It turns out that competitive hike a bike is a misery loves company affair. Today’s stage began as a TT start based on our overall standings in the race to keep us spread out on the single track start. Quickly the trail turned upwards and we climbed to the top of Wheeler Peak in under six miles. Climbed! I’m sure the track was laid by mountain goats and the last half mile was mandatory hike-a-bike turf. But rewarded I was at the top; views, views, views, bacon frying and gummy bears were the reward. But it was a ruse! We were not going down, we were to traverse, descend a bit, climb, climb, climb, traverse, carry our bikes over talus, climb to another summit above 13,000 ft, and traverse more goat paths (Mike the race director called them primitive trails…). It was a hard task to ride up to 12,000 ft on the Queens stage, but pedaling very technical terrain above that for over an hour was a feat of mental stamina with a brain starved for oxygen. I have never been so happy for a descent. Loose and exposed at the top did not matter, as the altitude decreased my bliss increased. The descent was truly a trail of legends. What a big day!
As I mentioned yesterday, stage racing is the full monte of cycling experience: endurance, technical skills, tactics, perseverance, and luck. I had the third strike of oops today, the dreaded crash. Not really much of a crash. I was descending after the first summit, still unaware that I had another hour of hard riding at altitude in my future, on a section that was a pinball gallery of boulders on a steep hillside. My bike got bounced loose on my line and rather than go off the steep side of the “trail” I opted to lay it down on the uphill side. I scraped my arm on a rock and thought nothing of it. Much later a rider passed me and asked if I was alright. I was confused and said yes, and then another rider asked me the same thing as I overtook him. Again at the aid station I was asked if I needed medical. I decided that the scrape on my arm must be pretty ugly, but obviously not an emergency as I had no pain and arm and hand worked just fine so off to the finish line (in a downpour) I went. At the finish I was brave enough to look at my arm: a pretty meaty slash that was nicely cleaned by all the rain was my souvenir of the day.
My Dad came to watch my finish and I was so glad for some assistance, but sorry to have him see his daughter sliced up. I gave him the task of washing my mud caked bike as I found medical. They took one look at my arm and sent me to the ER. Sorry Dad! So off to the hospital we went. I was super lucky; the gash was so deep they could see all my tendons but none of them were nicked. A nice row of internal and external stitches later my arm is as good as new!
Tomorrow is the final stage of the race. It is rumored that most divisions ride as a parade (and take whisky shots at the summits) but I suspect the fierce ladies in the open field will want one more day of competition. Whichever way the race leader chooses will no doubt be the icing on the cake for me and this amazing adventure into the Breck Epic.