Dear Canada, fear me again

My TransRockies partner, Keith, and I during our top-secret, race strategy building retreat in Glacier National Park

A couple of years ago, before heading north to Whitehorse, Yukon, to ride solo in a 24-hour race, I wrote a letter to the country at large called "Dear Canada, fear me." Since I seem to attend a summer mountain bike race that begins in Canada at least once a summer, I decided to update it.

Dear Canada,


Jill Homer again. I’m sure you remember me. I’m the 2008 solo women’s winner and current women’s record holder of the 24 Hours of Light. What do you mean you haven’t heard of that race? It’s in Whitehorse. You know, the capital of the Yukon. It’s a burgeoning territory that is home to more than 30,000 Canadians. Yes, I realize that’s a population density of 0.11 people per square mile, but I’ll have you know that the 24 Hours of Light is brutal enough for the masses. Competitors sometimes ride wearing nothing more than fairy wings and tighty whiteys when it’s 33 degrees out, through thigh-deep mud, dodging sheets of lightning and sleet, in June. Teams also used to receive a bonus lap if somebody raced the midnight lap completely naked. I think the prudish ways of the south crept up and the Yukoners did away with that practice, but you get the picture. The 24 Hours of Light is the real deal. And among the at least five women who have raced it in the solo category, I am clearly the best.

Why should you care? Because I am returning once again to race in your beautiful — if gapingly empty — country. You may have heard of this one — TransRockies. I’ve committed to pedaling 400 kilometers of punishing, harshly elevated trails across the Canadian Rockies in seven days of structured stages. They used to bill this stage race as “The Toughest Mountain Bike Race in the World.” That was probably before self-supported endurance racers called them out for serving steak and grilled salmon and offering "relaxation expos" where racers enjoy nightly massages as personal mechanics clean their bicycles. Now TransRockies is just billed as “Canada’s Best Mountain Bike Adventure”

Despite the downgrading of overall hardcoreness, TransRockies will be, by far, the largest race I have ever participated in. There are about 500 people signed up for the partner-team race and its less-social, three-day offshoot, TR3. I’m pretty sure I could count all of the participants in every race I’ve ever competed in — foot, ski and bike — and combine them, and still not net 500 people. Plus, TransRockies has something like $30,000 in prizes. There will probably be pros there! That should make me feel all sorts of intimidated; and I’ll be honest — it does. But I am pushing that sentiment aside, because I’m not coming to Canada to be intimidated by people whose motto for the 2010 Winter Olympic Games was “With Glowing Hearts.” (Seriously? That’s just a sharp jab away from “Wimpy Bleeding Hearts.”) That is become I come from a city whose 2002 Winter Olympic mascots were named “Faster! Higher! Stronger!” (USA! USA!) And that is what I shall be!

What do you mean it doesn’t work like that? My TransRockies partner, Keith (who is Canadian, by the way, so don’t accuse me of being a nationalist), already discussed our strategy in detail during our top secret strategy meeting, strategically held on U.S. soil. “All we need to do,” Keith said, “is go faster than everyone else.” It seemed simple enough to me. I can ignore my pedestrian technical skills, my overwhelmingly relaxed style, my penchant for avoiding pain and crashing, and a summer of training that consisted solely of long slow distance, because all I have to do in TransRockies is go faster than everyone else. All 500 of them. Easy.

Actually, I was hoping Keith would haul me with a tow rope, but he just informed me this is no longer legal in TransRockies. What gives, Canada? When did you start demanding personal accountability and independence? That doesn’t sound like a good socialist strategy at all. Oh yeah, that’s right, you’re not really a socialist country even though Glenn Beck says you are. Whatevs.

Anyway, you’re probably thinking by now that I don’t sound like all that scary of a race threat. That’s because I’m not. I mean, I am the women’s record holder of the Tour Divide, which also, it just so happens, to bill itself as “The Toughest Mountain Bike Race in the World.” But all that makes me good at is turning a half pound of Sour Patch Kids and seven packages of Grandma’s Cookies into 150 miles of race nutrition, and at carrying my bicycle on my shoulder through endless miles of mud (come to think of it, this skill may come in handy in TransRockies.) But the point is, I’m just another ’merican who simply wants to come to Canada to have a great mountain bike adventure and a lot of fun. And as long as I accomplish that, I win.

Sincerely,
Jill, formerly from Juneau, now comfortably settled just below the crushing, terror-inducing terrain of the Canadian Rockies

I take crashing way too personally

My friend Dave Nice from Hurricane, Utah, is in town for a summer vacation to the "cool" temps of the "north" (to which I laugh and mop pools of sweat from my arms before applying more SPF 50.) I returned to Missoula on Sunday, still sleep deprived and a bit addled from the weekend, but rallied for a scorching mid-afternoon ride on the Lolo Loop.

I like this loop because it allows me to hide my secret shame — that my very most favorite thing to do on a mountain bike is climb long dirt roads into pleasantly tired legs and huge views. I can spin up the dirt track for hours, happy and content, and my friends have no idea I'm enjoying myself so much because they think we are just putting in the obligatory elevation gain in order to rip rocky singletrack down the long descent. Then, after 3,000 or 3,500 vertical feet, Dave Nice can launch into his crazy fixie finessing of rugged rock gardens, I can creep gingerly around hairpin switchbacks and step around rock ledges when no one is looking. In the end, we both ride away happy.

I have not yet developed the mountain bike pride. I didn't even learn the meaning of the word "dab" until earlier this summer, when a friend in Anchorage mentioned my usage of this most useful move whilst ascending a small, nearly vertical wall at Mooseberry Mesa. "Are you kidding?" I replied. "If I couldn't dab, I wouldn't even bother. " The way I saw it, I at least had tried and rode halfway up the hill, and I wouldn't have tried at all if taking my feet off the pedals was absolutely forbidden. Same goes with hike-a-bike. Who cares? I have walked behind people as they pedal for many hundreds of yards. They're absolutely dying and I'm breathing easy, and we're both moving the same speed, 3 miles per hour. As I said, I lack the mountain bike pride. I love wheels for their advantages, but I shrink away from their difficulties. I while I have gleaned enormous personal satisfaction from "cleaning" a "gnarly" move, at least 95 percent of the time, I am too timid to try. So my mountain bike technical skills have been extremely slow to develop.

(Photo stolen from Dave C.)

Since I do, honestly, enjoy mountain biking immensely, even downhill singletrack, I often wonder what my problem is. And then, eventually, I mess up even when I am well within my comfort zone, and I tumble over my bike and bash myself on things, and I lay in the dirt with all the rage of a hundred bully punches coursing through my veins, and then I realize, I remember — I hate crashing.

Even when I am not really all that hurt, as I usually am not. But yesterday, while riding with Dave Nice, Dave C., and my co-worker Casey, I was blissfully pedaling down a fairly mellow, off-camber trail along a side slope when my right pedal bashed flat smack into a boulder. The exact mechanics of the crash elude me, but my left pedal somehow took a big bite out of my shin before I tumbled sideways a few feet down the slope. (And while I do deserve criticism for continually using platform pedals whilst trying to develop my technical skills, I really do believe that if I had been riding clipless and hit the boulder with the same force, instead of bashing my shin on the pedal and tipping over into the brush, I would have taken a full header over the rocks.)

Either way, I was not badly injured, or even too hurt to jump right back on the bike and continue riding; but I was bleeding, and my shin ached with a deep-set bruise from bashing against a large metal object at high speed. It hurt with every single pedal stroke, and with every hurt, the doubt bit in. "You're terrible at this. Why do you bother? Mountain biking sucks. You really should take up trail running." That inner grumbling seems to color the entire rest of the ride, until even if the rest of it is perfectly fun, on a beautiful evening, with great riding partners, I can't quite pedal away the grump.

As we pedaled home last night, I admitted to Dave Nice what a big baby I really was. "I feel like one of those little kids whose friend just pulled her hair, so she gathers up all of her toys and storms home."

"Crashing is just part of riding," Dave said nonchalantly.

"I know," I sighed. "I know."

The question is, how do I embrace it?

Diary of a race volunteer

Dear Diary,

It's about 5 p.m. Friday afternoon, July 30. I am packing up my car for a trip to Bigfork, Montana, to volunteer for the Swan Crest 100. It’s the first 100-mile ultramarathon ever in the state of Montana, and I’m pretty excited to share even this tiny role in the impressive undertaking. This will be my first time participating on the volunteer side of a race. I admit I never really had a desire to serve as one of those long-suffering volunteers until the White Mountains 100 last March. I arrived at the mile 80 cabin half-frozen and completely shelled, and a race volunteer made a special cup of coffee just for me, and then gave me the rest of his own hot pasta dinner because they had run out of ramen. I never even got his name, but the gesture filled me with so much gratitude that I decided someday, somehow, I would pay it forward. Well, just last week I met Danni, who is one of four race directors for the Swan Crest 100. She told me she could use my help in the race. I’m not exactly sure what she wants me to do, but I am packing my mountain bike just in case I am lucky enough to get the job of riding sweep. :-)

6:14 p.m. Friday: Just passed Seeley Lake. Holy cow, this summer weekend traffic is terrible. But at least the drive is scenic. I’m pretty sure the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route paralleled this highway. I wish I could remember exactly where it was.

7:47 p.m. Finally arrived at the Jewel Basin checkpoint, mile 68. There are at least a dozen other volunteers here right now. Some are just drinking beer and building a fire in the shooting range field across the road and others are setting up a tent. It seems the supplies have not yet arrived. No runners through yet. The race began 12 hours ago, at 7 a.m.

8:23 p.m. Danni and I drove to the next checkpoint, Strawberry Lake, mile 74, which is on the private property of this awesome caretaker named Pete, who is a former Marine pilot and Vietnam vet. Pete is taking a sabbatical in the Montana wilderness to write a book about his life, and has been hugely generous with the Swan Crest 100. We loaded up Danni’s car with boxes of food and water to take back to Jewel Basin.

9:05 p.m. We set up Jewel Basin tables with lots of good stuff — brownies, cookies, Swedish Fish, grapes, crumbled bacon … I think there might be some Hammer Nutrition stuff thrown in, too. Rumor has it that the Swan Crest 100’s main opponent, Keith Hammer, is lurking around with a video camera and a clipboard, hiding in bushes and documenting the environmental misdeeds of the race. The guy fought this race venomously during its planning stages, threatening litigation and forcing the organizers to return all of the entry fees and hold the race on a donation-only basis, with no more than 75 participants and volunteers. His main argument was that these runners were going to disrupt grizzly bear “security zones” and cause other unspecified environmental damage. As far as affecting the land, I'm not sure if you can be much lower impact than a person traveling light and fast on foot, but whatever. Basically, Keith Hammer seems to think he owns the Swan Mountains and opposes anything resembling a commercial enterprise, as well as activities that don't fit into his paradigm of a good wilderness experience. I hope his troll-like lurking will reveal the truth about ultramarathons and the unique and incredible experience of pushing the limit of human endurance in a beautiful landscape.

11:30 p.m. The first runner just came into Jewel Basin! Dan Barger. I think he’s from California. He doesn’t even look winded yet.

12:45 a.m. Saturday: Back to Strawberry. I think Dan beat us here.

1:10 a.m. Starting to get really cold and hungry. I left all of my own gear at Jewel Basin. I felt bad about it but I ate some of the race food and wrapped up in one of the race blankets. I’ll give it back if a more deserving person stumbles in.

2:30 a.m. Two more runners in. We made hot chicken broth but one guy turned it down; he’s doing the whole thing on Hammer products. Rough. The runners look frazzled but I envy them. You can tell they’re deep in that special place where physical pain gives way to psychological elation.

3:15 a.m. Most of the other volunteers are taking catnaps. Danni and I are starting to fade, too. We’re giggling hysterically at pretty much everything. I feel like a 12-year-old girl at a back-yard sleepover party. Oh yeah, I ate a few more Swedish Fish. I’ll reimburse the race directors later.

4:00 a.m. The first woman just came in, a Czech woman named Eva. She actually started the race a half hour late because she unknowingly set her watch to the wrong time zone — Pacific instead of Mountain. She’s doing really well. I heated a bowl of ravioli for her and she was so giddy about it. It gave me a warm fuzzy feeling because I’ve been there before, or at least close to there, but I know when you’re there, nothing beats a bowl of steaming hot mush.

4:30 a.m. Danni and I just went back to check on Jewel Basin. Everyone was asleep except for one woman, Kim, who looked a little stressed.

5:02 a.m. We drove back to Kalispell to pick up Danni’s husband, Ted, who’s going to man the last checkpoint by himself. We’re hoping we beat the lead runner, Dan, to it, because right now there’s nothing there. We dropped off Ted with a camp chair, a few coolers of water, and a box of food. The wind is howling and the temperature is in the mid-40s. I hope Ted has a coat.

5:55 a.m. Just arrived at the race finish, a private campground outside Columbia Falls. The sun is coming up. Danni and I still have the giggles, but we’re asleep on our feet. Coffee does nothing. We’re going to take a nap.

Justin Yates finishes in third place after 27 hours.

8:23 a.m. I woke up and Danni was gone. This huge thunderstorm just blew in —heavy rain and lightning. I stumbled outside and the other race directors were there. Brad, the main race director, informed me that my job is to now accompany him around town on errands for the after-race party. I think longingly about my mountain bike back at Jewel Basin and wish I could ride it on the race course, but I’ve already accepted that my job is race director lackey. It is not a bad job.

12:11 p.m. Brad and I just ran around all over Northern Montana picking up coolers, paper towels, a keg, 45 pounds of elk steak, 12 bags of spinach and romaine lettuce, salad fixings, a big garbage can for the keg, 50 pounds of ice, cups, plates, forks, 10 gallons of ice cream and dry ice. Now we’re at a little coffee shop in Whitefish waiting for an order of crepes. I realize that except for the little bit of race food that I stole, this will be my first meal since lunch, 24 hours before. Brad informs me he’s been awake for more than 48 hours. His face is pale and he has that crazy-eye thing going on. We both ramble on and on in a mutual stream-of-consciousness full of silly nonsequitors; it’s OK, because neither of us is going to remember this conversation in a few hours.

2:45 p.m. Brad just dropped me off so I could pick up my car. Driving behind him, I see his truck is moving a little wobbly on the gravel road. We both roll down our windows and wave at each other, mutually confirming the other's consciousness.

4:03 p.m. Back at the finish. Grill is going, and there’s not much left to do until clean-up time. There’s only about a dozen runners in, and we’re 33 hours into the race and three hours from the race cut-off. This is a hard race; I think harder than anyone realized, even Brad.

5:06 p.m. Had a chance to chat with a lot of the runners. Several had just finished their first 100-mile attempt. Some had jumped right up from marathons or 50K runs. Their sense of accomplishment shines through their frazzled, stiff-legged demeanor, and it’s inspiring. They’ve all taken off their shoes, and I want to stay far away from those.

5:54 p.m. This cute Swiss runner, Beat Jehgerlehner, just finished. He still looks strong and smiley, and he’s already using up valuable energy to goad me into running the Swan Crest 100 next year. And the strange thing is, I kinda want to. I've never run a foot race longer than eight miles. I considered with great interest and seriousness how long the buildup to 100 miles would really take.

Brad and Zella deflate together at the end of two very long days.

7:01 p.m. The official race cut-off just passed. All of the finishers made it in with 20 minutes to spare. Twenty people out of 44 finished, including three women. All in all, the 101-ish-mile race had at least 23,000 feet of climbing, long wilderness stretches without resupply or bailouts and, according to the runners, a ton of blown-down trees over a rough and technical trail. Dan won the race in 24:34:00. Eva won the women’s race in 28:03:00. A huge wave of relief just washed over Danni’s face, because Montana’s first 100-mile ultramarathon ended without a big incident. A few people got lost for a little while, but everyone has been accounted for. No grizzly bears were harmed in the race, but one canister of bear mace was discharged accidentally near a checkpoint. That would probably explain why my nose has been burning like crazy all morning.

7:54 p.m. Brad just gave the big congratulatory speech. I’ve only seen the shiny surface of the big, dirty endeavor that encompasses planning a race, and even I feel a little like I’ve been run over by a truck. I can only imagine how hard these people have worked over the past many months, but I admire them. It really is a cool thing, and I am proud to have had a small role in it.