60 Seconds to finish the Cascade 1200

Part VI: Great things can happen when you discover your true values.

It was about 5 o’clock in the afternoon. I had made it to State Route 530 – the road that would take me most of the way to the final control in Granite Falls. The summer sun was still high in the sky, but the trees here were so dense that the light was not making it the roadway. I stopped to put on my reflective vest and ankle bands. I could hear the Sauk River rushing along side the road, but I could not see it. I switched on the flasher mounted to my helmet and I began to ride again. Occasionally, the foliage thinned to let long shafts of sunlight through the canopy. When I could see the river, I noticed it had taken the color of the afternoon sun and was glistening gold and silver.

Oddly, the pain that had plagued my ride for the past two days was gone completely from my consciousness. I was suffering from saddle-sores, yet I was able to sit comfortably on the saddle. I could see that my knees and ankles were terribly swollen, but I was able to turn the pedals without feeling a twinge of pain.

Some might call this a runner’s high. Others would credit this to the release of endorphins – natural pain killers released into the bloodstream. I did not care what was causing it; I was taking full advantage, and I sailed down the highway at 25 miles per hour.

Euphoria wasn’t the only neurological phenomenon I was experiencing. On at least three occasions, I saw riders in the distance, making their turns at the next elbow in the road and then disappearing behind the trees. Each time I saw them, I leapt out of the saddle and hammered until I reached the turn, hoping that I would catch them, or at least see them more clearly and prove to myself that I wasn’t hallucinating. After the third attempt, I concluded that I had been seeing phantoms, the precious memories of randonneurs long since gone, but having left a vivid impression on a landscape.

Today I still cannot be sure if the figures I saw along the Sauk River were real or imagined. But the riders I saw making the sharp right turn in Darrington were real. Although they, too, were at least a quarter-mile away, there were no trees blocking my view of the road after they made the turn; I could see them rolling.

When I reached the next turn in the road they were out of sight, but I knew I could catch them if I just kept the pedals turning. Then, all at once, I was hit by a blast of cool air – a onshore winds coming across the Puget Lowlands. Behind me, I heard someone yelling my name. I looked over my shoulder and I saw that it was Susan. She and Peg had stopped at a gas station to load a rider who, after 700 miles, had finally succumbed to exhaustion. I turned the bike around and rode up to them.

“I thought I saw riders,” I said to her, out of breath.

“You did,” she answered. They were the Tennesseans. They rolled through here five minutes ago.”

Peg refilled my Camelback with ice. I grabbed a handful of cookies from my handlebar bag.

“You made up an hour in this last leg,” Susan said. “You are back in it.”

While I was excited by the news, I knew she did not mean that a 90-hour finish was in the bag.

I thanked them both, and rolled out of the station and onto SR 530. The wind was blowing hard. I cranked it up until I could feel the burn of the lactic acid in my thighs. I looked down and my speedometer. It read 13 mph. I cranked it up some more.

The Floridians

Long rows of tall trees, planted decades ago by farmers to create wind breaks for their crops, helped me increase my speed. I took stock of my body. I was certain I could hold this pace. I was not so sure about my mind.

I was seeing ghost riders again. Unlike the others I had seen this one couldn’t be a rando, at least not one riding this Brevet, because he seemed to be circling on a side road, just off the main highway. I approached the place where I had seen him. His visage became sharper. This was no ghost. The rider was timing his entry onto the highway so that he would be rolling along side of me when I reached him.

“Hello,” he said. “We heard somebody was back here might need some help against this wind. I am with a group just ahead. If you want, I willl pull you up.”

This was unbelievable. A rider who had never met me had waited for me so that I might have a chance to beat the clock. It was the kind of selfless act that differentiates randonneuring from any other form of competitive cycling.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Tim Bol,” he answered. “I am one of the Floridians.”

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” I said. “Lets reel them in.”

Together, against a wind that was blowing steady at about 20 miles per hour, Tim and I we were able to ride at about 17. Soon, his group came into view. Kathy Murphy and Lisa Butkus were riding at about 13 when we reached them.

I had been riding alone for the past six hours and now, here I was, riding with a group and heading for the finish line.

From my position at the back of our little pace line, I could see that these three riders were all very fit. In our brief conversation on the way across the gap, I learned that Tim had ridden the most renowned Brevets in the world including Boston-Montreal-Boston, and Paris-Brest-Paris. I could see that Lisa, too, was experienced; she wore the BMB jersey. I also saw her massaging her hip and low back with her hand. Clearly, she was in pain.

“Have you seen the Tennesseans?” I asked.

“They passed us a while back,” answered Tim. “They were riding at about 18. You should ride up to them, David. We are not going to make it before the cut-off.”

Tim was right. At 13 miles an hour, there was no chance of making Monroe by midnight. But I knew that an average speed of 15 miles an hour would do the trick.

I have heard it said that the issues in your life keep coming around until you deal with them. I could not believe that mine had lapped me twice on the same ride. I rode away from Nate Armbrust at the Farmer Control the day before because at that moment, the finisher’s medal was more important to me then getting him back on the road.

Now, with less than six hours to the cut-off, a total stranger had waited for me and pulled me across the gap to his group. But the group was not riding fast enough to medal. Now I had a new decision to make.

I had evaluated my reasons for leaving Nate and I came to the conclusion that, under the pressure of the moment, I had compromised my values. Call it what you will: deja vu, providence, a gift from God … but I had a second chance to get this right.

I rode up to the front of the line, just to the left of Tim’s rear wheel.

“I am going to finish with you guys,” I said. “But Tim, if we can lift our pace to 15, all of us can make the cut-off.”

Tim dropped back and the four of us were riding in a pod.

“How are you doing, Lisa?” he asked. “Do you think you can pick up the pace to 15? David has done the math. He thinks that 15 miles an hour will get us there before midnight.”

“I want to do it,” she answered. “I can. I can do it.”

“Kathy?”

“I’m good. Lets do it.”

Lisa stood on the cranks. Four riders – three from Florida, one rider from Oregon – were now pulling as one, determined to make it to the finish in time to medal. It was 9 o’clock.

We ran down the highway at a pretty good clip for about 40 miles, often well above the 15 miles per hour we needed. Then we saw it – a sign post that read: Granite Falls 2 miles.

We had reached the final control.

The race for the finish line

“Don’t go inside,” said Susan. We can sign Brevet Cards out here.”

As an RBA and a ride official, she had the authority and the credentials to do that. But why would she want to? We had reached this Control before 10:30pm, well ahead of closing, leaving us 90 minutes to cover the 21 miles to the finish.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

What Susan knew then but did not share is that the terrain that lay in front of us was going to be as physically challenging as it was mentally vexing. Imagine a landscape where a hundred tiny hills are quilted together into an earthen blanket. We would have to maintain a moving average speed of 15 miles an hour as we navigated this bizarre terrain, locating 14 turns between the Granite Falls as Monroe; we could not afford to be off course for a minute.

The four of us remounted our bikes and rode away from the Chevron. As the lights of Granite Falls dimmed behind us, our little group reorganized. Lisa took the lead position and set our pace. Tim rode right behind her. He had a powerful lamp affixed to his helmet, which he used to light up the street signs ahead of us. Kathy rode behind him, and I directly behind her. It was my job to read the map and call out the next turn and our distance from it to Tim.

My trust in Tim and our reliance on one another intensified as we rode. I have never had a riding experience quite like this. It was as if the four of us were riding in a bubble. We were hammering, and yet we stayed so close that we could speak to each other without raising our voices; we could hear each other breathing.

Our spirits lifted as we saw the glow of lights in the distance. It was Monroe. We pedaled harder. I was totally out of my lungs. I could not see my heart rate monitor, but I knew I was over 90 percent of max. I had had been that way for most of the last hour. I knew that I could not have much left.

“Slowing! Slowing!” Tim called out. We had approached a hairpin turn going much too fast. In the light of Tim’s lamps, I could see the road falling away to our left into yet another gully.

I repeated the call to Kathy, but she didn’t answer. Instead I heard the terrible sound of rubber scraping across chip seal.

Oh shit … she is crashing …

I waited to hear the thud of her body hitting the pavement. But it didn’t happen.

I called out into the darkness behind me: “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay. I’m okay.”

She rode up along side me. “I saw my rear wheel in front of me.”

My God, this lady is one strong rider, I thought to myself.

“Are we going to make it?” Lisa asked.

“We are going to make it Lisa. We are going to make it. Just keep pedaling as fast as you can. Pedal as fast as you can,” Tim instructed.

The lights ahead were getting brighter. Maybe this is it. Maybe it is the next ridge. But wait, Tim is taking us down into the gorge away from the light.

“Left, Tim. Left at Chain Lake Road!”

I was screaming. We slowed, then climbed to the ridge together.

Oh my God, we are here. There is the hotel!

“How much time do we have?” Lisa asked.

“Two minutes, maybe three,” I answered. We have got to jam.”

We dropped down the other side of the hill and onto the roadway leading to the hotel. It was almost midnight, and the road was almost completely devoid of cars, except at the place where we needed to turn into the hotel parking lot. Two vehicles were approaching from the opposite direction. Tim, Lisa, and Kathy made the turn. The headlights were blinding me. I knew that turning now was a very bad idea. I mashed the handle bars and the Atlantis swerved left in front of the cars and into the parking lot.

I could see a crowd underneath the hotel portico. Cheers were going up. It was chaos. I rode my bike directly into the crowd. People were hugging me and screaming.

Mostly I remember seeing a sea of faces, most of them strangers, and some of them riders who I had ridden with over the course of the last four days. Then I saw Michael’s face. Then Peter’s. Then RB’s.

RB was hugging me, no, he was pulling me from the bike. I tried to hang on to it … then it was gone. My feet came off the ground. He was carrying me into the hotel lobby. He was screaming so that I could hear him above the cheers.

“It’s not over! It’s not over! You have got to get inside and get your card signed. Give me your Brevet card!”

As we crossed the lobby, RB tore the ziplock bag that held my Brevet card and all the little store receipts that proved I had ridden through every control from my hand, and he threw it across the room onto the table where the officials were seated.

Mark Thomas, president of SIR and Randonneurs USA, was standing there, smiling, but at the same time, looking quite serious.

“Okay, that wasn’t close. You still have 60 seconds to spare.”

Oh my God. Is he joking? Sixty seconds?

My head was swimming. How could I have finished so close to the cut-off? How could I be the last one to cross the finish line of the Cascade 1200 before the cut-off? What if I had arrived just 60 seconds later?

Michael Rasmussen was calling us.

“Come over here, quickly!”

Lisa, Tim, Kathy and I moved to a spot in front of the hotel reception desk. There was a clock on the wall, and Michael wanted a picture of the four of us, in front of it.

It read 12 o’lock – midnight.

The camera flashed. This god-awful Brevet was done. But I knew that my journey as a randonneur had now officially begun.

Read the entire Cascade 1200 series:

Part I: Welcome to the most god-awful Brevet in the Western Hemisphere.

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

Part III: The 1200 is like no other Brevet. It is an unrelenting challenger. Sooner or later it will find your weakness.

Part IV: What makes a good randonneuring bike? Lets begin by discussing what doesn’t.

Part V: A bike that is comfortable and does not fail is an incredible advantage.

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Part VI: Great things can happen when you are true to your values.

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