Eastern Sierra Double Century Craptacular Conclusion

"You descend like a man!"

"Um, thanks?" I said to a newfound cycling partner--a Berkeley-educated engineer whom Robyn and I had swallowed up on our way up the mother f'in final climb.

The 7-mile out-and-back had no official ending, and none of us had cycling computers. We thought we had reached the top, so we put on our jackets, peed behind rocks, and got ready to descend when a few cyclists came by shouting, "Only 200 meters to go! Turn around at the car!"

Are you kidding me?...at least I didn't moon them.

Turns out the magical turn-around car was Laree. Coachubby had climbed up on some rocks to cheer, but we hardly paused. We shouted "bye!" to him and began the final stretch to the end of the evil.

Where did everyone behind us turn around after coachubby jumped in the car to greet us at the final rest stop? We'll never know--the final mileage of the whole day was very approximate.

(Laree and I at the turn-around, as seen by coachubby.)

(On a completely unrelated note, somebody has been playing the same Seal album all day long, over and over again, while building a house next door. I liked Seal. Until now. If the Seal-loving construction worker had waited until evening for his Seal extravaganza, everyone in my building could've used it to romance their special someones. Seal will never be sexy again.)

Robyn and I turned onto Highway 6 to grind out the final 36 miles back to Bishop. We still had faith that we'd make it back before dark. Robyn took off. I tried to let that massive headwind that was now a tail wind blow me all the way back without pedaling, but a funny thing happened: the wind died down.

No. Freakin'. Way.

Can't a girl get a break? At this point, I concluded that absolutely nothing about this ride was "fun". N-o-t-h-i-n-g. And as I mentioned before, I don't have a bike computer, but I do have eyes and I watched the mile markers on the side of the road count back down from 36 to 0. Very slowly. I counted every one as I rode by. For hours. 4 miles to go was the most painful 4 miles I have ever ridden.

I arrived back at home-base to little fanfare. A few people sat in lounge chairs at the entrance to a motel, leftover pretzels were strewn across the table, and a 3 Snickers bars sat in a large box, staring at me.

"Name?" someone asked.
"Erin."
"Yeah. You made it."
"Right. Thanks."

Then I did something I didn't think was within my capabilities. I changed into new cycling clothes in the parking lot, mounted a bike light, and began to ride out the first 30 miles of the course again.

That's right. 60 more miles to go. I had an 18 hour ride on my training schedule, and figured I'd only spent 13.5 of the last 15.5 actually riding my bike. I left the hotel at 9pm with coachubby following and Laree lighting my way on back country roads.

In my delirium, I saw (and no, these weren't hallucinations), in this order, a skunk, a mouse, tons of suicide rabbits, a giant spider, lots of beetles, cows, and a raccoon.

And a cop.

At midnight, I turned onto the 395 15 miles south of Bishop. I watched a cop flip a u-turn and knew he was coming for me.

Oh crap, what'd I do wrong? Am I not allowed to be riding out here?

He stepped out of his car. When he spoke, I realized he thought I was the absolute last person in the day's ride. Like I was a poor, lonely rider who just wouldn't give up. Which was partially true, but he really thought I was getting my arse kicked. He felt sorry for me.

"You need anything? Some water?" he asked.
"No, I'm alright. Thank you!" I croaked. How about an inhaler?

I had made an important, life-altering discovery about an hour earlier: I couldn't breathe. Maybe it was all of the cold air I had shoved into my lungs all morning, or the ridiculous amount of breathing I had done all day, but my lungs weren't having it. I felt like I was breathing through a straw. And my exhale made me seriously believe that someone with squeaky brakes was following coachubby and me. But no, it was just me wheezing. Like a smoker.

Due to my diminished air capacity, I pedaled for approximately 10 revolutions then coasted as long as I could to try to suck in enough air to keep on going. For miles and miles. Poor coachubby.

I could see the stoplight in Bishop for EVER. I thought I was so close,then I'd ride for 10 minutes, and it wouldn't get any closer. Pure evil.

I finally knocked on the hotel door at 1:45am. I was done. Did it. Couldn't breathe. Totally disgusting. And Robyn was still awake!

I wish I could say I passed out and slept for an eternity, but I couldn't sleep; I hurt too much. And you know, the breathing thing.

And so now, we draw several conclusions about the day's ride:
1. There is absolutely no way in hell the original route could've been as bad. Seriously.
2. Mr. Toyota Tacoma has since been renamed Mr. Woodcock; Robyn and I should be happy he didn't let us give up on ourselves...But he's still an a-hole.
3. If race directors know the race is going to be cold, have soup and heat at the aid stations. Duh.
4. Porta-potties at the aid stations would've been nice, too. I know the route was redone at the last minute, which was the excuse for having none, but the final aid station was along the original route, and there was no porta potty there, either. I felt like somebody took my $120 and ran.
5. If you ever plan on doing a Planet Ultra double, and the weather's looking nasty, but you're still going (don't ask me why), get a GSM satellite phone and someone to be your personal SAG.
PU doesn't like taking responsibility for much when ice hits the road.

Another similarly-priced option in the same area with way more swag (free race photo, tons of aid stations, race t-shirt, etc...) is the Everest Challenge. I've never done it, but it looks sweet.

There was one fun, good thing that came out of the death ride that was the Eastern Sierra Double Century '09.

And it's coming tomorrow...

Ride on, homies!