Vuelta a Salida

I was looking forward to this ride. 100 miles through a beautiful part of Colorado, spending the day on my bicycle in the company of other cycling enthusiasts, seeing wildlife and spectacular vistas -- what could be better?

Well...I guess being in shape would help. And having a functioning brain would also provide tangible benefits. But neither of those advantages belonged to me on Saturday. What was expected to be a delightful and joyous day in the mountains turned into what is probably my worst athletic performance, ever.

Most of my mistakes would seem small and forgivable, and I still refuse to believe that the Vuelta a Salida race course was simply beyond my capability. But at the end of the day, the official results don't lie: they show my first ever DNF. My bike and I traveled the last 20 miles of the course stuffed into the back of a Chaffee County Search and Rescue vehicle.

Ugh.

It's humiliating and embarrassing, but I least I wasn't the only guy they swept up. There was one other fellow behind me, and they grabbed him, too. But more about that later.

The event organizers seemed like nice folks, but they were not overly communicative. Other than this GPS map on their website, there were no instructions. By asking around in town the night before, I was able to locate the start line (though the markings on the pavement turned out to indicate the wrong starting direction), and arrived there about an hour early.

As I unloaded my stuff from the car, I made a couple of disappointing discoveries. One was that I had forgotten the little strap I use to keep my glasses from slipping onto my nose when I get sweaty. That's not a big deal; I can push the glasses back up. But the mounting arm for my bike's mirror was broken, and that caused me some concern.

A quick exam revealed that I would need tools to remove it, or I could probably rig a temporary repair with some duct tape. But of course, there were no bike shops open, no repair techs at the start line, and the race officials had no tape or rubber bands.

Seriously? No duct tape? How could you expect to put on an event without duct tape?

Oh well. It was a beautiful morning, and I was at the starting line with plenty of time to spare.



The small crowd (less than 100 riders) started down the streets at about 8:05am. I figured I'd easily make it back before 4pm, allowing me to get back to Denver in plenty of time to rest up for the Horsetooth swim on Sunday. My worst case calculations had me taking 5 hours to the summit, then 3 more hours on the downhill glide back into Salida. These calculations were based on the fact that this ride was 20 miles shorter than the Triple Bypass, contained only 1 summit (as opposed to 3), and would have smaller aid stations--which would decrease my urges to spend time resting. Plus, I had no friends in the race, so socializing could be replaced with hammering. 8 hours, 9 tops. No problem.

If I could get finished in 7 hours, even better. I figured that the longer I could draft within the starting pack, the faster my overall pace would be. Perhaps the first 25 miles of (relatively) flat highway up to Byoona Vista would be relaxed and fast "peloton" miles.

Or...perhaps I could expend my entire day's worth of energy reserves trying to keep up with those maniacs in the first couple of miles and be toast for the remainder of the day. Oh yeah, that sounds like the right approach!

I tried to keep up, but within a half hour, I was all alone.



But it was a nice day, the Collegiate Peaks were magnificent, and I assumed that I'd eventually catch back up with some of them. I wasn't worried. My renegade mirror flopped around and made it impossible to know what traffic was approaching, but there were enough cars and trucks on the road that it was a safe assumption that somebody was always coming. I stayed over as far on the shoulder as I could.

The first aid station was in downtown Buena Vista (~30 miles), and consisted of a card table staffed by a couple of teenage girls. There were candy bars, water bottles, and store brand cola and diet cola. The porta potties were around behind the building, necessitating a long walk in cleats...but I figured I'd better take advantage. Nobody here had duct tape or rubber bands, either, but one of the girls generously parted with a pony-tail band, which I then struggled to wrap around my mirror stem. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it kept the mirror from clanging around against the handlebars, and allowed me to actually use it if I placed my palm against it at just the right angle. Good enough.

I inquired about the next part of the course, and was told to go "down the road a ways and then turn when you see the chalk mark on the street." Indeed, this group's idea of a "well-marked" course was to put one (or perhaps two) yellow chalk-marked arrows at each turn. Not in advance of the turn, mind you -- AT the turn. And since the turns were something like 20 miles from each other, I guess I considered the marking to be somewhat less than adequate. Perhaps it's just me, but I think I would prefer multiple LARGE signs leading up to a course change -- AND reflective-vest course marshals waving their arms and yelling and pointing. Despite my anxiety, though, I don't believe I actually missed any of the turns.

My next mistake might have been the definitive one. I think I left the aid station adequately fueled -- I had eaten a bag of Honey Stingers and a couple of PowerBars at the aid station, and washed them down with a generic cola and a bottle of water. But I somehow got it in my head that I could make it to the next aid station (at the summit of Cottonwood Pass) before I'd need to eat again. In retrospect, this viewpoint may have indicated that I was already in trouble...since it's clear evidence that my brain wasn't functioning. I was at 8000 feet of elevation with 20 miles and 4000 feet of climbing to do. What I had consumed would not even begin to get the job done.

I realized this somewhere around 10,000 feet. But of course, at that point there was nowhere flat to stop. I was in full granny gear and barely moving, so any attempt to coast would result in an immediate crash. And I did NOT want to have to start up and re-clip on such a steep slope. Even though I knew I was becoming depleted, I kept going out of sheer stupidity and stubbornness.

Until I couldn't. At about 11,000 feet, I had to admit to myself that I'd never make it to the aid station without more calories. I found a less-steep section and was somehow able to dismount without tumbling into the ditch. It was kinda scary, since there was still a constant flow of RV traffic (many of them pulling boats), but I was far enough off the road to remain safe. I had another PowerBar, a gel, and another pack of Stingers, and then waited until my breathing had calmed down a bit. Somehow, I was able to re-mount, re-clip, and continue the climb.



It doesn't look at that steep in the picture, but the photo shows about 600 to 800 feet of ascent. The surprising thing was that I actually passed a couple of guys in this section, and there were 4 or 5 other folks at the aid station at the top.



Here's a totally unrelated question for you -- Why have they started putting Ferrigno-strength springs on porta potty doors? At 12,000 feet, after a grueling climb, the last thing I needed was to be crushed by an unremorseful outhouse door. I got myself inside, but just barely.

My business inside told me that I wasn't hydrating adequately, either. Since most riders had long since passed this aid station, there many choices remaining. There had been liquid Gatorade earlier, but the jug was now empty. The guy offered me some Gatorade powder, though, so I filled one of my water bottles with it. I ate what I could (including potato chips, which actually tasted pretty darned good), and then posed for a picture.



One of my other mistakes was in overfilling my backpack. (Or perhaps it was "not training with a full backpack.") My arms and my entire back were really fatigued from early on in the day. I was carrying long pants, a jacket, light & heavy gloves, arm and leg compression sleeves, and a bunch of extra food. The only thing I used was the jacket...but I was glad I had it. The Cottonwood Pass descent would've chilled me to the bone without it. I haven't looked at the GPS yet, but I was probably faster going down that hill than I was in the Rusty Wallace drive.

So, after reversing course at the summit, there was a good 20-mile stretch that I thoroughly enjoyed. But it was over in a flash, and I found myself back in Buena Vista during the heat of the afternoon, desperately needing to take the jacket off. I stopped right beside a cemetery (completely missing the ominous literary portent of the action) to doff the coat and slam down another bag of Stingers. While I was standing there, the Search and Rescue vehicle pulled up and asked if I was OK. "Sure!" I said. "Just getting a snack. Thanks for asking." They asked if I had enough water and food, and seemed quite concerned. At that point, it didn't occur to me that their interest was based on the fact that there was only one guy behind me...and most everyone else was already back in Salida. I thought they were probably just bored -- but what they really wanted was to get the stragglers off the course so they could go home. But I convinced them to drive on, and I got back in the saddle.

But the next few miles seemed to take forever. The road appeared relatively flat and the wind seemed fairly calm, but I was back in full granny gear and creeping along at a snail's pace. My back hurt, my arms were spent, and my bike seemed to weigh a ton. My legs didn't feel that bad, but they just weren't spinning at the rate I expected. I decided that another brief rest stop was in order.



I had looked at the elevation plot the week before, and had it in my head that once I reached the summit, it was smooth sailing all the way home. But obviously, I was mentally flattening the curves on the graph. I had pulled over at about 75 miles, and was beginning to understand that my thoughts of coasting back to my car were naïve; there was still plenty of pedaling to do. I probably had a pretty discouraged look on my face when the Chaffee Country Search and Rescue group pulled back up beside me. This time, my attempts at cheerful assurances were met with even more skepticism. They parked the truck, pulled out a lawn chair, and told me I should sit and drink one of their electrolyte replacement beverages. That's what I did.

One of the crew (Tracy) stayed with me while the others drove off to find the one guy who was behind me. It felt good to sit, but after a couple of minutes I told her I was going to ride on toward the aid station (another couple of miles, which included the steep downhill leading up to the 80-mile mark.) They passed me on the way there, and were waiting when I arrived. And at that point, my cycling day was over. They loaded my bike into the back of the truck while we waited for the other straggler, who was only a couple of minutes behind. His bike went into the Sheriff's vehicle, but we left while he was still slamming down the last of the aid station's food.

Looking at the elevation chart and comparing it to what I saw on the drive back to Salida, I think I'd have been fine up to the 94-mile mark. But that last huge climb would've kept me on the course until after sunset, and I would've had to drive home to Denver in the dark. As it was, the Search and Rescue folks dropped me off at the finish line so the officials could record my DNF. I was feeling ashamed and angry at myself, but was actually grateful to the SR team for their concern and kindness. (I was interested to note that they all thought the race was poorly run, too, and were especially critical of the inadequate course marking and marshaling.)

I suppose I could've gone over to the park to see if any of the other riders were still celebrating, but I just wanted to go home and rest up for the next morning's lake swim. I rode the bike back to my car, loaded up, and headed toward Denver.

After bonking so badly and feeling so knotted up in the arms and shoulders, I seriously thought about bailing out of the Horsetooth swim. But several of my good friends were swimming it, and I wanted to share the experience with them, even if I was too tired to swim well. I shall share that story tomorrow. Have a great day!