Though much is taken, much abides; and thoughWe are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
- Ulysses, T.S. Eliot.
This is not a race, which suits me because I am not a bike racer. Release the hounds, control the chaos, Murphy commands thee – go forward and conquer! You can win this. Yes, you. Win. This.
This is not a race. I more or less managed to stay with the tete de la course up until the top of Mt. Tamalpais with the help of the mighty Krishna pulling me (and others) across the bridge and through the streets of Sausalito. Although he is by far stronger than I, he somehow managed to come from behind and pass me several times. This is an example of just how tough SF Enduro is, not only physically demanding but mentally as well. I was well aware, and prepared for all the physical pain the Marin fire roads could dish out but I was not expecting the mental and emotional drain SF Enduro would inflict. I feared taking a wrong turn. I feared the unknown intersection, and I felt like I could cry – yes, actually cry. But this is not a sad sob story, and enough of this baby whining – back to the race report. This is not a race.
After cresting the East Peak I joined the tete de la course as we headed down Eldridge Grade (Holy Rocky Mother of All UnHoly What The Fuck). I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep the pace on the descent, so I took a moment to fuel up as I watched Dave courageously give chase. Dave has a way of knowing how to stay up front, no need to read the map when you are on the leader’s wheel. As for me, I cautiously made my way down, picking my lines and picking up a fellow enduro. Although new to the bay area, just three weeks away from Minnesota, he had already ponied up his dues for the norcal hardmen of the peloton club (you’re invited). He indicated they have gravel back home, but this was a whole new ballgame. This is not a race. We continued our descent, stopping to lend a bike pump (frame pump = good idea) to a chap racing on tubular Dugast tires. We all make choices and he chose tubulars. At least they were Dugast. We continued down to the lake and the three soon became four with the addition of a lost DFL soul. Together we took two wrong turns before heading back and running into a trio led by Ernesto. I jumped on his wheel and soon we made our way to the parking lot. After a few more circular moments to make sure we truly did not know where we were going, we finally made our way through the golf course and onto Bolinas Fairfax Road. We all made the climb to Pine Hill Road together were we stopped at the trail head to debate the meaning of the “no bicycles” signage. What to do? “Surely Murphy wouldn’t send us on a trail without bicycles,” some said. Others weighed in, “Actually, that that is exactly what Murphy would do.” The map said take Pine Hill Road and the trail sign said Pine Hill Road so … we must go. I took a closer look at the no bicycle sign and concluded that the sign prohibited bikes in the watershed area, but not necessarily on the trails. On the trails bike were legal; off the trails – no bikes. Everyone seemed to agree and we continued on our way. Shortly thereafter, our decision to take the no bike’s allowed bike trail was confirmed as correct when hikers indicated a man wearing pink riding a mountain bike was just in front of us (gotta love the Sheila Moon kit.) We continued to climb, stretching the gaps between us. I confess, I found myself off the back, walking sections. But I was not the only one – you too can confess your sins and you will be forgiven.
By CP2 the lead (DFL Brad) already had 40 minutes on me. Dave was in 8th place and our group was the low 20s. Not bad considering multiple confusion stops. As the others continued on, Ernesto and I spent an additional couple of minutes fueling up and comparing SF Enduro so far with La Ruta Loca Randonee (a 200 km mix terrain randonee we both rode this past summer). Ernesto felt La Ruta more difficult, I disagreed, finding the terrain much more challenging here. In the end, I think we both would agree that each were difficult, and each beautiful in their own way. However, SF Enduro was by far more challenging. Ride them both for yourself if you disagree.
We left CP2 together and descended upon a familiar face. Mark had blown front and back tires and only had a minipump, which should be called a whussy pump. Again, there is no substitute for a proper frame pump (except a good minipump – let me know if you know of one). Ernesto continued on, mindful of his time (this is not a race) while I stayed with Mark as he pumped up his tires. I am a firm believer in bike karma and I am confident that my two stops to help others resulted in no punctures for me. But all the karma in the world could not keep me from struggling with the steep pitches and rocky terrain between CP2 and CP3. At the first four way intersection I confidently went the right way, but then at the next intersection I did not know which way to go. So of course I went the wrong way, descending 500 feet or so before realizing that this may not be the route. I hauled my ass back up to the original intersection where I saw another rider, unmistakably taking part in this. This is not a race. There was no mistaking him for a weekend mountain bike recreational rider - Zeitgeist kit, with a fish riding on the back of a tandem, definitely Enduro material. He saw me and pointed to the left, up a small incline. “Are you sure?” “No, but pretty sure.” Close enough for me so on I went, and sure enough I soon hit CP3. At this point I (and the fish tandem) were considering calling it quits once we get back down to pavement. I can’t take much more of this. This is not a race. Just give me a god dam road and I’ll take it from there. But first I needed to get to pavement which meant I had to continue.
I soon came upon what I though was another biker in distress. I slowed asking if they needed anything (you can never have too much good karma). All I heard was “Whawhawha Murphy.” Huh? I thought, there is Murphy’s Oil and also Murphy’s Irish Stout. Could this be what they wanted? They looked at me and asked again something about Murphy and whether I was part of an event, “you know … do you have a map?” Again, I was stumped. Was this a test? I recall my instructions that if asked, I was not part of event, rather just out enjoying the day. Luckily, my synapses connected and I realized I had made it to CP4. Fish tandem soon followed and I expressed my doubts about finishing the race. This is not a race. However, the wonderful volunteers of CP4 pointed across the valley to the next peak saying that was the finish. The last checkpoint, get there, and then you can go home. You can do it. You can.
A huge thank you to CP4 for helping fish tandem and me put on the cape of courage and go on to the finish. We both stopped under Sir Frances Drake for a little pick me up and a chat with Murphy. I introduced myself and Murphy gave directions to CP5 and some unsolicited encouragement. “No one is going up to CP6, the second time bonus, if you go you can win this. You can win.” For a second, I thought, yes I could – if this was a race, which I don’t think it was – I could win. As I rode off and up Gunshot, Murphy called out, “You can Win!!!!”
I would love to tell you that crushed it up Gunshot, and then set the bonus time lap record taking the overall win. But I can not, and I did not. I did not win, but I did finish. I climbed, and walked and climbed some more. Though exhausted, reaching CP5 I felt great. I felt alive, happy. I was all smiles, as I started my descent onto the pavement and through the familiar Marin towns. I pushed it hard into Sausalito, where to my surprise fish tandem passed me despite him arriving first at CP5. He dropped me at a light in Sausalito and I lost contact over the bridge so I stopped to check directions to the finish. After a few more wrong turns and a couple more hundred feet of climbing (including a set of stairs on the back of Lone Mountain) I finished. Beer and pork in hand I communed with my fellow riders but then it was home for me. This was not a race. I am not a bike racer.
That night I extolled my achievement, the hardest day on a bike for me, ever. Mentally and physically there were a number of times when I was ready to quit. But I continued. “Would you do it again?” No. Too hard, too many bumps. I was wiped.
The next day, after I had time to think about it, I changed my mind, and said that I would do it again. Yeah there were bumps, but only on the hills. I could handle it.
And then the next day, after I had some more time to think about it, not only would I do it again, I wanted to do it again. I wanted to beat my time, beat my friend’s time, beat your time and maybe, just maybe win it. I could win it, after all, it’s not a race and I am not a bike racer.
http://www.strava.com/rides/82842
