California Triple Crown Results Are Up!

If you somehow ended up riding 3+ Planet Ultra double centuries this year, you have become a Cal Triple Crown Winner! Woo hoo!

Check out your stats here.

Then figure out how many more doubles you have to do before you've done them all.

There's always another mountain to climb.

A big congratulations to Robyn Dunn, who did three doubles with me to help me train for RAO, and although she kicked my butt in every one of them, crewed for me at RAO instead of kicking my butt there as well. Thank you, Robyn!

Eastern Sierra Double Century--No Guts No Glory

Sometimes the greatest good comes from the worst evil.
(Photo taken of Joan Grant by Mike Deitchman at Eastern Sierra '09. For more awesome photos by Mike, click here.)

Case in point: The Eastern Sierra Double Century '09. Yes, it sucked to be out there. No doubt. But did it really suck suck?

No. In fact, it was actually quite awesome.

WHA? you're thinking, You don't make any sense, nutso! I just read 3 days of your biotching about the event.
It would appear that you're correct. But I'm a girl, so I'm allowed to make no sense and contradict myself, right?

If the ESD had, in fact, been pleasant, I wouldn't have learned anything about myself that would further my confidence in my training for Race Across Oregon. (Crossing my fingers RAO will be warm!)

Like that I don't give up that easily. (As long as nobody gives me the option. I hope you're reading this, RAO crew.)

Or that I love being outside, getting dirty, with my friends--even if it is in a ditch on the side of a road. How many friends have you, grown men and women, huddled in a ditch with in the middle of nowhere lately? It's quite a bonding experience. And it reemphasized the importance of friendship in life--above all else, really.

So, along that vein, I have to thank ESD for being so evil, because in its evil, it gave me a better understanding of myself, and of my capabilities. But most of all, it brought me closer to my old friends, and allowed me to make some totally awesome new ones.

Joan Grant, ultracyclist extraordinaire, suggested I do ESD in the first place. I was excited to go just to get to meet her in person, as I had already adopted her as my ultra mentor (whether she knew it or not), and to meet her equally ultra crazy boyfriend, Mike.

Seeing Joan out there on the course was inspiring. (FYI, she was whooping me, but I got to see her because of the out-and-backs.) She was riding alone, and seemed to ride through the rain like it was just a minor annoyance. Same goes for the wind. As I huddled behind a tandem, Joan refused to draft off of anybody, and wound up dragging a long line of emasculated men behind her.

Mike was the world's best adopted crew member to Robyn and me when we arrived at lunch, filling up our water bottles and asking how we were doing.

Coachubby drove around all day, cheering for us and taking pictures.

Ultracycling's a neat-o thing to do, because it's simultaneously all about you, and all about your crew and friends. Without them, ultracycling would seem lonely, selfish, and pointless. Without you, they'd, um, probably be enjoying a hot tub and some margaritas instead of driving 10 mph behind you at 1am trying to stay awake.

Everyone's efforts were sweetly rewarded the next day, when we met Joan, Mike, and two of their ultra friends at the best bakery I've visited since living in Paris--in Bishop! (Who'da thunk?)

As we sat out on the patio, taking in the warm, sunny day that was Sunday, exchanging horror stories from the day before, and from rides before that, I was supremely happy. And wheezy and in pain. But happy.

We followed Joan and Mike up to a bathtub-like hotspring and enjoyed more time in each other's company, soaking in the hot water and the scenery.


The hot tub, the bakery sweets, and the warm sun would never have seemed as heavenly had they not been contrasted against the freezing, PowerBar-ed, rainy day before.

And so, like a cruel lover, ESD was both the most evil, sadistic thing I've ever encountered, but also the most rewarding.

And what's even cooler? Joan will be riding at RAO as well.

Bring it!

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!

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 Heartbreak Double Century--Have You Thanked Your Lungs Today?

Most cyclists like to give thanks to their quads and bum for getting them through 15,000+ feet of climbing in 200 miles of straight riding.

I propose we give these body parts their due respect, but not at the expense of an even more important, often overlooked participant in these types of ultra excursions: the lungs. (OK, and the heart, in unison.)

Upon completing the Planet Ultra Heartbreak Double Century this past Saturday, Coachubby, Robyn and I sounded like chronic smokers. Our lungs had had it with us, and wanted a break. But with no inhalers, and no way to massage the little airbags, they had to continue their air-transfer duties while inflamed and fatigued.

Whoda thunk a non-asthmatic athlete could reach a point where her lungs began to rebel? Breathing too much is not something most people worry about...unless they're SCUBA diving.

But our lungs were happy to make the sacrifice to allow the rest of our bodies to ride 200 mmiles of peaceful, beautiful, rolling back country roads with clean air, little traffic, and the most blessedly perfect weather a cyclist could ask for.

Unlike riding on PCH in LA, which induces heart palpitations every few minutes when some arrogant psycho in a Hummer drives into the shoulder, there was only one heart-stopping shoulder intruder on this ride: a ginormous rattle snake.

Thankfully he made his suicidal appearance on a big downhill, so his presence was felt for only a second as we descended right by at 20+ mph.

Well-spaced, well-stocked aid stations with friendly volunteers were also much appreciated. However this event is run in conjunction with the Heartbreak century ride, which starts from the double's 50-mile aid station and ends at the same place, 150 miles into the double (the course is like a lolly pop with the Heartbreak hundred as the sucker part, and the extra 100 as the stem.)

When we arrived back at the hundred's home base, the century riders had consumed all of the coke. Coachubby, upon realizing this travesty, literally looked like someone had punched him in the gut and told him his bike was ugly.

Thankfully the last aid station had the most spunky, helpful volunteers I've ever seen at an aid station in any race-- Nancy Baisch and Karla Johnston--who literally ran out from behind their table of goodies to grab our water bottles and fill them with whatever we wanted.

Coachubby chose Mountain Dew.

In an effort to give my heart and kidneys somewhat of a break, I attempted to not use any caffeine or Advil for the entire ride, but caved at 30 miles left, eating a beloved Chocolate Mint Gu and downing 2 Advil--my big toes felt like they were severing themselves off.

Robyn, ever the climber and amazing ultracyclist, forged ahead after I told her at mile 50, where she'd been waiting for my slow bum for quite a while, not to let me hold her back any more. Coachubby, on the other hand, is married to me. He had to stick by my side.

We triumphantly rolled in just after 8pm, just at the end of twilight, successfully riding without the need for any serious lighting, save for a blinky and a mini head light.

Robyn whooped us by a good 40 minutes.

I highly recommend this double to anyone considering one. Don't let the "15,000 feet of elevation gain!" make you think it's impossible. I'll gladly trade the stress of traffic and urban riding for hilly, barely trafficked terrain. It's also nice to change up your position going up and down. Our first double, Camino Real in Irvine, led us down the freaking 5 freeway and was relatively flat for very long, painful stretches. Palmdale is just as easy to get to from Los Angeles, as long as you don't leave on the Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend.

Do the Heartbreak Double Century! Just be prepared to be yelled at if you drop off your bike light for the race directors to take to the 150 mile point, then don't pick it up because you're making good time. They haven't figured out how to get it back to you politely.

And don't get lost. They're not too keen on coming to find you either, even if your wife calls them while she's desperately searching for you.

Ride on!

P.S. And if you're really crazy, you'll jump back on your bike for another hilly 100 miles the next day, then remain unable to move for two more days...and counting.

The Camino Real Double Century 2009

Disclaimer: If you are a crotch, the following recap of participating in an ultracycing event may offend you, as crotch abuse is rampant in this story. Read on at your own discretion.

Just like a true ultramarathon starts at 50 miles, a true ultracycling event starts at 200. Therefore, in my quest to become an ultra cyclist (and in the future, an approximately ultra ultra + 3/4 ultra cyclist), coachubby, Robyn, and I set out at 6:20 am this past Saturday to rightfully earn the ultra title.

Although no sleep-deprivation training had been planned for months, I unintentionally started this masochistic technique on Saturday morning, beginning the ride on what I'll guestimate to be 4.5 hours of sleep.

At twilight, a group of riders gathered under the very overhang that coachubby had whacked with his bike seat the night before, when he drove under it with the bike on top of his car. (see reenactment, left)

Immediately, I had a few observations about the type of crowd drawn to these events:

1. Ultracyclists are generally way older than I am.
2. Ultracyclists have no sense of humor at 6:15am (...or throughout much of the day, I'd find out.)
3. Ultracyclists do not like pink arm warmers when paired with purple leg warmers, and reflective nipples. (See photo) They do not find this funny. This may have something to do with observation #1. TBD.
4. Ultracyclists must wear a jersey from the hardest ultracycling event they have ever done to every event thereafter. Plainclothes are not allowed.
5. (Discovered later) Ultracyclists do not like to acknowledge other ultracyclists participating in the same event, neither with a wave, nor a smile, nor a "hi". They seem to be participating out of a sense of self-hatred rather than one of adventure. But they're still in it for the bragging rights. (See observation #4)

We clipped in at twilight and tried to stay at the front of the pack. This effort lasted for about 20 minutes, then with each successive hill / stoplight, people got split up into smaller and smaller pelotons. We couldn't tell where we stood in relation to everyone else after an hour of riding.

I could tell, however, that neither my Silver Bullet aka Frankenbike nor my outfit were receiving their due appreciation. One rider asked if I had scoured my garage to throw the Bullet and my ensemble together. I laughed, then vowed to kick his ass. Then I couldn't remember what he looked like a few minutes later, in the sea of "Triple Crown" jerseys surrounding me.

(In my defense, the pink arm warmers and purple leg warmers are the only arm warmers and leg warmers I own. They must be paired with the blue jersey, because it is the only jersey I own with 3 back pockets, and the acid pee vest, because it is the only wind vest I own. The Bullet needs no defense; he's the radest paint-stripped, incognito bike on the planet.)

The Camino Real Double Century is a very urban event, with tons of stop lights. Running them is not an option, although a group ahead of us must've thought it was, and was subsequently captured by a motorcycle Sheriff stealthily dressed in a dark green jumpsuit--like a tree . He was hiding in a residential area plagued by multiple stop signs.

Robyn and I immediately moved up in the female finisher standings. Thank you, Sheriff Tree!

With a predicted high of 70 and clouds all day, we couldn't have asked for better weather.

But when we came upon the part of the route that put us out on I-5 for 7 miles, I could've thought of a better route. Like running through Camp Pendleton somehow. Probably dressed like Sheriff Tree.

I've ridden that stretch before, and couldn't believe I came out alive at the end of it. Doing it 2 more times for this ride probably shaved years off of my life. (Although judging by many of my competitors, who have all so clearly done many a ride like this before, I might still live as long as I want, which is 100 years.)

At each aid station, we drew a card from a deck of cards. The cyclists with the best poker hand at the end of the ride got neato prizes. It was a nice incentive to finish the ride.

Coachubby wore his Garmin and informed us when we had hit 100 miles. Amazingly, the first 100 hadn't been that bad. We had only had one flat in our little threesome, and were feeling pretty good.

Then at mile 120, coachubby's crotch began to rebel. Unlike at Ironman aid stations, there was no giant, germ-infested tub of Vaseline at ultracycling aid station #3 for competitors to scoop out petroleum jelly relief and slather it where the sun don't shine. A trip to the bathroom revealed someone had foreseen the 120-mile crotchal riding limit and brought along a little disposable tube of Chamois Butt'r. The used capsule was in the toilet. No help for coachubby.

We soldiered on, beginning to pass smaller groups as we went. It's amazing how 80 miles becomes "Only 80 miles!" after you've ridden 1.5x that far.

When we hit the last aid station, the awesomeness of my poker hand took a nosedive along with the sun and we set out to crush the last 24 or so miles in the dark. Blinkies activated. But we had only brought "legal" headlights--not road-illuminating lights--since we assumed this "urban adventure" would be lit by streetlights at night.

Not so.

In fact, 16 miles were on a 2-lane canyon road. It was pitch black.

Robyn was nervous. Coachubby was nervous descending, but later discovered he hit 37 mph anyway. And for some reason, maybe emboldened by my choice to bring a head lamp in addition to my bike light, I felt a strange sense of calm and euphoria riding at night.

Apparently, it takes 11 hours of exercise for the endorphins to kick in now; a few years of Ironman training have destroyed my body's sensitivity to working out. Or something like that. Had I, or coachubby or Robyn flatted or crashed, I'm sure the euphoria would've quickly turned into panic accompanied by a heart rate otherwise only induced by Red Bull.

We picked off one final rider moments before rolling back into the hotel parking lot around 7:20pm. (With, according to coachubby's Garmin, an approximately 11h30m actual ride time.)

(PIC: Robyn and I pose with road on our faces after finishing.)

WE DID IT!

I was exhilarated. Not only had we ridden that far, but we had also done it on very little sleep. I had also fueled properly, and felt good the entire time. Knowing that I can ride that far without much sleep and on completely dead legs from 2 straight weeks of psycho training is a great confidence booster going in to future ultra events.

My poker hand earned me a respectable bottle of Endurolytes.

Robyn got a flush, and won a ton of money to redeem toward future Planet Ultra events. She also, I believe, was the 4th woman to finish. And might've placed even better if she hadn't stopped to wait for me after every climb, and both I-5 sections.

Coachubby began making a mental inventory of the ointment he was going to buy at Target.

(PIC: How we really felt after finishing.)

Résultats: The Camino Real Double Century is a fabulous starter double. As long as traffic doesn't freak you out, and lights don't frustrate you, there isn't too much climbing, the aid stations are stocked full of awesome goodies, the poker thing is fun, and there are, contrary to everything I just said, some nice people out there--especially the people running the aid stations. I suppose I can't ask everyone to be joking around 150 miles into a 200 mile ride.

Other riders could smile, though. Although even facial muscles get tired, I suppose!

And be ready for chaffeage. Like you've never known. Forget a fancy, expensive bike fit--you'll figure out which side of your bike you favor after riding that far. How? Well, do it. You'll see...

P.S. Why wouldn't my car start? Because coachubby left the lights on!

Double Century Training--Can Your Brain Handle It?

Crazy ride ideas pop into my head sometimes. This Saturday's extravaganza was no exception.

Thank goodness for coachubby who, in the spirit of maintaining his manhood, can't back down from the crazy rides, and for my girlfriend, Robyn, who will not only help me carry them out, but royally kick my butt while doing so.

Therefore, the rides can't be too nutty, because I'm not the only one out there doing them. (That's called "Ultra Cyclist Logic". I don't know if it's made its way into the Psych books yet...)

When the weather decided not to soak LA on Saturday, as was foreseen earlier last week, the ride was on. We figured it would be about 10 hours of riding, possibly up to 12 hours of being outside.

This time, we had to build on our last DA ride (disappearing a**), adding 1.5 hours of ride time and about 30 miles. (The last time we rode 150 a few weeks ago, it was relatively flat.)

The route: Leaving Redondo, meet up at the Hermosa Beach pier at 6am in the freezing cold dark, then ride up the Strand to PCH to Latigo, up Latigo, descend Kanan, North on PCH to Mulholland, up Mulholland, down Kanan, South on PCH to Latigo, up Latigo, down Mulholland to Cold Creek, up Piuma, down Stunt, then descend Topanga Canyon and back home.

We made our own pre-dawn to after-dusk ride. It ended up being 150 miles, 10.5 hours ride time, 12.5 hours of being outside. (The extra two hours were accumulated dressing/undressing time for descents/ascents...and watter bottle fill ups, and potty stops.)

Nothing tests mental endurance like the last two hours of a ride like Saturday's. It's like channeling the PMS gods. At some point, the mind goes blank, just wants to turn over the pedals, and anything that gets in its way from keeping the body zooming forward gets snapped at, or will snap its last nerve. And that was only 150 miles!

In a moment of sanity pre-ride, we switched out my 11-21 cassette for a 12-25, thus saving my quads from complete destruction as evidenced by their ability to ride again, and scoot me up a mountain trail yesterday.

What is all of this riding for? Well, I'm glad you asked.

Bring it on, Mulholland Challenge!

Also, this Saturday, coachubby, Robyn, and I will be at the Camino Real Double Century in Irvine. Come cheer, or come ride! The way the weather's been (freezing and drizzly) it's a guarantee that I will be wearing pink arm warmers, a blue jersey, acid pee wind vest, purple leg warmers, and possibly homemade booties (ski socks over the shoes with holes cut out of the bottom for cleats.) Roadies love it...Not really. (Photo coming soon.)

ALSO, stay tuned for the grand announcement of what all of this is for, including the double century. (But wait, there's more!)

Happy training and staying warm!