Tejas 500
Walking the Walk
The past several years have usually found me at races behind the scene rather than making one. My typical race day gear has mutated from swim goggles, bike and running shoes to camera and keyboard. This has not been an unpleasant transformation. On the contrary, journalism provides it's own unique rewards. But since being ignited nearly twenty years ago, my competitive fire for endurance sports has remained lit. It's just that during the last five years it's been more of a quietly burning pilot light than the blast furnace it once resembled.
Writing for the website and magazine as I do, I find myself exhorting others to push their bounds, find new challenges, and occasionally take the big risk by putting it all on the line in a life-altering, epic endeavor. The failure, I once recall preaching, lies not in the DNF, but in the DNS. Admittedly, talking the talk is easy. The problem contained therein is that its resonance quickly fades if you don't openly apply the theory to your own life. I confess that for an endurance sports junkie like me, that's really not been a issue. In my way I'll stand up and walk the walk.
Vicious Cycle
Ultra-distance cycling wheeled its way into my life by way of two avenues. First, it was exposure to the sport's ultimate event, Race Across America. RAAM has brushed closely by the St. Louis Metro area for several years which enabled me to follow the racers and interact with their support crews. Added to the mix was a local Brevet Series offering rides that started at 200k, which to that point was more miles than I had ridden at one time. Well that ride led to a 300k. It stairstepped to 400k which in turn led me to 12 and 24-hour racing. The inexorable progression toward greater and greater challenges on the bike continued unabated. Then, like a night beacon, appeared the Tejas 500 in Cleburne, Texas. The combination of its formidable distance and the convenience of family situated in nearby north Dallas drew me much as a Missouri moth.
I became aware of the event in 2005. Unable to make the starting line that year, the race relentlessly occupied a part of my mind for the next twelve months. I spent 2006 building a solid base by riding more miles than I had in any previous calendar year. If there was an errand to perform, I often rode to it. My Civic Hybrid, as stingy as it is with gas, sat while the wheels on my bikes turned. If I saddled up, it became the exception for me to ride anything less than 50 miles. Riding two centuries on the weekend and peppering the weekdays with 60-milers became commonplace and 300-400 mile weeks were the norm for most of the summer.
The summer of '06 merged into fall and raceday edged ever closer. With it, the reality of what I was about to undertake began to shake my senses with 5.0 magnitude. Questions began popping up like so many autumn bulbs. Could I really ride that far? Should I go with the the 36-hour start? What about sleep? How do I prevent saddle sores? How can I efficiently self-support? And on and on. The thought process may have been tinged with a hue of doubt, but I believed it was mostly a matter of thinking through the contingencies and formulating a sound race plan, given that this was new territory for me.
I decided that the wisest course of action was to take the lessons learned in my 24-racing, add newly found, relevant information, then tack on 12-hours. The way I looked at it, this was simply a matter of adequate training, task-appropriate equipment, and a sound nutrition, hydration, & electrolyte plan.
As for the training, my long ride didn't approach anything close to 200 miles much less 500, but I what I lacked in single day miles I more than compensated for in weekly volume. I believed that coupled with a strong motivation to earn the RAAM qualifier's plaque would see me to the finish. Based upon last year's finish times, I knew that if I could come in within the 36-hour cutoff, that should earn me the RAAM plaque. Still, a nagging voice in the back of my mind kept wondering how I'd feel at 300 or 400 miles and how I'd fare with no sleep.
My equipment needs revolved mostly around bike lights and apparel. Website sponsor, Momentum Cycles became my "official" bike sponsor for the race and set me up with new tires, tubes, CO2, and a taillight. I owned all the necessary head lamps and with new batteries they were set for thirty hours, more than enough. It occurred to me that the rural nature of the course would make for very dark night riding so I thought I'd have some fun and place blue Tire Flies on my valve stems. These small bulbs light up brightly when the wheels spin and create a circle of light. After placing my Javelin in the workstand and darkening the room, a few turns of the crankarms were all I needed. I couldn't wait to use these things.
I thought through the exigencies of thirty-six continuous hours of exposure and kept one eye on the race day forecast— low in the 40's, high in the mid-70's. Both cold-weather gear and warm-weather gear would be necessary. The forecast was clear but I would have still felt better bringing rain gear.
Nutrition- Applying the simple equation of 350 calories per hour x 36-hours yielded 12,600 calories. That's a lot of tacos. I began amassing a surplus of food to which I added four 1-gallon jugs of water.
Food Top Care Nutritional Supplement (liquid) 8oz cans Clif Bars Fig Bars Bananas Kashi Trail Mix Bars Starbucks Cappuccino (bottled) Jug of Hammer Gel Bowls of pasta salad Bowls of spaghetti and red sauce I knew I wouldn't or most likely couldn't consume all of it, but at least I'd have enough nutrition. The nearest store was twelve miles away and we wouldn't be riding past it. Literally translated, tejas means roofing tiles. Much like those neatly arrayed rows of clay tiles atop a Spanish home, I felt my game plan was watertight.
Get Your Tejass Moving
The 600-mile drive to Dallas would be an easy shot down Hwy 44 to Hwy 75/69. I jumped on Hwy. 44 at Hwy. 109 and zeroed the trip meter on my dash. Five-hundred miles later, when I had finally reached a point somewhere in north Texas, the enormity of the task upon which I was about to embark struck me like a ton of adobe. I was going to pedal nearly as far as I would drive to my homestay. Unreal. At that point I started having serious reservations and regretted having informed friends and family about my proposed endeavor. I feared looking like el tonto burro. Then my fears put additional spin on the situation when I figured that my friends racing at Ironman the same weekend would only be on the course for 10-14 hours, not upwards of 36. I plunged my hand into the bag of pretzels in the opposite seat, watched large raindrops begin smacking my windshield, and sighed
After virtually an all-night drive, I landed very early Thursday morning in a warm and comfortable bed at my sister and brother-in-law's house in Plano, Texas. The scheduled start time for the 36-hour group was 5:30am on Friday, so I had all day Thursday to relax, recover from the drive, and eat. I needed to pick up my packet and set up my transition area on Thursday as well. It made more sense to camp out at the race site Thursday night rather than drive the 80-miles to it at an ungodly early hour Friday morning. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was racing the sinking sun to Cleburne, Texas. The thermometer seemed to be falling just as rapidly. Overnight it would touch the low 40's.
I reached the transition area well after sunset and parked the loaded down Ford Xtracab. I picked up my packet and registered for a one-day UMCA license. Returning to the truck, I began to drag the tent out of the bed until a voice in the darkness behind me bellowed, "Don't camp right there— fire ants." No wonder this spot was open. I moved to another area and started over. Never having owned a tent, I found the whole process of erecting one overwhelming. I was cold, tired, and frustrated. My energy was better spent preparing my nutrition and bike for the morning start only seven hours hence. So I dropped the tailgate and went to work on my makeshift kitchen counter. After an hour or so, everything was completed and neatly arranged. It was 11:30pm, time for the 42-hour start in the Tejas 500. The riders went off with little or no fanfare. I grabbed the sleeping bag, blanket, and pillow then went to sleep in the back seat of the truck. In retrospect, it was cozier than anything the cold ground would have offered anyway.
I awoke with a start and sat straight up to peer though the fogged truck windows. All my bleary eyes could make out were the flashing lights of the start/finish line and the fireplace ablaze in the pavilion. The dashboard clock illuminated with a digital 3am. The occasional 48 and 42-hour racer rolled through transition, white headlights cutting through the darkness and fog. With my cell phone unable to find service, I couldn't set its alarm to wake me, but I put my head back down and fell asleep once again anyway.
This time it was headlights and the crunch of gravel by vehicles making their way into the campsite/transition-area that brought me back to consciousness. I saw that they were racers arriving for the 5:30am start and then knew it was time to get up. Yep, 5am the dashboard confirmed. I wrestled into my cycling gear, making certain to apply a generous portion of chamois creme to my cycling bibs before pulling them up. I might as well have put an ice cube in them. I was fully equipped— booties, fingered gloves, base lining, jersey, jacket, knee warmers, doo rag. The thirty-minutes quickly evaporated, then I heard the callout for the 36-hour start. After a headcount and few brief instructions, we received a short countdown and were sent rolling
Are You Feeling Loopy Yet?
The route was a 20-mile circuit we were to circumnavigate 25 times. I felt I could process it more easily by counting laps and thinking in terms of hours. The lap was what it was, I'd simply do twenty-five of them— five sets of five. The course elevation profile showed 860 feet of climbing per lap. That equated to 4-miles of vertical gain to the finish line. With 35,000 feet of climbing in seven days out in Utah under my belt, Texas Hill country wasn't going to intimidate me. Anyway, the climbing would give me plenty of occasion to get up and out of the saddle, and that would likely be a welcome relief.
The start was fast— too fast. A pace vehicle accompanied us for the first lap, but it and the riders hammering well over 20mph behind it were soon out of sight, their red taillights fading into the pitch blackness ahead. The cold air swept past my face and my fingers were already beginning to ache. I rode a little faster than planned just to warm up. We passed the dusty surroundings of a lime quarry and headed northeast up a long steady climb. The road here was four-laned chip and seal with an eight foot shoulder. The sweet spot, we quickly learned, was the right side tire track worn smooth over time by ten of thousands of vehicles. We would ride it until we heard a vehicle approach from behind at which point we'd slide over to the rougher shoulder, let it pass, then move back.
The loop only had two turns and we soon made the first right-one after cresting the long climb. Flashing red lights conveniently indicated where we were to turn onto Rte 1224. This two-mile stretch connected the two longer, roughly parallel legs of the course. It was very dark due the lack of street lights and canopy of trees we often found ourselves riding beneath. A heavy dew had fogged my clear lenses and my dual headlights only shone about 20 feet ahead. I found myself riding alone, trying to keep a straight line and hoping to ride up on another cyclist. The second right-turn was ahead somewhere but no flashing lights appeared to indicate where. Suddenly I was bouncing downhill. I had ridden through the T-intersection and off the other side of the road. I laid the bike down with a thud in the grass before I struck anything solid. Shaken and definitely stirred, I clambered back up to the road, remounted, and joined a well-illuminated cyclist who was just passing. I made certain to let another rider light the road for me all the way back to transition.
Lap two brought with it dawn. The sunrise was a spectacular sight wrapping itself nearly 180° around the vast horizon. Its light and warmth were morale boosters, a stark contrast from my tentative, cold lap in the pre-dawn. I reached the site at which I had overshot the road the lap before and made note of the barbed wire fence I had unknowingly and narrowly averted
A Long Day's Journey Into Night
After gaining a sense for what kind of lap time I could manage, my pacing plan became simplified— knock off as close to 6-hour centuries as I could. That meant shooting for 1:12:00 laps. Mathematically, I could do 7-hour centuries and still get under the 36-hour cutoff with one hour to spare, for sleep if necessary. I figured for every 6-hour 100-miler I rode, I was banking one hour of sleep time. The whole sleep issue was one I still hadn't come to grips with yet though. If I rode myself to exhaustion at, say 400 miles, and laid down, would I sleep through the finish? Would someone wake me? My goal was to ride all the way through without sleep. That's why I brought the Starbucks. I had heard about guys falling asleep on the bike before. I guess I'd see if I'd do likewise. This may get interesting.
The next twelve daylight hours would be spent becoming intimately acquainted with the 20.01 miles of pavement I went round and round upon. There were four potholes and five dogs to avoid. There was also a steady procession of 18-wheelers. Most of the drivers gave berth to cyclists, some did not. To the one who brushed by me at a very high speed on shoulderless Route 1434, I wished a slow and painful death. It truly frightened me and was totally unnecessary. I envisioned being sucked under its wheels as I death-gripped my handle bars and tried to hold line. That experience occurred early on in the event and a vivid memory of it remained front and center in my mind throughout the race. Strangely, on that same stretch of road, some slavish industrial machinery worked 24/7 just off the roadside. It emitted a very deep drone that exactly resembled the sound of an approaching 18-wheeler. Twenty-five times I passed that sound and twenty-five times my heart rate rose as I looked behind me.
My plan was to minimize the number of stops I made. Since I didn't have the luxury of a support crew, I was forced to get off the bike for calories and hydration. I determined that three-lap (60 mile) increments would work well. My nutrition plan called for consuming 350 calories and 20 ounces of fluid per lap. Two 24oz water bottles and three 8oz cans of liquid nutrition supplement easily allotted me that distance, fluid-wise. Calories were not hard to manage. Lap after lap I rode, always making certain to eat bars, bananas, gels, or cookies. By noon I had 100 miles under my belt and by dinner time another 100. I had eaten pretty much nonstop all day. I occasionally reached down to touch my stomach, half-expecting to feel it bloated and distended. That was hardly the case as my body had shifted into a major fat burn mode, taking with it all the carbohydrates I ingested.
The daylight hours also allowed me to see my computer— I didn't wear a helmet lamp at night like many of the other riders. Being aware of my average speed per lap was huge. It kept me on pace and provided motivation if the going got tougher. The 24-hour racers joined the course at 5:30pm on Friday. They would simply ride as fast and as far as they could in that time. Needless to say, their pace was higher. It was a little disconcerting being passed by them, but I held my focus on the bigger picture. I had over 200 miles in my legs and they were just beginning.
The sun set itself on the western horizon much as it had risen twelve hours earlier from the eastern skyline. Again, a magnificent sight on what had remained a totally cloudless day. A rich red glow emanated in a thick horizontal line that gradated to lighter and lighter shades of red in both directions until they blended into the sky behind. The chill of night was settling in as well and I'd be back to warmer clothing at the next pit stop. I harbored a little trepidation about riding all night given the ordeal I endured in riding just over one hour in the dark at the start of the race. On the other hand, with over ten laps behind me I knew the course very well, so there shouldn't be any surprises there. I switched on my lamps and hoped for the best.
Night Rider
As the miles accumulated, a few physical discomforts appeared. I chose a road setup without aerobars, consequently my neck began to ache. A few Ibuprofen remedied that. I also sensed increasing hot spots on the balls of my feet and toes. I lubricated the areas on both feet until the friction and pain subsided. I suppose most people first inquire about your backside. Doesn't your butt hurt? It did. Shifting positions and standing to pedal helped a lot. Putting in all the miles leading into this event no doubt hardened me, so it wasn't as bad as one might imagine. Equally incomprehensible to me is how solo RAAM riders can sit on their bikes virtually nonstop for 8-10 days. On the positive side, no cramps arose and no stomach issues cropped up. The nutrition plan was right on.
It was Friday night in rural Texas and we rode along under a billion twinkling stars. I snuck furtive glances at the light show above daring to take my eyes off the road for only seconds at a time. In the course of that night, I easily spotted fifty meteorites burning their way through the atmosphere. I'm quite sure there were hundreds behind me I didn't see. Most of the traffic had died down with the exception of the occasional pickup hauling ass at some ridiculous speed. I hoped that their beer drinking was ahead of them and not behind. For the most part, this is what 24-hour racing was all about— the stillness, the whirl of pedals, the majesty of the sky. It was almost ethereal. The 200 plus miles I had already covered were nonexistent. It was as if I had been given a fresh start. Around midnight, I rolled past the 300-mile mark. On fifteen occasions I had called out #333 to the lap counters and now only ten remained. At that moment, I knew I could do the distance. It became only a matter of, "in what time?"
During a night pit stop, I attached the Tire Flies to my valve stems. They put on dazzling light show. I loved looking at them but it was dizzying. Rider after rider would come up on me and comment about the two pulsating circles of blue light. "I love those wheels. Very cool. Awesome lights, dude." I wish I could have seen them myself from a distance. I'm sure they gave many riders the motivation to push themselves a little harder just to see what the hell those strange blue lights were up ahead.
I've driven home from many a race and felt the need to pull over at a rest stop. Sitting behind the wheel of a car is hypnotic enough in itself without having hammered your body in a race beforehand. Riding a bike, I reasoned, must be different. You're burning calories, your respiration and heart rate are elevated. It must be easier to stay awake. I held that thought until l found myself nodding off on the bike. 2:30am is still 2:30am. When added to 22-hours of near-continuous exercise, the eyes wanted to shut. I guess it was to be expected. It suddenly became a real struggle to focus on the road ahead. Even the cold night air had little or no waking effect. I needed to make it the ten miles to transition and down a Starbuck's Cappuccino. Struggling mightily, I finally arrived at the tent (my sister and niece surprised me by putting up it up earlier that day) and extracted my bottle of chocolate wonder from the cooler. I unscrewed the cap and chugged its contents. In my depleted state, the caffeine provided a near-instantaneous buzz and I was off again.
The course had more than its fair share of climbs, but with them were a few nice descents. In particular was the stair-stepped double-descent that led to the finish line. These were 40mph drops made all the more exhilarating by the utter blackness of the night. The first one was arrow-straight and the second one bent slightly to the right. I flew down these keeping a line just to the right of the double yellow, all the while not seeing more than twenty-feet ahead. It probably sounds crazier than it actually was, but those two downhills were outrageously exciting.
In the darkness of lap-19, a gal went by me and we exchanged pleasantries. I didn't know what group she was in and I didn't know if I had unwittingly ingested some Floyd Landis, testostrone-laced supplement, but I did know that I was feeling my oats. I repassed her and put the hammer down. Her bike was distinguished by an excellent lighting system so I knew that it was her keeping up. She observed the 7-meter rule and followed my blazing, blue wheel lights. We blew by one racer after another. I stood on every roller and rode all-out down every hill. It was probably unwise to expend that much effort but it sure was fun. We rolled through the lap count together and laughingly acknowledged one another's excellent riding.
By the Dawn's Early Light
It's a strange sensation realizing that you've stayed on your bike for consecutive sunrises. By now I knew the drill, but that ball of hot gas breaching the horizon was still a glorious sight. With it came the knowledge that I'd reach 400 miles by 8am or so. And that would mean I would have until 5:30pm to complete the final five laps. Piece of cake
After twenty times around, at least by my count, I pulled over near the lap-counters and inquired if I could have a lap check, just to be sure. Bravo. Our numbers jibed. Only five to go. There was just one problem. The light breeze from Friday had turned around on this Saturday morning and was blowing at 15mph with gusts to 25mph. I abandoned the big chain ring I had ridden exclusively to that point and spun a little gear up and over the rollers. Each lap became increasingly difficult as I climbed the rollers into the headwind. As painstakingly slow as I seemed to be crawling, I knew that if I just kept the pedals turning I'd be in before the cutoff. No way was I riding 500 only to have my time not count.
Lap after painful lap, it became even more of a mental challenge than a physical one. When at long last I announced to the lap counters that I had just one go-around remaining, they gave me a big cheer. I had over four hours to ride twenty miles so I thought I'd make it a victory lap and just soak in the race. It wasn't long before I noticed that the wind had performed yet another shift. This time is was tailwind baby. The two-mile connector I had ridden off of during lap-one now saw me spinning my big gear at 26mph. The rollers that spit in my face for the last four circuits, I ate up on my big ring. It was as if a divine hand had touched my last lap. What a way to finish.
The Numbers
In the end I covered the 500 miles in 33hrs 45min and 25sec. It was good enough for 4th place and qualified me for RAAM. In retrospect, I know I could have gone faster. If there's a next time at this race, I imagine I can cut at least an hour from my time. Experience alone would count for that much. My average speed was 14.8192 mph including my breaks. It was over 15mph of pure riding time. 22 riders started the 500 and just 10 completed it.
