Smoke and Fire 400, Day 2

Rivers in the night

One significant advantage of chronic dehydration is not being bothered by the pesky need to stop what you are doing and answer the call of nature. In bikepacking, this can be a powerful advantage over your competitors, and is often overlooked as a race strategy.

My deep and much-appreciated sleep on the north side of Couch Summit was broken twice during the night by a mixed blessing: needing to pee. I say mixed because there is nothing more annoying than having to climb out of a cozy bivy sack, stumble an adequate distance from said bivy sack--preferably downslope--and struggle to maintain balance while nature perpetuates the water/mineral cycle, trying to maintain a balance of its own. However, this annoyance and inconvenience pales in comparison to NOT climbing out of a cozy bivy sack while nature perpetuates the water/mineral cycle--especially during a multi-day bikepacking race.

The fact that my body determined that it had an excess of fluid and was ready to purge useless water was indeed a good sign. I think we can all agree that 'Red Orange' is a fine color for Thanksgiving art projects, but not so good as a urine color. Suffice to say, on day one I could have produced some fine looking hand-print turkey cutouts for the holiday table. Day two was clearly going to be better, so to speak.

Not a good sign

My intention was to wake at 6 AM and try to get a head start on the day's first challenge: Dollarhyde. As a climb, Dollarhyde holds a fabled place in SNF racers' minds; but like the Wizard of Oz, or strawberry PopTarts, the actual thing doesn't quite live up to its billing. None-the-less, at 5:25 AM I was pulling out of the campground ready to re-join the original SNF route about a mile ahead.

Darkness fills my eyes

I realized that I would be riding in pitch dark for about an hour and a half, so I needed to get my Uber-awesome, German headlight working. In the mental clarity afforded by a night's (mostly) sleep, I noticed that a wire from my dynahub was not contacting light securely; well, mental clarity and the fact that as the wire would jiggle in time to the sadistic rhythm of the washboard road surface, a small blue arc of electricity was being produced at the loose connection.

Electrical circuits once again closed and the world was new again. The riding along the South Fork of the Boise river was peaceful and surprisingly warm in the pre-dawn hours. As such, I found myself in the gathering light at the bridge that marks the start of the Dollarhyde climb shedding my arm and leg warmers, my gloves and my Windstopper jacket, in no time flat.

Dollarhyde Summit sunrise

Once I reached the summit, I called MTBCast with a slightly less dismal report/prediction for the day ahead. On the climb I had hatched a plan, that if I was able to pull it off, could get me right into the thick of the second tier of the race. I called it my, "first grade" strategy, and it was so stunningly simple I was sure it would work brilliantly: I would ride for 5-6 hours, then take a 1-2 hour nap, ride for 5-6 hours, then take a 1-2 hour nap, and so on. The genius of this concept is that it could allow one to ride through the night by avoiding one big healthy dose of sleep. The obvious stupidity of this plan is that all of those 1-2 hour naps add up: add up to roughly one good night's sleep of restorative sleep. I called it, 'first grade' because it was a better living through napping strategy; I should have called it, 'first grade' because of the level of intellectual rigor that produced it.

Looking up at the Dollarhyde saddle

The fast descent into Ketchum was a blast, but I was getting passed by a fairly steady stream of riders, some of them with a little more attitude than was absolutely necessary, in my opinion. I clearly had moved up in the peloton and was just being passed by riders who were faster than me, right? I mean, it couldn't be that I was faltering, could it? 

Scrambled

The answer came as I was trying to negotiate the stairs into one of Ketchum's iconic morning eateries: The Kneadery. Not only were the steps higher than I remembered them, but the last time I was at The Kneadery, the floor wasn't sliding side to side and shaking; not only that, but I never found myself falling into fellow patrons as they attempted to negotiate the down lane of the stairs like I did today. I cautiously made my way into the men's room to wash up a bit before taking my seat at the bar. Surely, a splash of cold water on my face would stop the building from moving; but no, as soon as the clear, cold Idaho Snake River Plain aquifer water hit my face I was overcome with an intense wave of nausea. Oh, please, not here, not HERE. I put my head down hoping the gesture would serve as 'leadership by example' to the contents of my stomach. The wave passed and I felt relatively Ok, as I bellied up to the bar and ordered the daily special scramble--Daily Special, it will be quick and easy for the kitchen to make and get out to me, right? Not so much. Apparently, the daily special gets a special amount of attention from the chef, because I sat drinking $4 orange juices and ice cold water for nearly 30 mins--or as I was thinking of it, half of a nap.

By the time my food arrived, I was, once again, experiencing waves of nausea, so I ate an amount that I thought I would be comfortable cleaning up off of the worn pine floorboards and got the rest to go. I quickly made my way out of town, but not before stopping to buy 2 chocolate milks and a small bag of salty chips, a massive burrito and some gummy bears.

Valley of the Wood

As I exited the highway and threaded the 3 wooden posts that mark the entrance to the Harriman Trail, I was feeling quite well, as the 25 or so minute spin had allowed my food and my nausea to reach some form of detente within my body. The cloudless sky and Boulder Mountains called me deeper into the Central Idaho beauty that is the Wood River Valley.  I was soon joined by another rider who passed me with what could only have been an overly polite gesture of a friendly, "Nice pace." I say a polite gesture because his pace was easily 20-25% faster than my own, but the kindness of his thinly-veiled lie was not lost on me.

Which way to the stage entrance??

Entering into the first campground that disrupts the Harriman Trail, I was surprised to see my brief companion circling around the campsites as if he was looking for just the perfect place to pitch his bivy for a nice late-morning nap. As it turns out, he had lost the scent of the proper trail and was searching desperately for the road that would take us back north on our route. Like two soap bubbles circling the drain, we soft-pedaled lap after lap around the campground looking for anything indicating our appointed path. We stumbled upon the camp hosts cleaning a bathroom, and doing the most un-manlike thing I have ever done, I asked them how to find the Harriman Trail.

To look at them, these were not outdoorsy people. For one thing, they were using a golf cart to cover amazingly short distances within the campground, but that may have been mandated for them; more telling, however, was the fact that, although they were camp hosts, they were dressed quite sharply--the woman sporting full makeup and jewelry, and the man, not only over-dressed by half for his bathroom cleaning duties, was also sporting a healthy splash of cologne. The thought occurred to me that maybe we interrupted some mid-morning tryst by the Big Wood River, when the woman turned to me and said, 'I like your earring,' referring to the small crucifix that clung to my left earlobe. 'Thanks!," I said. It was the nicest thing anyone would say to me all day.

The Harriman Trail and Boulder mountains

All dressed up and no way I can go

Somehow despite getting sick, lost and humiliated, a bit over 2 hours after I left the Ketchum city limits, I again crossed highway 75, this time into the parking lot of Galena Lodge. Even with the yummy breakfast in town, the climb to this point at the base of Galena Summit had taken a lot out of me and I was spiraling lower and lower. It didn't help that as I approached the outdoor deck that marks the entrance of the cozy lodge I found myself surrounded by a group of middle-aged road cyclists, all sporting $5-6,000 road bikes with unpronounceable names and matching racing kits (size XL). The entire scene could have been out of a high-end touring catalogue as, although they were comparing war stories of their day thus far, not one of them showed any signs of exertion at all. Their tires were even pristinely clean. 

I tried to ignore their stares, but honestly, I felt pretty conspicuous as it occurred to me that I may have been the only one who rode my bike to its current location. It looked for all the world as if their bikes had been placed as props by highly-paid set directors, or tour guides. None-the-less, I made my food purchases of more chocolate milk, 2 more bags of Maui potato chips, and some sandwich concoction that proudly proclaimed itself to be fresh made. To my haul, I added a Gatorade before venturing back outside to spoil the perfect middle-aged cycling fantasy scene. 'Which flavor?' the athletic-looking girl behind the counter asked. "Does it matter?" I responded. 'No, probably not. How about 'Cascade Breeze'? Care to guess what color that is? 'Blue?" I guessed. "Yep!" She laughed, "But I bet that is the only difference."

Dog Park

At this point, I could feel my energy draining out as if someone had removed the plug that was keeping the life blood inside me. I stumbled to a shady spot near the parking lot entrance, and lay down next to my bike on some late summer alpine grasses. I had just blocked the cobalt sky with my closing eyelids when a foul odor wafted over me. It had to be pretty powerful because I could smell it; by this time I was pretty rank. My mind took a few milliseconds to place the smell, but when the match was made, there was no doubt--dog poop. Apparently, I had chosen as my lifeblood recovery location, the place where I would regain my strength to get up and over Galena Pass, the place to eat my Galena Lodge cookie, the very same location where people sent their dogs to do their business before or after accompanying them running or riding on Galena's miles and miles of trails. Yippee. I glanced over at the food I had laid out to aid in my recovery--sports bars and food of every variety and kind--suddenly, I was overcome by a wave of nausea from just the sight of such items. I closed my eyes and rolled closer to the dog poop.

'I nearly crushed your head like a melon!'

I was awakened by the slamming of a pickup door just inches from my head. "Hey, didn't see you there! I almost ran right over you!" My cheerful, would-be murderer, was a Blaine County Recreation District employee, likely pulling in to grab a quick lunch at the lodge. "Oh that you would have," I thought. "Oh, that you would have...."

The Call....

"I am at Galena Lodge, and I really don't think I can go on." I said into the phone attached at the other end to my wife, Angie's ear. "I KNOW you are. You are doing GREAT!" Clearly, although I was the one at 7,000 feet of elevation, she was suffering from a severe form of hypoxia. "Seriously, I can't keep food or water down and I have NO energy to get over that pass." Strictly speaking, I was being 100% truthful; honestly speaking, I was hoping that she would drop what she was doing and come rescue me.

She wasn't biting.

A family practice physician, Angie had seen these symptoms before, and unfortunately for my current mindset, knew just what to do about them. She walked me through the re-hydration process with salt tablets and water with brief bouts of rest, repeated on a 15-min schedule until the problem is resolved. I was skeptical, as I had been taking salt tablets, but knew she would never come pick me up if I didn't at least try it her way. To my great surprise, she was right; she was exactly right, and within 20 mins or so, I felt good enough to remount my bike and turn it northward....and upward.

Up...and down

To my amazement the climb went Ok. I have ridden up Galena numerous times, like most cyclists in southern Idaho, and this was no record-setting time, but I was up and over something that I had thought impossible just a short time earlier and that was worth something.

As I careened down the rocky, historic wagon road off of the summit into the Sawtooth valley, could feel the tide was turning. My vision was clearer, I was no longer hounded by the constant mini-hiccups that kept me from taking a deep breath and that threatened to become something much larger--and messier. I was actually enjoying myself.

Sawtooth mountains from the Centennial Trail

I was jolted out of my reverie by the approach of my friend, David Thomas. He is a much better descender than I and soon all I could see was the dust kicked up by his rear tire, but I didn't care. I was feeling better, I was riding with someone I knew and we were in the Sawtooths! Things were definitely looking up--and so were we: at what appeared to be an endless winding gravel road that generally headed north, but took, what was for me a far too circuitous route, getting there.

I confessed to David that had he called his wife, Mary, to pick him up at Galena Lodge, I would have gladly joined them for the trip back to Boise. "Yeah, I know. I have been rehearsing that phone call in my head for the past two hours." Hey, at least I wasn't suffering alone.

We discussed our sleep plans for the night, and we both decided that somewhere along the famed and vaunted Fisher Creek trail would make a fine end to a miserable, yet ultimately triumphant day. Glancing at my Garmin, I noted that the sun would be setting at exactly 8 PM, about 2 hours in the future. I calculated that I could make it to the first meadow of Fisher Creek, get an actual good night's sleep, and attack Friday with everything I had. With a firm plan in mind, my pedals moved just a tick faster, and David and I separated as we moved our way up the Sawtooth valley.

September bears in Idaho, especially in Blaine and Custer counties, are somewhat notorious. I have heard Ketchum residents say that you don't lock your doors in Ketchum as protection against thieves, you lock them for protection against bears. That I was carrying 5-6 pounds of high-energy food into the backcountry for an overnight stay gave me pause. Then I remembered the words of my friend John, one of the world's leading experts on bears and bear behavior. He had recently told me that bears rarely caused him much concern; it was mountain lions that scared him, because to a mountain lion a person is only one thing: food.

These words were still ringing in my head as I rode past the summer homes that mark the entrance to the Fisher Creek trail. I suppose it was the lateness of the day, the fact that I was alone, or just good old common sense, but I began to get uneasy about heading into the woods alone. At night. With food. Did I mention I was alone?

The beast in its tracks....

It was just then that I saw it: a tan colored animal, low to the ground, darting stealthily in the roadside brush just ahead of me. I still hadn't had time to fully comprehend what I was seeing when the animal bolted like a flash onto the road right in front of me---

Situations like this always raise the same question in my mind: who was more scared, me or the rabbit that just jumped in front of me? In this case, it was definitely me, as the rabbit appeared as though he was looking for a race or at least someone to run along side for a while. At this point, my shaky reasoning convinced me that I was not likely to be targeted by a mountain lion when said lion had so many fluffy and apparently playful, bunnies around. My heart rate fell back into the triple digits.

It soon became apparent that word had gotten out in BunnyWorld that there was a chase to be had with a hapless cyclist, as every 100 yards or so a fresh cottontail would leap onto the road in front of, or beside me. "You know that 'slow and steady wins the race', right?" I shouted to one particularly energetic leporidae. "Oh, that's right, you CAN'T READ so you have never heard that story!" I added. Now, I am no expert, but I have heard that talking to yourself is normal, and answering yourself is a sign of impending mental breakdown; again, I am no expert, but I think that talking smack to bunnies is not usually associated with winning a MacArthur Foundation (Genius) Grant. Just sayin'.

First meadow

With 5 minutes to spare, I made it safely to the first meadow and my goal for the night. This is not a meadow in a traditional sense, as it was burned to the dirt about a decade ago, but old labels die hard, and so it is and always will be in my mind, 'the first meadow'.

"The First Meadow" with time to spare

I set up my bivy, ate half of the giant burrito, brushed my teeth and hung my food bag all within about 20 minutes. At 8:23 with the last light of day slowly fading I popped a Benadryl and prepared for a long recovery sleep.

Just as I pulled my down coat close to my neck beneath my satisfied grin, I spotted two headlights moving towards me on the trail, not 30 feet away. I was immediately struck by a wave of urgency to re-pack my gear and join these two hardy adventurers instead of losing ground to them.

"Ah, screw 'em", I said, and with that faded off into a drug-enhanced stupor that I hoped would last until dawn.

To be continued.