60 seconds to finish the Cascade 1200

Part II: Randonneurs ride alone in a race against the clock, but finishing within the time limit comes at a cost.

There are as many reasons to ride a 1200 kilometer Brevet as there are riders at the starting line, and just as many roads leading there. Yet, I believe that each of the 70 riders at the starting line of the Cascade 1200 could be characterized in one of two ways: those whose goal was to ride this Brevet, and those whose goal was to finish it. I am not saying that all 20 of the riders who did not finish (DNF) were in the first group; but I do believe that more of them would have finished had they been in the second.

The idea of riding the Cascade 1200 came to me on the cusp of my 50th birthday. I was looking for a challenge that would mark a half-century of living with a major achievement. I developed a multi-faceted training regimen that would prepare my body to withstand the punishment that would certainly come during a mountainous, 1200 kilometer Brevet. I penciled the milestones in my calendar: knee surgery in December, rehab in January, resume riding and resistance training in February, Permanents and Brevets beginning in March. The qualifying Brevet series in April, May and June.

I also focused on getting my Atlantis ready for a 760 mile ride through the Washington outback, where there would be no SAG wagons, no mechanics, no bicycle stores for hundreds of miles. I hand-picked every component, road-tested them, and weeded out the parts showed any sign of weakness. And, I enrolled in a 10-week bicycle overhaul class to make sure I could handle a serious breakdown if it happened.

I prepared my body and my bike completely, and this gave me great confidence in my ability to finish. But this was my first 1200, and there are some things that you have to experience for yourself. In this case, the event showed me that while my body and bike were strong, I was not prepared for the psychological challenges that I would face on this ride brought on by lack of food, water and sleep.

The organizers had promoted the fact that no one had DNF’d after the second day of the 2005 event. The third day was reportedly the easiest. At 167 miles, it was the shortest. But, as Ultra Randonneur Del Scharffenberg points out, “Every route will vary from year to year due to heat or cold, rain, or headwinds.” Last year, it was rain. This year, it was heat.

As a native San Diegan, I was no stranger to spending full days under an intense sun. I learned to manage my body temperature in extreme heat, backpacking through the deserts of Anza Borrego and Baja, California. Going into the ride, I had no idea I would tap those memory cells riding in Washington state. Temperatures were reportedly 109 degrees as we made our way out of the Coulee Basin, climbing the steep grade on US Highway 2 to the grange hall at Farmer.

“You are the freshest-looking rider we have seen walk though that door,” said Mary Gersema from her chair just beyond the desk where a SIR volunteer was signing Brevet cards. Mary was one-half of the pair of riders that had become known to us as “the tandem.” Her partner Ed Felker was asleep in a chair, recharging his batteries. There were at least a dozen other riders in the building who were not doing so well.

My riding partner was one of them. He had ridden hard since we left Quincy that morning. When I finally caught him just beyond the crest of the climb out of Coulee Basin, he told me he was done. He is fair-skinned and blonde-haired; he had survived the heat in the Yakima Valley the day before by getting underneath shade trees, sprinklers, and hoses every chance he could get. There had been no such relief here on the Columbia Plateau.

Within moments of his arrival at the Farmer control, he found his way to the back corner of the room, and he fell asleep. I ate a sandwich, filled my Camelback with ice, and then I sat on the floor beside him.

“Nate, how are you doing?” I asked.

He woke easily. “I am scheduled to fly to New York on Thursday. I can’t mess myself up.”

It was Monday afternoon.

“Let’s get some ice on your forehead,” I said.

“I am not going any farther,” he said. “I am just no good in the heat.”

We had arrived at Farmer Control about one hour before it was scheduled to close; given the temperature, I felt good about that. But we had spent at least a half-hour there, leaving us with barely a 30 minutes to reach the next Control. Such a narrow margin could easily be blown fixing a single flat tire.

Nate and I had ridden thousands of miles together since February, training and talking and dreaming of the Cascade 1200. He had pulled me through some rough patches on the road to the starting line in Monroe. How could I leave him here?

“I will stay here with you.”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Don’t wait for me. Ride.”

I walked outside of the building and loaded a handful of cookies into my handlebar bag. Just then, I saw two Oregon Randonneurs walking across the parking lot. One of them was the Susan France, RBA (Regional Brevet Administrator) and head of Oregon Randonneurs. I told her about Nate’s condition and his decision.

“You need to get on the bike and start riding for the next Control,” she said without hesitating. “You are running out of time. We will talk to Nate.”

The road from Farmer down to the Columbia River was desolate. There were no trees on this plateau. Just fields of dried grasses and huge boulders strewn about, probably the remnants of the floods that formed this place some 10,000 years ago.

I was alone on this road. I don’t think I saw more than three cars over the 14 mile stretch that led off of this plateau and down to Highway 97 and the Columbia River. I had plenty of time to reflect on my decision to ride away from Nate.

Cyclotouring is not a team sport, but it is easy to confuse it with one because we so often ride with a buddy. I have learned that Randonneurs ride alone, no matter how big a group one is in. Even so, leaving Nate at Farmer ran counter to the sporting ethic I head learned as a soccer player and coach. For me, winning was an empty reward if it meant comprimising the team, and in my mind, Nate and I are a team.

I realize that the rule book states there are no teams on a 1200 kilometer brevet; there are no winners or losers, just those that finish in time and those that do not. But these legal definitions were not going to change things for me. Riding away from Nate was the wrong thing for me to do, and I knew that as soon as I started pedaling.

But that was not the only mistake I made, unfortunately. In putting so much mental focus on the decision to ride away from the Farmer grange hall, I failed to consider the implications that Nate’s condition might have for me. Between the two of us, Nate was the stronger rider and yet he was the one on his back, overheated and exhausted, telling me he could not go any farther.

What I should have recognized was that it could just have easily been me there on the floor. If I had interpreted his condition as a warning that I, too, was riding very close to the limits of my abilities I would have managed the rest of this day very differently.

As it turned out, Nate did finish the 1200K, about 15 minutes ahead of me. I would like to share the tale of how that happened – including the part where he found me – asleep in an emergency blanket, along side the road in the North Cascades – but you will have to wait for my forthcoming book from Road Bike Rider to get the whole story.

In the meantime, check back here next week for the third installment in this series, where I will share the lessons I learned about the effect a 1200 kilometer bike ride has on the body.

Photos courtesy of Nate Armbrust and Mary Gersema.

Miss an installment? Read Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Commercial Break.

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