tracking to check-point 2, pausing at length when I came back to that paved road crossing. With the help of Garmin, I picked a direction, not willing to ride another inch of single-track, and headed Southeast on the pavement. I set a time limit to my pedalling and if I'd not reached something familiar by that time, I was gonna sit, sob, drink more fluids and wave down the next passing vehicle.
Thankfully, about 3 minutes prior to "thumbin' time", I came back to the 2nd check. I rolled back in, a little over an hour since I was last there, already wearing that stop's wristband - folks noticed and I'm glad. "Hey...you OK? Need some water? How can we help?" shared a few nice volunteer-type folks. Apparently my slurred responses (and goosebumps) spoke loudly to them and they pointed me to some folks heading back to the start/finish. "Here's some ice in a wet towel and some cold water - have a seat". "Oh, no, I'm just tired, I'm not hot at all" was my response. "Umm...that's the problem - you're not even sweating, it's 90+ degrees, AND the skin on your legs look like sand-paper!" I again, for some reason, offered additional explanation, "oh, I've had a head/chest cold all week, took some Sudafed the last couple days and was feeling better..." got interrupted about the time I got to "-dafed", as it was apparently world-wide common knowledge (except to me, of course, at the time I made said purchase at Walgreens) that any kind of "fed" would not only dry up my sinus, but also any and all of the hydration I tried to pack in as preparation or continue to ingest during the event.
I had mixed feelings of relief and complete idiocy on that ride from check 2 to my truck. How did I not put 2 & 2 together? How did I never connect the idea of "intentionally drying out parts of my body to relieve symptoms" with "this might have a real impact on my ability to take in/absorb/use fluids"...??? Seems so (pardon the Meth pun) crystal clear that my decision to still race when ill was only out-dumbed by then convincing myself that "just drink more" (another sort of "pun" aimed at those that know my whole drunk-a-logue) would surely overcome whatever impact some cold medicine might have on me.
All that to say...what seemed like a "no-brainer" decision really turned out to be exactly that, but not remotely in the way I thought it would be.
