Eastern Sierra Double Century Craptacular #2

"Maybe we should try to ride down," said Robyn.
"Ok, you're right."
We stood up. The wind blew against our frozen, wet legs.
We resumed the fetal position in the ditch.

"Maybe we should try to walk down," said Robyn.
"Ok, you're right."
We stood up. The wind blew against our frozen, wet legs.
We resumed the fetal position in the ditch.

"Ok, we're going to make it down, then it's over," I said. "There has to be a van at the turn around. Let's do it."

We stood up, slowly mounted our bikes, and inched down the rest of the mountain into the valley below. (Eureka Valley?)

Lo and behold, a van was there. As were a few other people, food, and the greatest sight of all: a tiny gas-powered camping heater in the back of the van. Robyn and I made this our permanent residence for another half an hour.

Then another angelic sight: the official giant SAG van. Its bike racks were full, and its interior was full of people. I poked my head inside to see if it was warm. It was. So lovely and warm. And in doing so, I spotted a friend in the front seat.

"We've got room for one more," the SAG driver said.

"Go Robyn," I said, "You've got your whole life ahead of you. Get out of this evil valley and live like you've never lived before!" (Or something like that.)

"You're not going?"

"I'm going to kick this mountain's ass!"

"Then I'm coming with you!"

And so it was. We had warmed up just enough to begin climbing again, and judging by the clouds, it seemed like we might just make it up and over without getting rained on.

We tapped into newfound pissedofficity to fuel the cycling fire; we had just seen Mr. Toyota Tacoma quad cab drive by--with 2 other cyclists' bikes on top, and cyclists inside his truck. HOW RUDE!

The aid station began packing up. We had stayed so long, everyone else who was trying to soldier on had come and gone. It was time to face the beast.

Slowly I turned my crank...pedal stroke by pedal stroke...inch by inch...

We began to pick off a few people here and there and after a few hours, we were back on top of the mountain that just 4 short hours ago tried to claim our lives. Only there was no evidence of its previous homicidal efforts--it was sunny out, the roads were dry. It wasn't warm, but it wasn't bum-numbingly cold, either.

Then, halfway down the descent, another angelic vision appeared: Laree! With Coachubby at the wheel! He'd come to save us after all!

After relating the horrors of our morning, we instructed coachubby to meet us at the lunch stop at approximately mile 100, then proceeded down the rest of the mountain, straight into a relentless head wind.
(Robyn and I at lunch.)
We reached mile 100, which, cruelly, was the start and end of the ride as well, at 2:15pm. We had started the ride at 5am. It had taken us almost 9 and a half hours to ride one hundred miles--a new slow-poke record if there ever were one.

We still had hope that we'd finish before sundown and took off north along the 6, which was supposedly a relatively tame stretch of road.

It's ironic that my gmail just decided I should read an article entitled, "Winds Losing Umph in US." That is ridiculous BS. Either that, or all of the winds in the US abandoned their usual haunting grounds to blow in my face for 36 miles straight on Saturday afternoon.

I figured we had about 5-6 hours left. Then it took me an hour to go 10 miles. It was going to take me freaking four hours just to get to the next rest stop 36 miles away!

I stopped to eat a PowerBar. It began to rain again.

I wanted to cry.

Then, another spectacular sight: a tandem, with the rear rider signaling to latch onto its draft! I was saved! (Robyn had put her head down and blasted off toward the begining of the wind tunnel of evil.)

For 20 miles, they pulled me--and eventually Robyn and a whole slew of other people.

Then, when the front rider signaled for me to take a pull, I obliged. But when I downshifted out of my big ring on an uphill and subsequently slowed down, I heard the sound no cyclist ever likes to hear: metal on pavement.

The tandem had eaten it. Was it my fault? What happened? What is proper ettiquete in this situation? They had pulled me and Robyn so far...but when another woman rode by and said the tandem had messed up its handlebars, we knew there was nothing we could do to help, and kept going at it alone.

(Robyn and I coming into the final rest stop.)
At the rest stop, we only had a 7 mile out and back, then we'd have a killer tail wind all the way home!

But the man at the rest stop had some sobering news: the 7 mile out and back was a climb...a 7% climb for the last 3 miles of it.

O. M. F. G.

Coming soon...the actual conclusion to the Eastern Sierra Double Century Craptacular!

The Eastern Sierra Double Century Craptacular!

A scale of awesomeness must be applied to double century rides. So here it is:

The Scale of Double Century Awesomeness
The scale goes from 0
(0=ridiculously awesome. Beautiful weather. Great aid stations à la Heartbreak Double '09.)
to
the EASTERN SIERRA DOUBLE CENTURY '09.
(We'll make that approximately 11. This scale goes to 11.)

Apparently, upon receiving an email from the Planet Ultra Embassy, explaining that the original course was due for rain and highs in the 30s in some places, 51 of 227 people didn't even start.

They were the smartest ones.

At the last minute, Planet Ultra changed the course to ride East toward Death Valley instead of West into the mountains, in a misguided effort to evade horrific weather.

So off Robyn and I went, with 176 other people, confident we would not be led to our deaths by Planet Ultra. They care, right? RIGHT?


The first 25 miles went by quickly. Then we turned onto Death Valley Road.

It began to rain as we began to climb. Not hard rain. Just sprinkly rain. So we kept climbing and climbing and climbing as it got colder and colder and colder. Then, not only did my sweat turn to ice, so did the rain. Near the top, it began to hail, sleet, and do other ungodly things the weather only does in Discovery's "Deadliest Catch". Except we were in the desert. And my legs, hands, feet, face, and head weren't waterproof.

After somewhere around 12.5 miles of climbing came a descent. A huge descent. I have never not wanted to descend so much in my life. It was pouring freezing rain. My feet were soaked, my legs were soaked, the roads were soaked. And somehow, it seemed, I was going the wrong way--even though there was only one road; everyone who had been climbing in my vicinity had vanished. Nobody was coming down behind me.

Strange, I thought. They're taking their sweet time putting on rain jackets!

A few miles down, I lost all control over hand function and had to pull over for a good 20 minutes to swing my arms like a windmill to get the blood back into my fingers. Bear Grylls taught me that trick. Although it is somewhat intuitive...

I figured someone had to be at the turnaround. There had to be an aid station. If I could make it down this approximately 12.5 mile downhill, I'd be rescued.

Then I came around a corner and Robyn was standing to the side of the road. (As usual, she kicked my bum up the climb and was way ahead.)

"I'm so cold!" she lamented.
"Me too!"

We decided we didn't want to descend any more, so we moved our bikes closer to the mountain and huddled in the fetal position in a ditch on the side of the road. SAG would have to come by at some time, right? We'd seen the van before a few times on the climb.

A few dudes rode by going back up. "Been there!" said one. A trickle of people came down the other way. We stayed huddled. The van would come. The van would come. Those big boys had way more insulation than we did. That's why they could keep going. We are not wusses. Right? RIGHT?

Then, a vision: a 4-door Toyota Tacoma with an empty bike rack on top. WE WERE SAVED!

He slowed and rolled down his window.

"Are you OK?"
"Um...."
"Are you cold?"
Duh! "YES!"
"You know, you'll get warmer if you head back up. It's warmer on the bottom of the other side."
He rolled up his window and drove away.

WTF!?

Robyn and I were going to cry. We both ripped out our cell phones, hoping coachubby would be done with his long run and could come rescue us...even though he had no idea where the new course route went.

"No signal!" lamented Robyn.
"Me neither!"

Bring on the tears--the almost tears from the realization that although we weren't the only people out in this freezing desert, we might just die there anyway. And it'd be all Toyota Tacoma's fault.

Stay tuned for the chilling conclusion of today's EASTERN SIERRA DOUBLE CENTURY CRAPTACULAR!

The $17,000 Triathlon--XTERRA Deuces Wild

The drive up the 60 from Phoenix to Show Low is supposed to be spectacularly scenic. I wouldn't know. Every marked scenic overlook looked into a dark abyss.

Coachubby and I did, however, see several deer. I hoped they weren't suicidal--Laree did not need any body damage in his first 24-hours in our hands.

We arrived at the KC Motel at 12:30am on Sunday. I was pleasantly suprised at how nice it was. I pictured a cold dumpy place, not a quaint place to stay filled with fellow Xterra people.

I passed out, only to be awakened at 5:15am. Time to race! I seriously contemplated sleeping through it, but coachubby would have none of that.
(Coachubby's self portrait.)
We sunscreened up, picked up our packets, and joined the other 150+ people getting ready to race. I finally saw Xterra 29er and his wife, my favorite fellow Xterra people with whom we were going to spend the weekend.

And thus God's 2nd Goal of the weekend for Erin (GoGoFoE#2) manifested itself: I can pull together a decent race on 4 hours of sleep.

I sprinted out of the swim start. I don't know why. But I never dreamed I'd actually be the first person in the swim, therefore I'd never bothered to look at the buoy placement, and had no idea where to go. After I settled into a comfortable pace, a few other women overtook me and my glorious start was put to an end. That's what I get for having a sprint-swim background.

One of these women had pink feet. I kid you not. She taped them or something, thereby making them very recognizable and easy to follow. I followed her right out of the water, then had the luck of getting a better wetsuit stripper (hell yes, wetsuit strippers! Love them!) And dashed into transition only to take a small eternity trying to get my gloves over my wet hands.

Then out onto the bike. I haven't mountain biked since the Xterra West Cup, and Qeee was ready to go. Then we hit something we'd never encountered before: mud. Tons of mud. Qeee was ecstatic; now she actually had a reason for being outfitted with fancy schmancy disc brakes.














At one point, I had to stop to clear the mud out of her vital organs. The back wheel was hardly spinning. Apparently, Xterra 29er had the same problem, only he's a better mountain bike racer and didn't want to take the time to stop...so he wound up breaking a chain and bending his deraileur into his back wheel, and running the last 2.5 miles.


















I was happy to see him run out of transition while I was biking in.
"I'm coming to get you!" I shouted. I had no idea he'd already been running forever. With a bike. And an old-man back.

The run course was fun, and the "Eliminator" was a cute little hill that was actually labeled so you'd know it was the "Eliminator". There was a "mini eliminator" as well, but I'm not sure where.

Coming into the final miles, I heard water moving, and wondered who on earth wanted to jump back into the freezing lake to rinse off. Then I realized nobody wanted to--we had to run across a damed up part of the lake.

So much for new shoes.

A girl my age was running just behind me with another woman. I know because I passed her pretty early on, then heard them talking to each other for the rest of the race. I tried to keep them off of me, but the mystery woman was dead set on helping the 28-year old keep pace with me. I knew she'd go for it at some point, and knew my quads wouldn't be able to lift my soaked shoes to stay with her (shoes that were a gazillion lbs heavier with soaked massive arch supports...can I get a woot woot from my flat-footed friends?!)

The other woman led her out and at about 1/4 mile to go, she made her move. My legs didn't. Goodness only knows what would've happened had I raced the half the day before. I don't know if "running" would have been the word for my movement on the third segment of the Xterra race.

Then, just before the finish, the lady running with the 28-year old in my age group peeled off, saying she wasn't in the race, and the 28-year old crossed the finish line.

SHE USED A PACER!? I'm pretty sure using a pacer who's not in the race is illegal--in any triathlon. Quite unsportsmanlike. FOR SHAME!

In the end, coachubby and I managed to nab 2nd in our respective age groups (actually 3rd for me. You gotta count the girl who got 5th overall. The race organizers took the top 5 overall out of the age group awards...)

We scarfed down a post race bbq--delicious--of pulled chicken/pork on a bun, cole slaw, beans, chips, and soda, while attending the awards ceremony. Then it took 20 minutes to clean off Qeee and Coachubby's mountain bike (kudos to him for kicking ass with v-brakes!), load 'em up, and off we went...

In the wrong direction!

When I saw a sign that said New Mexico was 43 miles away, I knew something was wrong. We had driven 25 miles in the wrong direction right off the bat, and had to return to Show Low to try again.

We were trying to drive through Flagstaff back to LA.

Once we got the hang of it, Laree transported us smoothly across the state border. And after a low-blood sugar freak out that could not be sated by any McDonalds (they are all closed inside after 11pm and we couldn't drive through with coachubby's tri bike on top. A Pilot Wendy's frosty did the trick.) we pulled into LA just minutes before midnight, with cool little race award plaques, dirty bikes, sore quads, sunburns, and a new car.

In conclusion, an approximation of our trip:

Race fees + hotel: $700
New Car + Uhaul + rental car + repair diagnostics + gas: $16300
Racing XTERRA in Show Low: Priceless

There are some things money can't buy. For everything else, there's coachubby's credit card. And a learned ability to not hurl from internally freaking out at unexpected life events.


The things we do to race 2.5 hours at an Xterra event...

The $17,000 Triathlon--Deuces Wild Part Deuce

"What condition is the Blazer in?"
My mom, dad, and I shot our eyes at coachubby.
"Uh, he runs a little rough--but he's 9 years old, so..."

We had spent the entire morning putting the Blizzay Wizzay back together, returning the UHaul, and test driving horribly wussy American crossovers and terribly girly-looking Japanese crossovers.

After the Chevy salesman tried to sell us a car that was already sold, then tried to have us test drive a car that had a dead battery, we left for lunch. Chevy is running a little rough. All of Chevy, not just the old Blazer.

After deciding Toyota's crossover options were not competitively priced, or particularly manly enough for coachubby, I suggested we go to a Jeep dealership. They're all closing--they'd give us a car!

Our salesman was friendly. He knew nothing about the cars, but that was to be expected after he explained that he was actually a laid off civil engineer. I'm guessing he didn't build cars.

When coachubby laid his eyes on a kakhi green 2006 Grand Cherokee, I knew any efforts of mine to have our next car be infinitely more fuel efficient than the Blizzay were shot. Turns out, after all of that looking, coachubby wanted a mantruck afterall.

The salesman was visibly relieved when I had finished the second half of a footlong sub, and was no longer dangerously dangling sweet onion sauce over his clean cars. It was time to make a deal.

Coachubby offered $4000 below asking price. They came back at $2000 below.

We drove away to think about it.

Half way home, a phone call came. They'd do $4000 below, everything included (taxes, etc...) out the door, if we came back right now with the Blizzay as a trade in.

SWEET!

We rushed home and prayed the Blizzay would fire up. It had that morning. All it had left to do in its entire life was go 7 more miles. What's 7 more when you've already gone 155,000?

After a quick charge, coachubby and I jumped in for one last Blizzay ride, followed by my parents.

2 miles into the ride, the Blizzay died. Completely. We rolled off of Scottsdale road into a parking lot in front of a Mexican home furnishings store. We had to roll the car back and forth to fit it into a spot.

DAMN IT!

Jimmy called the dealer.
"So, what if the Blazer doesn't run?"
Our salesman consulted with his boss.
"Deal's off!"
"OK, so I should just have it towed home, then. OK, bye."
"They'll call you back," I said. I felt it. They needed the sale.

We called AAA, thereby using up the 3rd and 4th calls allowed this year in 2 days. They'd come in an hour. It was 102 degrees outside, so naturally, coachubby and I went to Dairy Queen.

While we were walking back from Dairy Queen, the phone rang.

"OK, here's the deal," said the salesman, "If the Blazer doesn't run, it's $1000 more. If it does, same deal's on."

It was like playing Russian roulette with a blue heap of metal. Whenever the Blizzay cooled down a bit, it would start. We ran over to the Blizzay.

Rrrrrr...Rrrrrr...RRVRroooom! He started! Praise the Lord! We'd tow him to the dealer so as not to squelch his juice, then start him up, then drive off the lot in a beautiful, new(ish) Jeep!

AAA arrived in the form of a beefcakey bald guy about 30 years old with a major 'tude.

Where you towin' it?
To the Jeep dealer, I said. It's gotta run when we get there, so don't start it now!
What's wrong with it?
It's dead.
Then how's it gonna run when you get there?
We're trading it in. If it runs, we make the deal. If it doesn't, we don't. So don't start it up!
I don't know if I can do this.
Do what?
We don't tow to dealers. I'm not going to tow it if its not getting repaired.
OK, then we're towing it to the dealer to get it repaired.
No, you're not.
What do you care?

Bald AAAss rolled up his window to call it in to AAA headquarters. Without a word, he took coachubby's key, stuck it in the ignition, rolled the Blizzay onto the bed, then drove like a madman to the Jeep dealership. The day before, the Blythe AAA guy gave coachubby his car keys back. Bald AAAss was draining the Blizzay of his final life force, and coachubby hadn't thought about it.

My parents and I followed.

The Blizzay, Coachubby, and the salesman disappeared into the back lot. WHAT WAS GOING ON!? Would he start? Could the Blizzay give us one final hurrah to prove he was worth $1000 extra than he would be dead? Oh please, oh please.

Coachubby walked out of the back. We all stared at him.

Didn't start.
(Final photo with the Blizzay.)
I knew exactly why. I wanted to sell AAA man to medical research and demand $1000 for his body.

It was 7pm. In the end, we got $1200 for the Blizzay, but it wouldn't live indefinitely in my mom's front yard, which she was happy about, and we'd be rid of it for good. Even at $1000 more, the low-mileage, 1-owner leased Jeep was a fab deal. It felt strange to drive it off of the lot after 2 days straight of AAA, waiting in the heat, and dirty Blizzay issues. It was so beautiful. So shiny. So dent and stain free.

I called him Laree. (Pronounced Larry.)


We ate dinner with my parents, then loaded up Laree, stuck the bike rack on top, and headed off into the night to drive to Show Low. There was no way we were missing XTERRA now. Even after such a mentally, financially, and physically exhausting 2 days. That's the reason we started this adventure.

We had to finish it.

TO BE CONTINUED! STAY TUNED FOR THE FINAL CONCLUSION THIS AFTERNOON!

The $17,000 Triathlon--Deuces Wild Triathlon Festival

"When's Jimmy going to buy a new car?" my dad asked Thursday night.
"I don't know. When we've saved up enough when I'm done with school. Like in a year--it has to last one more year. That's it." I said.
"It's going to stop running pretty soon."
"Thanks for your faith in the Blizzay Wizzay, padre. It's gone this far, I think we can get one more year out of it."

***

There is nothing 25 miles West of Blythe, CA. It is a hot desert, with bushes so sparse, they can't be used for shade, nor to hide your bum from mooning passers by on the I-10 when you have to pee. I know. I sat out there for an hour Friday. And I really had to pee.

Coachubby had been filling his coolant up regularly lately, as it seemed to keep disappearing. Sparky, my car, had had the same problem. However Sparky was incontinent, and his mess always appeared wherever he was left alone for a little while. The Blizzay Wizzay seemed to be more of a coolant gourmande.

Had we been people, like, say, my brother or dad, who listen to their cars instead of driving them into the ground, we might've thought twice about taking the Blizzay Wizzay across the desert with such a coolant binge disorder.

So when the engine started overheating around Palm Springs, we dumped more water into the coolant tank, and kept on keeping on. Almost all the way to Blythe.

When the Blizzay died 25 miles West of Blythe, we knew we had to do something to keep him going a little farther--basic AAA only covers 7 miles of towing.

5 different cops hung out on a freeway on-ramp with us, waiting for a call from an airplane I couldn't see so they could take down some highly unsuspecting speeders. After letting the Blizzay Wizzay cool down a bit, he fired up again, and we used the on-ramp's downward momentum to try to get closer to Blythe so we could save a buck. Or $100. We certainly weren't worried about being busted for speeding. Impeding traffic? Yes.

The Blizzay finally started to clank and rolled to a stop next to a call box. It might've been just about 7 miles from Blythe.

Two chatty AAA tow truck operators came to rescue us, telling us how it was nice that we stood to the side, because some dumb stranded people stand directly behind their cars while the car is being loaded onto the pickup bed and the operators don't trust the hydraulics and the car could roll back at any time and have you ever seen the Darwin Awards? because that would be a stupid way to die and man it's freakin' hot I want a milkshake what's wrong with your car?

I realized later that God had three goals for me this past weekend. This was the first of God's Goals for Erin (GoGoFoE):

1. To get me to stop calling Blythe, CA, "the Devil's Ball Sack", by proving friendly people live there.

After an $85 diagnostic check, Shain, a skinny, grease-covered mechanic about my age, told us it was bad.
How bad?
The Blizzay needed a new engine. There was coolant in the oil. The engine block was cracked.
How much?
$3500.
How much is the Blizzay worth?
$2500.
Right... Can we rent a UHaul and haul the junker to my parents' front yard in Phoenix?
No UHauls left.
What do we do?
There are UHauls in Quartzite.














We rented a Kia Minivan--available only for 2 hours that afternoon--to drive 20 miles East to Quartzite, pick up a giant UHaul, drive it and the minivan back to Blythe, pick up a tow dolly, strap on the Blizzay (but only after paying another $25 to have Shain take apart its drive train, since it's a rear-wheel drive truck, and we didn't want to destroy the drive train...I don't know why it mattered, really), and start driving the 150 miles to Phoenix at 55mph.

The late-afternoon Kia renters passed us 10 miles into our trip.

We got to Phoenix at 7pm. We had left LA at 6am. There was no way we were driving (and in what would we drive?) another 3.5 hours to Show Low. Poof! There went 2 half-ironman entry fees, and a hotel reservation.

After filling up on mom's good cooking, we passed out hard. Just as hard as if we had raced on Friday.

There was no way we were going to miss the Xterra race, too. We needed a car and needed it now.

TO BE CONTINUED!