Everybody Hurts- CB Classic: Parts Two and Three ***(Hey! Parts One-Three will be edited and published in XXC Magazine's January Issue)*** If you are reading this, you should check them out!

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“Let’s test your threshold of pain- Let’s see how long you last”- The Misfits

As Brush Creek road climbs away from its namesake drainage, the willows give way to golden grasses and stubborn sagebrush.  The narrow road just gets steeper and steeper and there are heartbreakingly few switchbacks to break up the unending ascent. I stuck close to Magelky’s wheel and we passed Jordan Williford. Beyond Magelky, just up the road was Evan Ross spinning along on the ever steepening grade.  At the roads high-point we passed through a fence and began to descend toward the Deer Creek single-track.  Despite the fact he was just back from an injury, Magelky was riding well and I used the fact I was able to hold his wheel as motivation to keep my pace high. The Deer Creek single-track begins with a gentle, by Crested Butte standards, climb as it meanders along Deer Creek. However, once the trail crosses the shallow stream the gradient averages a gonad crushing twelve percent with sections in excess of 30 percent. There is a particularly long stretch of this nastiness where it became necessary for me to dismount and push my bike up the trail through a clusterfuck of exposed aspen roots coated with slippery leaves. Just beyond this section the trail eases up just enough that I was able to get back on my bike and pedal towards a timber laden ridge that allows for a brief respite.  It was here that I got around Magelky and another rider. Mike McAuley was with us after a display of sheer strength on the steeps of Deer Creek. I followed McAuley on his five inch travel bike, he is a local and he knows the trails well. Up ahead of us somewhere were Evan Ross and Brian Smith. McAuley and I made short work of the upper descent and a couple of short, punchy climbs. As we came to a gated barbwire fence, Mike went to the left of the gate to get over the fence and I went to the right. I made it over the fence and back onto the trail just ahead of him and decided it was time to let go of the rope and drop straight down into my pain cave-

I knew the next four miles of Deer Creek well; it was downhill all the way back to Gothic Road. I tried hard not to think too much about the crashes and close calls I have had on this stretch of track. I stayed off the brakes as much as I could, much more than any reasonable person might- I knew the descent was cruel, with plenty of places where others might be a bit more cautious. I had abandoned caution on the climb to the Strand trail, for me, the rest of this day would be like committing to that fast line on your favorite trail, you know, the line that doesn’t allow for any margin of error, the line that will toss you into the rocks and open you up like a Ginsu gutting a Coke can. As I neared the end of Deer Creek, Evan Ross was just ahead of me. As I rode up Gothic Road toward Mount Crested Butte I kept Ross where I could see him, steadily closing down the gap. The road went from dirt to asphalt and the rapid descent back toward the post office parking lot began. Once I was back at the post office I gave the super friendly timing volunteers my name and watched Ross ride away toward the next lap. I made a quick stop at my truck/aid station where I had put two more hydration packs in a small cooler along with several water bottles and some Stinger Chews. I swapped out my pack and bottle and devoured some chews. 

Lap two of the Classic is nasty, like one of those things down in the bowels of the sea; gaping mouth, unblinking eyes and jagged, razor edged teeth…  Jesus the teeth on that thing!  The first of the two biggest teeth of the beast is the climb up Slate River road to Washington Gulch and then to the summit of Trail 403, topping out at 11,400 feet. The second tooth is comprised of the ascent of Schofield pass ending at the high point of Trail 401 at 11,300 feet.  It was at the base of the climb up Slate River road, known to the locals as Slate d’Huez that I caught and passed Ross. He was just up the road, putting in his ear buds and looking over his MP3 player. After a brief exchange about our race in the Gunnison Growler we put our heads down and began climbing in earnest. I focused on pedaling circles instead of choppy squares knowing that this was the time to hurt myself, to ride faster than anyone else behind me wanted to. I am certain I wasn’t flying up Slate d’Huez, I was just pedaling nice circles and going beyond the normal level of pain that comes with something this long and steep. My legs felt as though they were filled with shards of glass, my veins were rivers full of drain cleaner.  The Slate is too steep in most places to stand and pedal and this amplified the pain. I knew that everyone behind me was feeling something similar and even Smithy was up there somewhere suffering away. I don’t listen to music when I ride; I’ve never liked the way it takes away from the sound of my heart hammering away, the wind through the trees, or my tires on the earth. I focused on my cadence, my breathing, and the fact that if I died right here and now I would die knowing I was giving it everything. The thought of this filled me with a strange euphoria that would carry me through the next 40 miles or so.

I reached the high point of the Classic at the top of Trail 403 and braced myself for the sort of descent that is akin to sticking your head into the gaping maw of an epileptic lion. I took many chances, shutting out that part of me that was muttering something about compound fractures, wheelchairs and colostomy bags. My focus narrowed, so much so that I have little recollection of a majority of the descent. Toward the end of the trail there was a section that threatened to snatch all my momentum away; a chute chock full of huge rocks with one skinny line right down the middle.  I made safe passage and charged toward Schofield Pass and the famous Trail 401. I knew I was building my lead on Ross and Ochs and all the rest with every turn of the cranks. I also knew that I would be climbing for the next five miles or so before letting loose on the descent of the 401. I was still ascending well and able to push the pace a lot harder than I had imagined I was capable of. Schofield was lined with mountain bikers making their pilgrimage to the famous single track that lay ahead. Using the riders ahead of me as “rabbits” I picked each one off and pushed on. I knew that the shuttles would also be running, dropping off large groups of worshipers’ right at the base of the Holy Land. As I neared the summit of Schofield Pass and the beginning of 401, a van carrying tens of thousands of dollars worth of high-end bikes rolled to a stop and I knew I needed to get on the trail before this group rolled out. I hit the track and willed myself up the steep switchbacks doing my damndest to keep my momentum whenever the trail dipped a bit. Grinding away, I emerged from the dark timber into the brilliant September sunlight with the Maroon Bells holding counsel to the north. I was nearly above tree line and the view, the thin air, and the promise of over six miles of more down than up allowed a reprieve from the sublime pain of my effort.

So much has been written about 401 and so many of you reading this have touched your tires to this sweet, sweet track that I will spare you all the little details. I made the most of 401, I have ridden it many times and this familiarity allowed me to take some chances since I knew what was around each switch-back and on the other side of every bridge. This was the first year that the Classic has used all of 401. In years past, riders exited at Rustler’s Gulch and made their way to Gothic. I hope the change sticks because the lower 401 is a hell of a lot more interesting than the road. As I descended the road through Gothic I couldn’t help but wonder about the time to the next group behind me. I also wondered how far ahead Smith was by now. I chased on, alone, and kept my promise to myself to not look back. I also made sure I was eating something as close to every half hour as I could, this was not a day to get stupid and bonk.  I had only known this feeling of being near the front of a race a few times before and it was a high I didn’t want to come down from. Back at the post office I learned Smith was 15 minutes ahead of me. I joked with one of the timers that I would take it easy now, since he would not be caught.

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places.”-  Ernest Hemingway

     As I rode west up Kebler Pass I knew that the worst was behind me now and I just needed to keep moving forward. A strong headwind battered me as I made my way to Lake Irwin and The Dyke trail. Lumbering SUV’s packed with “leaf-peepers” swerved like drunkards up and down the pass. I was in that place where we endurance racers go to around mile 70 or so… that place where we operate on such a basic- primal level that things like mortgages, relationships, mathematics and our own mortality are simply too complex for us to comprehend or even consider. It is so rare in this life to just be, to exist in the moment- safe, if only for a little while, from everything that reminds us that we will die and that life is as messy as it is beautiful. Beyond pedaling, drinking and eating I was unshackled, unhinged. I was left to repeat simple, monosyllabic words like “up!” and “go!” There was no complex internal dialogue, no pondering of the mysteries of anything.

     I pressed on, up a long dirt road breathing in the dust kicked up by so many vehicles. Like a fifth grader waiting out the last fifteen minutes school on a Friday,  I waited impatiently to see Lake Irwin so that I could know I was almost there, almost done with the everything that was this day. I hardly gave the lake a second glance as I passed, heading up the last little bit of road toward the head of the trail. The Dyke trail greeted me with her fast, rocky descent. I knew I needed to lay off the brakes as much as I could and save something for the short little steeps that break up the downhill.

      For me, and for many of us, a race is, in and of itself is, a microcosm of our lives. In a single race we run the gamut of emotions, we live in a way many others never will and we die a little too. On this day The Dyke would test me, nearly break me in two and leave a hole in my heart. For thirty five years I had been headed toward this moment, this section of trail and for thirty five years The Dyke has waited, or more precisely, a sharp stone along The Dyke has been waiting for this day when my rear tire rolls over it in such a way that it tears a half inch gash near the sidewall.  It happened quickly, as many tragedies do, and I was helpless to prevent the rush of air and sealant, a sound that turned my stomach.  I slowed down and rolled into the drainage just ahead of me hoping the sealant would hold and I could keep riding. The tear was too big and I stopped, turned my bike upside down and pumped up the tire. It sounded as though it was going to hold and I felt fortunate. However, as I flipped my bike back over and put my weight on the saddle the tire began to lose air again. I rolled into the next drainage and knew I would have to get off the bike and push it up the little incline on the other side. As I felt my mind unraveling I heard a freehub buzzing and looked up to see Mike McAuley charge past me in his baggy shorts.

      The shredded tire had shaken me from my state of primal bliss and now I was telling myself not to panic, to act quickly but not carelessly. I flipped the bike upside down again and removed the rear wheel. I had no idea how far behind everyone else was. I was nervous, angry and just plain heartbroken. I knew I needed to boot the tire with something and put a tube in. I tried to loosen the washer nut to get the tubeless valve stem off, it would budge. My fingers slipped on the washer nut. I couldn’t grip it hard enough to get it to budge. I tried using both of my hands, the tire lever, and my fingernails. This went on for such a long time such a ridiculously long time. Finally, the nut came loose and I removed the valve stem. I took an empty gel packet from my jersey pocket and slid it between the tube and the tear in tire. This would have been simple if not for the fact the tire had Stan’s all over it as did the tube and the gel wrapper. Nothing wanted to stay in one place, especially a gel wrapper lubricated with Stan’s. I pumped the tube up a bit and slid the wrapper in one last time, it held.  As I was pumping up the tire I watched as Ochs, Williford,  Beltchenko, Ross and Laird streamed past. I still had to finish pumping up the tire, put it back on the bike, gather my things and get going.

      My legs did strange things after being crouched for all of that time and they did not want to pedal my bike. I willed myself back into a painful rhythm and worked my way down the trail. I passed Laird on the single track and then raced as fast as I could over the carpet of aspens toward Kebler Pass. I lamented the fact that I could not gain back what I had lost. I focused on not falling apart and moving forward, always forward. As Kebler Pass climbed back to Crested Butte I could see the others ahead of me on the road.  Now I would have to do my best to keep them from disappearing over the horizon. I didn’t look back to see if anyone was coming, I have never believed in wasting much time on what was behind me.  There were no delusions of a final glorious attack, even in my diminished mental state I estimated that I had languished for nearly 20 minutes with the torn rear tire. I was sitting in seventh place on the road and Laird worked his way past me as the road kicked up. I tried to catch his wheel but he slipped by as I willed my legs into action. 

      At the beginning of the final steep pitch of Kebler Pass, Crested Butte local Jason Stubbe and his wife were providing Coke hand-ups. Grateful, I slammed as much of the icy, sweet cola as my body would allow- I adhere to a strict policy that one should never turn down a Coke or bacon hand-up during an endurance event.  Whether it was a combination of frosty Coke and delirium or simply that my body had worked through the pain of stopping for so long, so late in the race I found my legs once again just before the summit of Kebler Pass.  Laird was about a quarter of a mile ahead of me and I watched as he entered the Wagon Trail single track that parallels Kebler Pass as it descended into Crested Butte. The nearly three mile long trail rushed beneath my tires as I wrung every last bit of what was left inside of me into my legs. There was no point in not finishing this thing the same way I started it. I watched Laird take the old, unpaved section of Kebler down to Elk Avenue. I was right on his wheel and we sped toward the post office where he arrived just seconds ahead of me. It was over; I had taken eighth on the day, just four minutes down on Ochs’ fourth place in spite of everything.

      There is no podium at the end of the Classic nor is there a raffle or swag being tossed into a crowd of sweaty mountain bikers. If you take on the Classic you don’t do it because you think racing or riding your bike for nearly 100 miles and ascending almost 13,000 feet is all about the aforementioned trappings of “traditional” big-budget races with aid stations that make the buffet in Cesar’s Palace look like a UN food drop in some war torn corner of the world. No, the Classic is more along the lines of a back-lot, smash mouth, no-pads, tackle football game where you are more than welcome if you have the balls to step onto the field and take whatever comes your way. At the end of the day, you and everyone else who was out there on the field knows what the final score is and in spite of limping away totally wasted and fucked-up from the effort you can't wait to do it all over again-

     I hung around the post office parking lot congratulating everyone who finished ahead of me and cheering on the riders as they trickled in. My endorphin high was off the charts as I laughed and joked and listened to my brothers and sisters as they recounted their day on the trails. The late afternoon sunlight lit up the green and gold slopes surrounding the town and the smell of sweat, beer, and dust hung in the air. I was clinging tight to my high as the wind shifted and a chill filled the air- I fought hard against the reality that the snow would soon be falling here and another year would have to pass before I could be inside a moment like this again.