limewave
06-22-2012, 10:34 AM
Lumberjack 100
June 16, 2012
Wellston, MI—Manistee National Forrest
This story starts back in November 2011 just moments after finishing Iceman. My friend Michelle and I were in the finisher’s shoot congratulating one another, buzzing with post-race adrenaline she says with a big grin, “now we need to do Lumberjack 100!”
Michelle is fearless and knows no boundaries. I, however, have a healthy-dose of limit-inducing, common sense fear. On the flip side I don’t back down from a challenge. And so, while my brain was screaming “no way” my mouth uttered “. . . yeah, okay.”
March rolled around and I actually registered for the event along with my husband and his friend Jim. Michelle snagged an entry too. Our fate was sealed.
Before we knew it the four of us were sitting under an E-Z Up at 6:30 AM waiting for the race to start. Months of attempting to squeeze in endurance rides between parenting, work and everything else had been challenging and frustrating. We were ready to put the race behind us. Our motto that morning had become “One and Done.”
Weather forecast for the day predicted 90+ degree temps. It had been dry, hot and humid. The course would be sandy. But I don’t think any of us were prepared for the thick black cloud of dirt kicked up by the conga-line of bikes in the first few miles. It was so heavy and think at times I could not see the trail.
Eventually the traffic jam worked itself out and riding conditions became more comfortable. The first few miles seemed like it was uphill. Then the course leveled out and I was able to find a nice flow.
After riding alone for a while I came across a startling sight: a decapitated manikin head perched on a log. The freakish object would become the symbol of encouragement in the following laps, as it was the “welcoming committee” to the mid-point aid station.
The aid station was an oasis in the fog of dirt and pain and sweat. After riding for miles on end in what seemed like the middle-of-nowhere was a Hawaiian party taking place: leis, drinks, food, shoulder massages, and riders socializing and kicking-back for a bit.
It was a welcome sight but I was not planning on stopping. I rolled on through my first lap.
Since my computer puked out on me in the first 5 minutes of the race I was taking mental notes of the course to help gauge my progress in the remaining laps.
I remember two steep climbs, two sections of gravel roads, one long sustained climb followed by a wicked fast descent. The last section was a couple of easy rolling miles into the staging/finish corral.
I rolled into our pit-station to switch hydration packs and grab a bite to eat. Rob, our pit-crew master, helped me get refueled and gave me updates on our group. I had completed the first lap in 3:09 minutes, well ahead of schedule. This scared me. Without my computer I had a difficult time pacing myself, I had gone out too hard.
Lap #2
A mile into the second lap and my contacts were giving me fits. Two times one of my contacts came out and was stuck to my sunglasses. I was blinking constantly and having a hard time seeing. The frequent and time-consuming stops quickly put me from being ahead of- to behind schedule. That’s when I made the decision to throw out any finish-time expectations and to take in the experience.
Soon I was looking for the manikin head. I planned on taking full-advantage of the aid station services. I want to give a big Thank You to everyone that volunteered. All of you were incredibly up-beat, helpful, encouraging, and friendly. That became my favorite part of the race. I could be riding for miles alone and isolated but I always knew that if I made it to the aid station that smiles and friendly faces would greet me. From there I could depart with other riders and be guaranteed company for at least a little while.
Without the pressure of the clock I started enjoying the ride. Don’t get me wrong, there were times of suffering, agony, and I questioned my sanity more times than I can count. But I wasn’t worried about trying to pass anyone or getting dropped.
I met a lot of amazing and inspirational people riding Lumberjack. Everyone had a story to share. The camaraderie I witnessed was like no other event I’ve done. Everyone I encountered put helping others have a positive race experience over their own finish time.
The back end of the second lap stretched longer than my memory. The three big climbs I had noted the first time around were now about five to six big climbs. Eventually I mashed my way to the screaming single-track descent.
I loved ripping down the trail when a giant, oversized green leaf dropped from the heavens and suctioned itself across the face of my sunglasses. I was blinded nary a mere quarter inch across the very top of my field-of-vision. I did not want to take a hand off my bars going near 30 miles per hour down bumpy, sandy single track. I’ve done that before and it resulted in a very bad crash that still gives me night-sweats.
I stuck out my lower lip and tried blowing the leaf free. That only resulted in scootching the leaf upwards and blinding me completely. This is how I was going to die. I was at peace with my Maker, I only regretted that I would not be around for my kids. I took a steadying breath and initiated launch sequence: heavy feet, weight over center bracket, neutral grip . . . and go! I stealthily removed my hand from the grip and swiped the leaf like a ninja. I would live to ride the third and final lap.
Our friend Jim was not as lucky. He noted the “Caution” sign at the top of the hill and started babbling on “Caution, eh? What’s so dangerous about this . . .” then clipped his handle bar. I hear he now holds the unofficial record for human unassisted flying distance. Nevertheless, Jim was able to get back on the bike and finish with a very respectable time.
Lap #3
I was experiencing early signs of heat stroke and dehydration: goose bumps, chills, and nausea. While I wasn’t feeling hot, I knew that I needed to cool my body temperature and drink more fluids. While I was at the aid station I shoved ice cubes down my bra and in my jersey pockets. Rob gave me the update; everyone had slowed down significantly from the heat.
When I couldn’t clasp the sternum strap across my chest, I knew I was experiencing some other physical ailment that I had managed to push from conscious. I made note of this development and told myself to take it easy. When I got to the top of the last climb in the first section and I just didn’t feel right, I decided to sit for a few minutes.
Because everyone at LJ100 was amazing, someone stopped to make sure I was okay. I assured him I was but he insisted on giving me his PayDay bar before he continued on. That was the best food I had eaten all day. Feeling renewed from my break I got back on my bike and continued on to the aid station.
During every hard effort I felt like I was suffocating. Later I learned that the dirt and sand I inhaled had irritated my throat and caused “esophageal spasms.” Basically it felt like I had a giant pill stuck in the base of my throat. It lasted for three days beyond the race.
I took another long break at the aid station. There were a handful of other riders hanging out, enjoying the company, food and drinks. It was so comfortable that I was in danger of staying there all afternoon. Someone had other plans for me however, that’s when it started raining. It was time to get moving.
The last 15 miles were the longest I have ever ridden. They stretched out into eternity. It was the only segment that I rode entirely alone. I arrived at mid-point of the last sustained climb and I had to stop. I was simply overcome. This place shall now be known as Contemplation Point because I talked to several other first-time Lumberjacks who bewildering stopped at the same location to collect their thoughts. We were all so close to the finish and yet we could not go on.
There are many participants that Lumberjack was just another stop in the NUE Series, just one more race on the calendar. And then there are the rest of us mortals. This all started with accepting a challenge from a friend. It ended up being so much more. It’s hard for me to put into words what this experience has meant to me.
Eventually I gathered myself, got on the bike for the last time that day and continued to the finish line. All of my friends were there to greet me.
Zoom-Zoom's DH finished almost right on my wheel. If I had known he was right behind me I would have waited for him. It would have been great to have company the last few miles.
It was an amazing day.
Overall I finished 258/392 or 19/32 women. There were 95 DNF's. It was that hot and sandy.
June 16, 2012
Wellston, MI—Manistee National Forrest
This story starts back in November 2011 just moments after finishing Iceman. My friend Michelle and I were in the finisher’s shoot congratulating one another, buzzing with post-race adrenaline she says with a big grin, “now we need to do Lumberjack 100!”
Michelle is fearless and knows no boundaries. I, however, have a healthy-dose of limit-inducing, common sense fear. On the flip side I don’t back down from a challenge. And so, while my brain was screaming “no way” my mouth uttered “. . . yeah, okay.”
March rolled around and I actually registered for the event along with my husband and his friend Jim. Michelle snagged an entry too. Our fate was sealed.
Before we knew it the four of us were sitting under an E-Z Up at 6:30 AM waiting for the race to start. Months of attempting to squeeze in endurance rides between parenting, work and everything else had been challenging and frustrating. We were ready to put the race behind us. Our motto that morning had become “One and Done.”
Weather forecast for the day predicted 90+ degree temps. It had been dry, hot and humid. The course would be sandy. But I don’t think any of us were prepared for the thick black cloud of dirt kicked up by the conga-line of bikes in the first few miles. It was so heavy and think at times I could not see the trail.
Eventually the traffic jam worked itself out and riding conditions became more comfortable. The first few miles seemed like it was uphill. Then the course leveled out and I was able to find a nice flow.
After riding alone for a while I came across a startling sight: a decapitated manikin head perched on a log. The freakish object would become the symbol of encouragement in the following laps, as it was the “welcoming committee” to the mid-point aid station.
The aid station was an oasis in the fog of dirt and pain and sweat. After riding for miles on end in what seemed like the middle-of-nowhere was a Hawaiian party taking place: leis, drinks, food, shoulder massages, and riders socializing and kicking-back for a bit.
It was a welcome sight but I was not planning on stopping. I rolled on through my first lap.
Since my computer puked out on me in the first 5 minutes of the race I was taking mental notes of the course to help gauge my progress in the remaining laps.
I remember two steep climbs, two sections of gravel roads, one long sustained climb followed by a wicked fast descent. The last section was a couple of easy rolling miles into the staging/finish corral.
I rolled into our pit-station to switch hydration packs and grab a bite to eat. Rob, our pit-crew master, helped me get refueled and gave me updates on our group. I had completed the first lap in 3:09 minutes, well ahead of schedule. This scared me. Without my computer I had a difficult time pacing myself, I had gone out too hard.
Lap #2
A mile into the second lap and my contacts were giving me fits. Two times one of my contacts came out and was stuck to my sunglasses. I was blinking constantly and having a hard time seeing. The frequent and time-consuming stops quickly put me from being ahead of- to behind schedule. That’s when I made the decision to throw out any finish-time expectations and to take in the experience.
Soon I was looking for the manikin head. I planned on taking full-advantage of the aid station services. I want to give a big Thank You to everyone that volunteered. All of you were incredibly up-beat, helpful, encouraging, and friendly. That became my favorite part of the race. I could be riding for miles alone and isolated but I always knew that if I made it to the aid station that smiles and friendly faces would greet me. From there I could depart with other riders and be guaranteed company for at least a little while.
Without the pressure of the clock I started enjoying the ride. Don’t get me wrong, there were times of suffering, agony, and I questioned my sanity more times than I can count. But I wasn’t worried about trying to pass anyone or getting dropped.
I met a lot of amazing and inspirational people riding Lumberjack. Everyone had a story to share. The camaraderie I witnessed was like no other event I’ve done. Everyone I encountered put helping others have a positive race experience over their own finish time.
The back end of the second lap stretched longer than my memory. The three big climbs I had noted the first time around were now about five to six big climbs. Eventually I mashed my way to the screaming single-track descent.
I loved ripping down the trail when a giant, oversized green leaf dropped from the heavens and suctioned itself across the face of my sunglasses. I was blinded nary a mere quarter inch across the very top of my field-of-vision. I did not want to take a hand off my bars going near 30 miles per hour down bumpy, sandy single track. I’ve done that before and it resulted in a very bad crash that still gives me night-sweats.
I stuck out my lower lip and tried blowing the leaf free. That only resulted in scootching the leaf upwards and blinding me completely. This is how I was going to die. I was at peace with my Maker, I only regretted that I would not be around for my kids. I took a steadying breath and initiated launch sequence: heavy feet, weight over center bracket, neutral grip . . . and go! I stealthily removed my hand from the grip and swiped the leaf like a ninja. I would live to ride the third and final lap.
Our friend Jim was not as lucky. He noted the “Caution” sign at the top of the hill and started babbling on “Caution, eh? What’s so dangerous about this . . .” then clipped his handle bar. I hear he now holds the unofficial record for human unassisted flying distance. Nevertheless, Jim was able to get back on the bike and finish with a very respectable time.
Lap #3
I was experiencing early signs of heat stroke and dehydration: goose bumps, chills, and nausea. While I wasn’t feeling hot, I knew that I needed to cool my body temperature and drink more fluids. While I was at the aid station I shoved ice cubes down my bra and in my jersey pockets. Rob gave me the update; everyone had slowed down significantly from the heat.
When I couldn’t clasp the sternum strap across my chest, I knew I was experiencing some other physical ailment that I had managed to push from conscious. I made note of this development and told myself to take it easy. When I got to the top of the last climb in the first section and I just didn’t feel right, I decided to sit for a few minutes.
Because everyone at LJ100 was amazing, someone stopped to make sure I was okay. I assured him I was but he insisted on giving me his PayDay bar before he continued on. That was the best food I had eaten all day. Feeling renewed from my break I got back on my bike and continued on to the aid station.
During every hard effort I felt like I was suffocating. Later I learned that the dirt and sand I inhaled had irritated my throat and caused “esophageal spasms.” Basically it felt like I had a giant pill stuck in the base of my throat. It lasted for three days beyond the race.
I took another long break at the aid station. There were a handful of other riders hanging out, enjoying the company, food and drinks. It was so comfortable that I was in danger of staying there all afternoon. Someone had other plans for me however, that’s when it started raining. It was time to get moving.
The last 15 miles were the longest I have ever ridden. They stretched out into eternity. It was the only segment that I rode entirely alone. I arrived at mid-point of the last sustained climb and I had to stop. I was simply overcome. This place shall now be known as Contemplation Point because I talked to several other first-time Lumberjacks who bewildering stopped at the same location to collect their thoughts. We were all so close to the finish and yet we could not go on.
There are many participants that Lumberjack was just another stop in the NUE Series, just one more race on the calendar. And then there are the rest of us mortals. This all started with accepting a challenge from a friend. It ended up being so much more. It’s hard for me to put into words what this experience has meant to me.
Eventually I gathered myself, got on the bike for the last time that day and continued to the finish line. All of my friends were there to greet me.
Zoom-Zoom's DH finished almost right on my wheel. If I had known he was right behind me I would have waited for him. It would have been great to have company the last few miles.
It was an amazing day.
Overall I finished 258/392 or 19/32 women. There were 95 DNF's. It was that hot and sandy.