“No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind.
Buy the ticket, take the ride...and if it occasionally gets a little heavier
than what you had in mind, well...maybe chalk it off to forced conscious
expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”
― Hunter S. Thompson
― Hunter S. Thompson
The nausea was
such that it felt as though my stomach were being pulled out through my belly
button- This sensation was a byproduct of the exploding razor-blade pain just
behind my slow blinking eyes- As I forced the oatmeal into my mouth at 3:45
a.m. I had a simple hope, that it wouldn’t make a return anytime soon and with
that, I understood; there were far bigger things to worry about than the
mountains that lie ahead-
This would be the
12th edition of the Crested Butte Classic and in a way it could
aptly be considered Crested Butte Classic 2.0- The reason for this deviation is
the Classic’s departure from the traditional three loop format (each loop going
back into Crested Butte and back out to another popular trail system) to a
down-right intimidating “Evil Beauty” of a single 103 mile loop that ascends
over 17,000 vertical feet. The Classic is the brain/lovechild of David Ochs who
is also now the Director of the Crested Butte Chamber of Commerce. Anyone who
has every put a tire to the dirt on a Crested Butte trail owes Dave a huge debt
of gratitude as he is arguably the most integral cog in the CB mountain biking
scene.
In the days
following the conclusion of this edition of the Classic many a regular attendee
of past editions along with some notable endurance athletes would admit that
they stayed away this year as they were intimidated by the monstrosity of the
course. For me and many others who were
brave or ignorant or twisted enough to sign up, show up and ride out of Crested
Butte at 5:30 a.m. into a foggy 29 degree morning, we all felt the
significance of taking on something that had likely never been attempted
before. In my mind I treated this event as if it were a first ascent of a
perilous route up some 20,000 ft. peak… or being shot out of the atmosphere and
into orbit… or wrestling a grizzly bear… In short, I had no point of reference
to measure this experience against- It was, for me, uncharted.
In the days leading up to the
Classic and in the days after, I poured over single day mountain bike race
courses looking for something, anything that may contain the same ratio of
single-track and total vertical elevation
gain. The closest any other event came
was the *Vapor Trail 125. However, it lacks the sheer percentage of
single-track as well as the additional 23 miles required to get a similar
vertical gain.*Disclaimer- I have done the Leadville 100 (3 times), the Breckenridge 100, as well as two previous editions of the CB Classic. For me, this was the hardest 100 mile, one day event I have done. I cannot comment on the difficulty of the Vapor Trail and have infinite respect for those who have completed it, I am simply using it here in the context of comparison with a more familiar endurance event.*
I awoke at 3:15 a.m. in order to be ready for the 5:30 a.m. start. I was camped up Slate River road and slept better than I have in the past as I was fortunate enough to be sleeping in Ryan Cranston's pop-up camper instead of in a tent on the ground as was the case in 2011 and 2012. As I ascended clear of the fog of my restless sleep, I was able to take in the full effect of what was surely one of my top five worst headaches ever. The pain made it difficult to focus, the intensity was such that I was also dealing with waves of nausea. The pain made the thought of cramming three packets of oatmeal and a bagel down my gullet very hard to imagine. I had to adopt the same mindset that I have incorporated into all of my long races and intense interval sessions; I would have to break each larger part of this day down into simple, easy to complete tasks... You don't set out and tell yourself "I am going to do 15 thirty second intervals at maximum intensity with twenty seconds in between." Instead you say, "I am going to do this thirty second interval as hard as I can and then I will have a short rest and do it again." So it was with the oatmeal and the bagel and packing up the truck. One action at a time until I was driving into Crested Butte with everything ready for this day in spite of how I was feeling. I drove around, looking for a place to park and this took a while as I could not focus easily and the pain was a distraction.
I parked close enough to the Chamber of Commerce that I was able to place a drop bag on each end of the handlebars and make my way to the sign in and pre-race meeting. Each drop bag contained one gallon of water, two water bottles with Skratch mix, two Clif Bars, 7 fig newtons, a baggie of gummy bears and some chain lube. I started the race with a wind proof vest and arm warmers as my only protection from the 29 degree chill. Also, I has a light in my helmet since the sun wasn't going to be up for another hour. There were a total of 19 of us who showed up to set out on this ridiculous adventure. In attendance were, among others, Kelly Magelky, Mike McAuley, Seth Morrison and of course Dave Ochs.
At just past 5:30 a.m. we set out from the Chamber and headed up Elk Avenue toward Peanut Lake Road. My head was still killing me so I was quiet and focused on breaking this day into sections just like I had done with my breakfast, etc. As we hit the dirt on Peanut Lake Road we also hit a thick blanket of fog and the erie beauty was a welcome distraction. I made sure I stayed up amongst the lead group in this early section since it was about to turn into the Lower Loop single track. I was in third heading into the single track and this felt good and I was working my way around the pain and the nausea enough to enjoy this section in the dark. I was also cautious with tire placement as there was a lot of frost on roots and rocks and as we crossed the bridge over the Slate River I knew the climb up Slate d'huez was up next and I wasn't feeling that great still. In spite of how I felt I look end down at my Garmin and made note that we had, in the fog and the dark and the freezing cold managed to average 14.5 miles an hour just prior to the road shooting skyward. I rode conservatively, more so than I would have liked- the headache and nausea were the main reason, secondary to this though was that in studying the course profile and maps, it was clear that the first 50 miles contained a huge amount of vertical gain. I had never done any 100 miler with so much single track and with so much vert! I didn't want to blow up in the first 30 miles and stagger around punch drunk with 70 miles remaining and end up in the fetal position in some willows somewhere sobbing like a maniac. I kept everyone but Kelly Magelky in sight, he was on a great day and it looks like he has a legitimate shot at becoming the 24 hour solo world champ on October 3rd in California. I climbed the Slate d'huez and ticked off each switchback and steep pitch. I forced myself to drink and eat but not as much as was maybe ideal. The headache just hung on and I had come to accept that I may be dealing with this thing all day.
I headed to the 403 cutoff, Seth Morrison shadowing me. I had no idea who this guy was until afterward when I found out he is one of the best extreme skiers in the world and a very nice guy to boot. I half expected him to pass me on the climbing part of 403 but I would pull away and not see him again until the top of 401. 403 is a steep and technical trail that can literally mangle a good rider if they are inattentive. Again, and frustratingly so, I was more conservative than I would have liked to have been. I still managed to make short work of the trail but still I felt off and clunky. As I made my way up Schofield Pass toward the renowned 401 trail the air was still extremely frigid as evidenced by the frost lingering on the backs of the cattle I weaved my way around as they staggered about the road. I was feeling better but the headache hung on. I made the junction with the single track and a quick glance behind revealed only the cattle and no chasers. I climbed the steep, heavily forested single track and was distracted by the beauty and solitude of my surroundings. In spite of how I was feeling I reached the high point of 401 and was starting to warm-up a bit and had to make a quick stop to empty my bladder and eat a gel. As I was finishing up these tasks I saw Seth Morrison approaching and I got back to it in order to stay ahead of him on the way down 401.
*I should pause here to say I had no idea who Seth Morrison was until I reached Aid 1. This is he same Seth Morrison that has been featured in 40 or so extreme skiing fils including several Warren Miller films. Seth is the real deal and I am honored to have stayed ahead of him on 403 and 401 and the downhill portion of Deer Creek backwards.* It should be evident by the aforementioned cast of characters that the Classic brings out the truly badass and gifted athletes! *
I descended 401 with abandon, alone with clear track ahead I was able to focus on the trail and forget about my headache for a while. The frigid air, frosty leaves and golden straw beneath my tires added to what is already one of the best descents around. As 401 spilled out onto the jeep road just before the junction to Lower 401 I realized that I was going to have to get wet soon as there is a large stream crossing that is sometimes waist deep. As I neared this crossing I glanced to my right and noticed a small, muddy trail leading up to the large beaver dam above the crossing. I shouldered my bike and balanced my way across the dam. Heading down toward the small research and educational community of Gothic, I heeded the request of Dave Ochs and feathered the brakes through town since complaints about mountain bikers speeding through the area were rife. I even waved to the few students I saw as I passed. Up next was Deer Creek trail, a trail that is typically ridden in the opposite direction. Years ago I had ridden Deer Creek in this direction and it was brutal. In spite of knowing what was ahead on this trail, I was once again caught up in the beauty of Mid-September in Crested Butte. The trail was carpeted with straw and aspen leaves and as I rode up, I recalled all my rides down Deer Creek and the numerous close calls I have had on this trail when going much faster in the opposite direction. I was passed in the Aspens by Josh Bezecny who had started with Kelly Magelky and was riding strong. He admitted that he did all of 401 and took a wrong turn somewhere. He eased past me but not with so much speed that I felt bad about my progress. I pressed on wondering when Seth Morrison might finally catch me. Toward the top of Deer Creek just before an exposed ridge, I stopped in a stand of aspens and made myself eat a Clif Bar. The headache and nausea had thrown my nutrition plan of eating every 30 minutes way off. As I forced the bar down Seth passed me and knowing I had a long way to go as did he, I felt no sense of urgency to chase right away. Feeling as I did I knew I had to be cautious with my pacing and if I wanted to finish this thing it wasn't going to happen if I was puking all over he trail somewhere. The payoff for riding Deer Creek in the direction we were going was the short but fast descent to the double track. I stayed off the brakes and let the bike do its job and felt good about the fact that Aid 1 was ahead.
At Aid 1, I was encouraged by the sight of Morrison still being there. I topped off my Osprey pack and grabbed some Fig Newtons and gummy bears. I lingered longer than I would have liked; applied lube to my chain and chatted to the volunteer manning the aid station. Not feeling well caught up with me any time I stopped. As I prepared to depart Aid 1, Dave Ochs came ripping down the road and we exchanged some pleasantries. Again, being ahead of Dave, a man who knows these trails so well, was a boost and I found another bit of positive energy to take with me as I headed toward Teocali Ridge. Teo, as it is referred to by locals has been recently reopened after some extensive trail work. The double track that leads to Teo steepens steadily after a couple of drainage crossings and once it becomes a single track it becomes so steep that riding is only just possible at times. However, there is a payoff for all of the suffering up and that is the blinding descent through dark pines and pale aspens. I hadn't ridden this trail since Before STRAVA (B.S.). I made sure I did it right and pinned it through every switchback. I came upon Sean Vanhorn who had been riding strong up Slate d'huez and he stopped and allowed me to pass. He shouted, "Aren't you exhausted yet?!?" I shouted, "Absolutely!" It was all I had time to shout on my way past as the trail began to peek out of the aspens and rocketed through tall sage and golden grasses. All I knew from studying the route was that the course made a hard left at the bottom of this trail and sent us up Road/Trail 400. This was the crux of the course, the climb to the high point of 12,000 ft. I had never been on this part of the course and was conservative with my efforts as the elevation profile alone was other worldly. The double track deteriorated the further I climbed until it became a single track and I was about to be stopped in my tracks by my only moment of doubt with regard to the course. There was an intersection and a trail marker heading east... I stopped, frustrated with my lack of confidence I used the opportunity to eat a Clif Bar and I hoped that Dave Ochs was just behind me and if so, I would ride the climb with him and figure out which way I was supposed to go. It was agonizing to stand there, sure of only one thing; riding the wrong trail at this point would mean the end of all this effort. Beneath the layer of fatigue that was settling over me I did notice my headache was nearly a non issue at this point. I looked down at my Garmin and it read 52 miles covered and 10,200 vertical feet gained. Those figures were a juxtaposition of positive and fearful thoughts... The course was half finished, yet there was nearly another 10,000 vertical feet of climbing ahead. Instead of Ochs, it was Vanhorn that appeared around the corner and near the intersection. He had a map with him and was able to verify that we remained on the trail headed north. This was the last time I would see Sean until the finish and I thanked him, put my head down and got back to it. I made a conscious effort to do two very difficult things; I never looked back to see how close Sean or anyone else might be for the next 51 miles and I let go of the anger I had toward myself for stopping for so long in doubt. I believe that if I had thought any more about that than I already had that I may have been able to convince myself to not finish.
I climbed and climbed toward air far to thin to support life on any large scale. As I ascended the trees became stunted, twisted at the trunks and gnarled at the branches from high winds and the low concentration of oxygen. Trail 400 is beautiful and heartbreaking to behold as it forms a sinew of high alpine single track winding up ever higher through patches of oak brush and short grasses. The trail is so steep in places as to necessitate the installation of long sections of cinder blocks embedded in the earth and held in place with steel spikes. Everyone, except the dirt bikers, walks these semi vertical stretches. At the top of 400, the trail peaks in a saddle at around 12,000 vertical feet. I stopped here, high above everything that lay ahead and behind and I stuffed my face with six fig newtons. I could hear dirt bikes coming toward me and I waited for them to pass me on the ridge as I sipped water trying to swallow the newtons that were sticking to my sweat encrusted beard. As they passed, one of the dirt bikers asked if I was okay. I managed to get out a "Yes, I am great." He shook his head and I am sure it had something to do with my appearance and that I had managed to get up here sans-motor. Although the descent that lie ahead of me was a new one, I knew it went to the base of the climb to Reno Divide and that it was a long, steep descent. I took a lot of chances on my way down, descending over several sections of the aforementioned cinder block reinforcements and hitting speeds that were unreasonable given the fact I had already ridden over 50 miles and climbed well over two vertical miles at this point. The descent down Hunter Creek trail gave way to Cement Creek trail and this massive, physical descent began to punish my arms, shoulders and hands. Flying along Cement Creek, I couldn't help but feel stronger knowing that I was well over halfway through the day.
Aid 2 was my last long stop of the day and I topped off my water, swapped bottles, took all the food I had placed in the bag and lubed my chain one final time. I lingered a bit longer than I wanted as the reality of Reno, Flag, Bear and Deadman trails set in. This was a tough ride by itself and here I was, 70 miles into this beast of a course and I had to climb to the top of Reno Divide and descend and climb two drainage a before the wicked Deadman descent. While I wasn't anywhere near feeling fresh, I made good time up Reno Road and rode the descents of Flag and Bear Creeks as fast as I could at this point in the day. I was fortunate and had all the descents to myself, never getting caught behind any riders as I passed several groups who were stopped on the trail and enjoying their day. The climbs out of Flag and Bear didn't feel too tough and I believe this was because after everything that had come before they were easy in comparison. I stopped at the top of the Deadman descent, ate a gel and reminded myself to use some common sense coming down all the 30-plus switchbacks ahead of me. I have always loved the Deadman descent and today was no exception, punishing my body by really twisting through each turn and looking as far ahead of me as I could in case there was a ride ahead. Toward the bottom and near the bridge that goes over Cement Creek, I could hear the riders at their vehicles and could literally smell the post-ride beers. I am certain, as I made the last little steep climb to the parking area that they could smell me; covered in sweat and snot and spit and a layer of black mountain earth. The riders glanced at me as I rode on, looking at me as if they were seeing something that was not quite normal but unsure exactly why they felt that way. I descended Cement Creek Road, passed by trucks full of mountain bikers and blanketed in dust. I rode toward the unknown to me Walrod and 409 Trails. Climbing up the road that would take me to Walrod Trail, I began to wonder if I missed the trail. I fought the urge to turn back or stop and I kept going up the road as it got steep and choked with rocks I saw a trail marker to my left in the distance. As I made the left onto Walrod, I was again caught up in the sensation of closing in on the completion of something so immense, so intimidating and I was nearing the summit of my day, the moment where I could let go of this thing that drives me to strip myself bare to the nerves and to the most basic of emotions. In a sense I was destroying myself In a purposeful way, addicted to the sensations of being reborn from these efforts, from these tests of my will and fortitude. The sun was leveling with the horizon and the light was soft and beautiful and I knew as I pushed on that I had worked through all the thing in my way today and the rest of the miles would still be full of suffering but that I could begin to be fueled by the confidence that I was going to finish this thing.
Walrod gave way to 409 and it was a rocky, boulder filled cluster-fuck of a trail. I cursed Dave Ochs aloud for his sick and twisted course and all of those empowering feelings were put on hold a few times as the trail plunged down and over boulder fields and rock bridges. However, there was a beauty and a stillness in he air, like an old album cover from the '70's shot in the soft light of a setting sun filtered through the golden aspens, giving off a glow on the world around me that felt both timeless and finite all at once.
Trail 409 spit me out on a sage brush covered hillside and I rolled onto the road that would take me to the Strand and Canal trails, the final two trails before the finish of Brush Creek Road and the Deli Trail back to the Brick Oven on Elk Street. I will spare anyone still reading this account all the superlatives of riding amazing single track covered in aspen leaves and the buzz one's tires makes over the still earth in the rare alpine-glow.
As the sun disappeared I rode up Elk Avenue, weaving in and out and around hippies and tourists making their way toward the Vinotok parade. I quietly made it to the Brick Oven restaurant and was greeted by a smiling and ecstatic Dave Ochs. Mike McAuley and Seth Morrison congratulated me on my finish and we shared a few words about the brutality and the beauty we had endured and immersed ourselves in out on course. As Dave handed me an IPA and I joined in the celebration of our day, I knew I was part of something far larger than the amassed mileage or total vertical gain. In the end, I was part of a select group of 8 finishers who took on a course that is without equal and that scared away a good number of tough and talented riders. Nobody had it easy in the Classic, but nothing as indescribable is without its share of doubt, fear and hardship. However, it is the fleeting rush of doing something so far beyond categorization that it defies common sense that keeps me coming back to the Classic.
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