Self-Talk In Action

Introduction

Ageing isn’t all bad … I think I’ve acquired some wisdom, and at least the money is better. But, being an athlete, I find the inevitable decline of my body a bit hard to take, especially as I have a long history of judging my performance. Sometimes I begin to feel resigned to putting sport behind me … but then I catch myself and dig back in. It’s a constant struggle, and I’m having to talk myself down from negativity time and time again. This post explores the role of “self-talk” in how we see ourselves, and what it “sounds” like when this self-talk is put into action.

What is self-talk?

My cycling friend Mike Ceely, a licensed psychotherapist and founder of Ceely Sports, an athlete coaching company, describes self-talk on his blog, here. It’s a way that an inner voice responds to, and reinforces, a belief system. For example, he considers a gymnast who is a perfectionist: “Maybe her first coach taught her that mistakes were unacceptable. Because of this, her belief system is ‘people won't like me if I make mistakes.’”

Ceely goes on to explain, “The key to changing your beliefs is to listen to the language—often subconscious—that we use to evaluate ourselves.” I completely relate to this, as I beat down the nascent belief system that I’m too old to be an athlete. This comes into play regularly, when I try to keep up with the high school mountain bike racers whom I coach. My self-talk starts up when we’re five minutes into our ride and cranking up a 10% grade. This is the hardest part of the whole ride for me, as I really need to warm up but the kids clearly don’t. So I have this battle of voices: “I’m just not warmed up,” one says, and the other replies, “I’m making excuses. I’m just too old for this.”

Can self-talk be tamed?

What I experience going up that first hill is a fairly typical dialogue for those who don’t just give in and accept the unhelpful belief system. Ceely advises, “Stop using negative self-talk, and start using positive self-talk. This is the ‘outside-in’ approach. Tell yourself something long enough, and you start to believe it. Instead of saying ‘I’ll never get better’ say, ‘I want to get better.’”

Of course this doesn’t mean I should tell myself, “I will get younger.” Ceely points out that “positive self-talk must be realistic. Saying ‘I will win’ when you’re up against tough competition is not smart. Instead say something positive and unconditional like, ‘strong’ or ‘smooth.’”

The psychologist and author Benjamin Hardy, in this article, points out that past success can actually make it harder to stand up to negative self-talk. He notes, “Some of the most difficult negative thoughts will relate to your past. If you’ve been relatively successful in the past, your mind will always make you believe that you’re not as good as you used to be. Your mind will try to convince you that you’ve lost your touch.” In my experience, this seems like a very rational approach. After all, I have all this data—heart rate, average speed, stopwatch times up my favorite climbs—showing me that yes, my body is slowing down, my power output dwindling.

Hardy goes on, “The first step of silencing your mind is to not believe the negative and limiting thoughts that will relentlessly plague you if you’re growing and learning. See these thoughts for what they are—your subconscious wants certainty and predictability.” How true. So often I’ll be riding and will try to match the speed of a kid I used to drop, only to discover that my legs have checked out for the day. My body used to be pretty predictable … it performed pretty much the same, day after day. Now it’s like all the planets have to line up for me to feel “on.”

So what is to be done, when that negative voice comes over my mental PA system reminding me I’m in my 50s? Do I just ignore it? No, it’s more complicated than that. Hardy explains, “Simply trying to avoid negative thoughts is not enough. You must load-up on goal-directed stimuli, which include information, behaviors, environments, etc.”

Ceely describes the inner dialogue really well in this article, saying:

The inner critic is a natural psychological mechanism that all humans have. Its purpose is to problem-solve by pointing out your (real or imagined) errors and flaws. Historically, its purpose was to protect you. Pointing out your errors back in the caveman days was advantageous.

Because your brain uses language to represent ideas, it’s easy to confuse the messages of the inner critic as your own. Instead, think of the inner critic as a linguistic personification of a primal survival mechanism. It’s useful, but tends to overreact and be a bit hyperbolic… The key is to know that your inner critic is just one of many voices, or internal mechanisms, that try to communicate information to you. Think of your inner critic and other internal voices like members of a board of directors, where you are the Founder, CEO, and majority shareholder. You’re in charge. Your job is to listen to the board members, take their words into consideration, then make executive decisions.

Here’s the cool thing: you don’t have to believe everything “you” think. This means you can take the role of the higher self, the observer, the one who dis-identifies from the automatic narrative playing in the background. 

How this plays out fascinates me.

Self-talk in action

All year I’ve been focusing on mountain biking, which for the Albany High team means trail rides of generally 2-3 hours, with lots of breaks along the way. This past weekend, one of the guys on my road team emailed the group suggesting a (road) ride up Mount Diablo, which would be over 80 miles—twice my longest ride of the year—with lots of climbing and very few breaks. As you might imagine, this would be a real stretch for me. But I cautiously accepted, replying, “Sounds good, if you don’t mind a mellow pace,” etc., which I knew would come across as a coded message that actually meant “I’m gonna try to rip your legs off,” because that’s just the typical bike racer ruse. But I meant it … I’ve ridden so little on the road, my road bike still feels weird to me, like the handlebars are way too narrow. I literally haven’t ridden with the team once this year.

As we headed over the Berkeley hills the little voice in my head popped up and said, “I wonder if there’ll be a sprint.” As I’ve described here, and as you’ve surely noticed yourself, one’s self-talk leverages his or her entire history and doesn’t have to spell everything out. The sprint in question is the inevitable race to a particular pedestrian crossing in Moraga, a challenge which virtually every group I’ve ridden with in the last 30 years has taken up, until a bridge washed out and disrupted the tradition. The last time I rode that route, the new bridge was still under construction and had just one lane with a traffic signal installed, so for the group to make it through without stopping would be a toss-up.

Now the voices in my head started bickering:

“If there’s a sprint I should sit it out. This is my first group ride in months.”

“That’s nonsense. I always sprint.”

“It’ll be shoulder-to-shoulder, slicing & dicing, I’m not ready.”

“I’m always ready. I know how to do this.”

“What if my chain breaks under full power?” [This notion arose because recently, pre-riding a mountain bike race course, my chain did break and I crashed.]

“Stop being ridiculous.”

The negative voice, you’ll notice, was just making excuses, the kind that would serve the “I’m too old” belief system (which Ceely rightly abbreviates BS, pun intended). My self-talk CEO didn’t explain his rationale because he wants to rule with an iron fist. The problem with that kind of leadership, of course, is getting real buy-in from everyone. My inner critic wouldn’t be silenced.

We made our way down Pinehurst Road and the speed ramped up. Over the painful little climb on Canyon Road, a couple of guys were drilling it on the front, clearly starting to set up their sprint.

“I’ll probably get dropped right here and miss the sprint.”

“Pfff. No way. Start at the front, drift back, and work back up.”

“Missing the sprint would be kinda nice.”

“Missing the sprint is out of the question.”

Down the other side of the hill my inner critic worried about safety.

“There’s a giant pothole somewhere. It destroyed your car tire last year.”

“It’s a paved descent. This is just not that complicated.”

As we headed toward the sprint, the pace ramped higher and higher. Suddenly D— launched a blistering early attack, starting at the back and flying by us on the left. Everyone dove for his wheel. I got gapped and shifted into my highest gear to chase.

“They’re gone. I missed it. I don’t have the jump I needed.”

“They’re right there. At this speed the slipstream is huge. I can latch on.”

“What am I even doing trying to mix it up with these guys? I never had a sprint to begin with! I’m not a fast-twitch guy! What am I doing here?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

If you were starting to get bored, fear not … this is where things get interesting. As you may have noticed, my inner critic isn’t very sophisticated. As Ceely described, this critic operates mainly out of fear: fear of failure, fear of injury. It’s old messaging, like a broken record. But an upside of being old is that I have a wealth of experience in road racing bunch sprints, and the movements have become so ingrained, they become almost automatic. My neocortex loves the tactical complexity required, and finally the thrill of the hunt becomes irresistible. All the negative self-talk drops away … I’m like a cat going after a laser pointer. Now the self-talk is more focused and intelligent … it hones in on the “goal-directed stimuli” described in Hardy’s article.

“B— is on the back but he’s just getting going. He’s the fastest sprinter here. If I get his wheel I’m golden.”

“And there’s his attack! And I don’t need a jump—I’m already going faster than the group because I’ve been chasing! Getting dropped was a gift! I love this sport!”

“Nobody saw him jump—his wheel is wide open! Get it! Get it! Harder, harder, drill it, I’m almost there!”

“I’ve got the wheel! Hold that wheel! Hold it! Shit, I’m golden!”

In case you haven’t had the pleasure of a cycling bunch sprint, this was the part where I was putting out all the power I was capable of, but without the wind resistance I’d have fought if riding alone. It’s a bit like catching a wave, I suppose … this extraordinary rush of speed and the delicious sensation of doing something I’d be incapable of if not latched on to my teammate’s wheel. Meanwhile, I could tell from my peripheral vision, and from the decrease in sound, that the rest of the group was gone. We’d made the jump to light-speed.

“Can I get around B—? No. I’m topped out. Can’t do it.” [This isn’t technically negative self-talk … it’s just stating a fact.]

“God, what a rush.”

“Second place in Walking Man is not bad.”

“Holy shit, who the hell is that?!”

Another rider inexplicably came flying by right as we reached the pedestrian crossing. It was Y—, D—’s  14-year-old son and a rising star in both road and mountain bike racing in NorCal. He’s got the build of a climber, which should make such a phenomenal sprint impossible, except that he’s clearly hugely talented. He also played his cards almost perfectly … the only reason he didn’t beat B— in the end is that he chose my wheel, probably assuming I’d start to pass B— and then (and only then) he’d launch his own sprint and overtake both of us. But I didn’t go fast enough, and didn’t start to pass B—… I just kind of sat there. Y— probably won’t overestimate me again. He’ll be going directly for B—’s wheel next time.

Did my negative self-talk start up again after the sprint? No, I’m more realistic than that. What would be the point of faulting myself after the fact, especially when I’d done a good sprint? Besides, since Y— races against my Albany High team, I automatically considered his feat from the perspective of coach. (My result doesn’t matter, it’s just for kicks.) Besides, I had more on my mind anyway: we still had Mount Diablo to tackle.

Epilogue

Sure, there was a little more self-talk on the way up the mountain, as I tried to keep up with Y— for as long as possible while still having enough in the tank to make the summit, and then make it home. But the inner critic quiets down a fair bit when adrenaline and endorphins enter the picture and things are going well. I ended up climbing Diablo a shocking nine minutes faster than last time (which was all the way back in September, when I was still coasting on my fitness from my DIY Everest Challenge). On the way home, I kept waiting for my body to give out, but it never did, and I even clocked a decent time on Wildcat Canyon, the last climb. Next time my inner critic starts naysaying, my inner CEO will simply reply, “You know nothing. Remember that Diablo ride? I got this.”

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Ride Report - DIY Everest Challenge

Introduction

I just realized 2021 is the first year since 2007 during which I haven’t done a single bike race. That’s a shame. Worst of all, I haven’t done the Everest Challenge since 2014 … but then, it’s no longer being held. The good news is, it’s possible to suffer in those same mountains with none of the competition, and none of the support. A couple of East Bay Velo Club pals and I pioneered this approach four years ago with our “Almost Death Ride” and repeated the trick recently by mounting a “DIY Everest Challenge.”

What follows is my full report, in the traditional three-part format: an Executive Summary for important people; a short version for impatient ones; and a long version perfect for busy people facing important projects and looking for ways to procrastinate. 

(Note: copious photos accompany the long version. They are pretty hi-res so zoom in and, if you really want to see something, right-click and select “Open image in new tab.”)

Executive Summary

The breakaway consisted of Craig, Ian, John, Ken, and me. (There was no peloton; we broke away from our sofas, our jobs, and all our responsibilities.) The first day was brutally hot. We had to alter our routes on the first two days due to road closures. We added a third day just to be mean. We ate extremely well. We broke tradition by drinking beer between stages. We fell short of the desired 29,000 feet of vertical gain, but not by much. Verdict? PASS. To paraphrase Faulkner: middle age may have killed us, but it ain’t whupped us yet.

Short version

• Ride stats: 45.6 miles on Day 1 with 6,575 feet of vertical gain; 88.4 miles on Day 2 with 10,633 feet of gain; 92.1 miles on Day 3 with 7,139 feet of gain. Total: 226.1 miles with 24,347 feet of vertical gain.

• Day 0 pre-ride happy hour: half a pint of Federation Brewing Zero Charisma Hazy IPA (Oakland)
• Day 0 pre-ride dinner: unbelievably large combo platter of chile relleno, beef enchilada, pork tamale, beans, rice, chips, salsa … probably at least 4,000 calories

• Day 1 breakfast: one lozenge of Wheetabix with FAGE Greek yogurt and raspberries, and about an ounce of sunscreen (consumed via dermal absorption)
• During Day 1 ride: two Clif bars, one Gu, two large bottles Gatorade, three large bottles of water
• Day 1 lunch: two large soft-taco-size carnitas burritos, some scrambled eggs
• Day 1 dinner: kid-size Trippel ale, medium-rare hamburger, waffle fries, onion rings, French-fried pizza crust, various dips (I know, I know: you are what you eat)

• Day 2 breakfast: one Clif bar, a glass of water, several large gasps of air
• During Day 2 ride: two or three Clif bars, three large bottles Gatorade, three large bottles of water, a few bugs
• Day 2 lunch (before final descent): hamburger, fries with mayonnaise, two large glasses of water, probably a decent serving of coronavirus aerosol particles
• Day 2 happy hour: New Belgium Voodoo Ranger Juicy Haze IPA
• Day 2 dinner: countless slices from two 20-inch pizzas: meat lovers + custom build (salami, mushrooms, black olives, and onions), a pint of some local IPA (too distracted by pizza to note details)

• Day 3 breakfast: one lozenge Weetabix with either dairy or almond milk (too bleary to notice or shunt which type), crow
• During Day 3 ride: two Clif bars, one 20-oz. American (i.e., corn syrup) Coke, one 12-ounce Mexican (i.e., sugar) Coke, one Häagen-Dazs chocolate/dark chocolate ice cream bar, several large handfuls Kettle chips, four large bottles of water
• Day 3 happy hour: Juicy Haze IPA, slice of leftover pizza
• Day 3 happy hour #2: local hazy IPA, hunks of giant pretzel, chips & guacamole
• Day 3 dinner: pork broth ramen with egg, pork belly, veggies, extra pork belly, and extra noodles; two pork gyoza (gyozas? gyozae?)

To add excitement to the ride, we did much less training than for the real Everest Challenge (in my case, like a third as much). Also of note: this was the first real ride we ever did with John, our newest EBVC member. I’ve been riding with him for about ten years, but only ever to the pub. (It’s not that we’ve never wanted to do proper rides together; it’s just that we really like beer.)

For an hour and fourteen minutes of the first day, it was over 100 degrees F. Peak temperature by my computer was 108; Craig’s registered 111 before panicking and powering off. That day was cut short by a road closure: Inyo National Forest is closed this month to protect against fire, so most roads through it were closed too. We pioneered new routes for Day 2 and managed plenty of climbing and distance. Day 3 had nothing in common with the Everest Challenge routes but was designed to increase our vertical gain, increase our mileage, increase our suffering, and take advantage of our proximity to Tioga Pass. It succeeded on all counts. In fact, the whole three-day adventure was a rousing success: we had a great time, didn’t die of heatstroke, didn’t end up eating one another, and are already looking forward to next year.

Long version

I rode yesterday, a week after the DIY EC, and I just wasn’t myself. My legs were empty. They could turn the cranks, but only in a minimal, zombie-like way, and I thought, “What’s wrong with me, do I have COVID?” But I could smell the rain on the asphalt, and the Gatorade in my bottle, and I don’t have a fever. I’m just comprehensively, fundamentally exhausted … still.

I’ve raced the Everest Challenge six times (in 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, and 2014). I always took the preparation very seriously, training a ton and giving up all alcohol like six weeks beforehand to lose weight and perhaps give my liver an easier job making glycogen. This year I didn’t train nearly as much for some reason (sloth? old age? denial?) which gave a little razor edge of excitement to the run-up.

Fortunately, I made up for the poor preparation by continuing to drink beer (responsibly!) all the way up to, and including, the night before the event. But I was good: I only had half a beer the first night, splitting it with Ken. Here is the official Beck’st:

If that EBVC bottle weren’t so hammered, you could read our club’s slogan: “It’s like you never stop riding.”

I already mentioned the giant Mexican dinner on Day Zero. I got to a point in eating it when I thought, “I’d enjoy the rest of this more tomorrow,” but then I just kept going. I was the only one to finish, and when I did, Craig turned to me and said, “You are a GOD.” I wish I could inspire somebody to say this about my cycling, but I’ll take praise wherever I can get it.

Day 1

The first day started near Big Pine, which is where Highway 395 meets Highway 168, the road up towards the Bristlecone Pine Forest. We parked halfway up the climb. This is normally the final climb on Day 2 of the EC, but we had to switch things up based on the lack of support and some other factors you wouldn’t care about. The van would be our second refueling stop; the first was at the base of the climb, where we stashed a cooler. So the first ten miles of the ride were downhill and we averaged almost 30. Here we are about to set out toward the first climb after removing a layer of clothing.

Our first climb was to Glacier Lodge; this is normally the first climb on Day 2. The temperature was perfect and of course we were fresh as daisies. Craig dropped us all by accident before waiting up.

Eventually our group broke apart again. Craig and Ian were the fittest, and John and I brought up the rear, keeping an eye out for a chance brewpub.

Here’s John digging in. He’s not rocking the EBVC kit for reasons I don’t understand. It’s possible he missed the ordering window.

Eventually I went solo on the climb due to my gearing, which isn’t so low. To maintain a comfortable cadence I had to set my own pace. As I made my way along I pondered the elegant mathematical shortcuts available when comparing my gearing to John’s. He has a one-to-one gear ratio, meaning the same number of teeth on his front chainwheel as his largest rear cog. Calculating gear inches can be a bit tricky to do in your head (especially when you’re fighting for oxygen); you multiply the chainwheel teeth by the wheel diameter and then divide by the number of rear cog teeth. But with a one-to-one like John’s, the chainwheel and cog cancel each other out, so the gear inch total is simply the wheel diameter, 27. My bike makes it easy, too: it has 27 teeth on the largest rear cog, which cancels out the wheel diameter, so the gear inch total is simply the number of chainring teeth, 34. I calculated the difference in our lowest gears using the guess-and-check method: I surmised it was something like 25%, and since 27 is practically 28 and a quarter of 28 is 7 and 27+7=34, this guess was pretty accurate: that is, at the same cadence I’d go 25% faster. I explained all this to John but he didn’t hear a word of it … he was, perhaps mercifully, no longer within earshot. At least my explanation didn’t put him to sleep like it has you.

WAKE UP!

Eventually we made the summit, or close to it (we’d gone past a Road Closed gate but then had to turn around when we encountered a ranger.) Here’s the only photo I got of the descent, for obvious reasons.

Our return to the base of the second climb was uneventful (other than a couple flat tires). Here’s the side road where we stashed our cooler. I love how aero, almost two-dimensional, my bike looks here.

Now, full disclosure: the actual Everest Challenge route would take us pretty far out on the road you see above, if we took it: a climb about as high as Glacier Lodge. We totally could have ridden this, and done three climbs instead of two, but we simply didn’t want to. The Waucoba Canyon climb is like a sauna; doesn’t feature much scenery; and is just plain hard. If you want to go do a proper EC route with all three climbs (and no support) and then hassle me for not doing the same, well … be my guest.

We fetched fresh bottles from the cooler, took an extra drink or two, and remounted our bikes. It was already broiling hot as we set out on the Bristlecone climb, Craig and Ian setting a sustainable pace.

It got hotter … way hotter.

Craig and I yo-yo’d a bit … at 108 degrees he had to back off the pace to keep from overheating, but at, say, 105 he would roll away from me again. Here you can see him just about to disappear for the final time as the mercury dropped all the way to 102.

I modulated my fluid consumption carefully so I wouldn’t get dehydrated but also wouldn’t run out. I finished my last bottle just as I neared the turnoff to where the van was—but wait a second, the van had moved! It was now pointed down the hill, and Ian and Craig had changed out of their biking costumes for the drive back. This is how I learned the road was closed. Oh well. I won’t lie: as disappointed as I was at the setback, it was a relief to be done for the day. Here’s what we ended up with.

And here’s the map:

Back at the condo in Mammoth, we made burritos (four of them) out of Craig’s leftover carnitas. We also foolishly drank a beer, and researched alternatives to the next day’s two main climbs: Mosquito Flat and South Lake, both of which (we confirmed) were closed, being on Inyo National Forest land. We decided that the non-closed first half of the first climb was enough, and for South Lake we could substitute a ride to Lake Sabrina (most of the original climb but a different final destination). Some official told Craig, “The lake itself is closed but you can drive up there to take a look. But if you take one step out of your car I’ll kill you myself.” (I’m paraphrasing here; he may have actually said, “I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”) Craig discovered a café a couple miles shy of Lake Sabrina, which we could hit on the way back before descending, with our distended aero-bellies, all the way back to the van. Thus our route for Day 2 was settled.

Day 2

We started Day 2 near Bishop, where 395 hits Pine Creek Road. It appeared, as we climbed out of the van, that God had decided never to inflict such heat on us again, and as a symbol of this covenant provided this beautiful rainbow.

We started out nice and slow, just spinning, and my legs felt surprisingly okay, but listen to how hard I’m breathing in this video:

The gorgeous scenery continued, making this ride the next best thing to shelter-in-place:

This first climb went so well, in fact, that I find I have nothing more to report. Here are Craig and Ken beginning the first big descent of the day:

We refueled at the van and began the second climb, Pine Creek Road. After a few miles Ian and Craig rolled away … I was beginning to sense some kind of pattern here.

But were they actually feeling okay? Imagine my shock when I saw that one of them had thrown up what appeared to be either Grape Nuts, pomegranate seeds, or Israeli couscous.

It turned out this was probably just bear-berry-barf.

I didn’t expect to see Craig and Ian again but I did, because Ian flatted. They’re adults with toolkits and know-how so I didn’t stop. They would catch me soon enough.

I made the summit and descended solo. On the way down, cruising at about 40, I kept seeing all these lizards darting out of my way. As I pondered their apparent mental superiority to squirrels, deer, and turkeys, who don’t know how to get out of the way of a speeding cyclist, one of these lizards came running right at me from about 10 o’clock. There was no chance to take evasive action (and I’m frankly not sure I’d have risked anything for a lizard anyway). The little bugger went right under my wheel. It felt like running over a pipe cleaner wrapped in felt. Its tiny reptilian soul flew past my head on its way heavenward. Poor little lizard.

We refueled again at the van. Ahead of us was a 13-mile slightly rolling stretch, mostly on Ed Powers Road, to the base of the final climb which headed southwest on Highway 168. We faced a tricky bit of logistics: we had about 27 miles to go to the final summit, 14 miles of it uphill, and would need another fuel stop—but it’s the middle of nowhere. Ken and John volunteered to drive the van across the rolling section and partway up the climb and park it there. Brilliant! Craig dragged Ian and me toward the climb at blazing speed. It was like motorpacing.

The climb, which gains more than 4,000 feet, was really hard, but also beautiful. I could try to describe it but these photos will do a better job.

Have you ever been to the Mystery Spot, or the Exploratorium, or any other venue devoted to educating or entertaining you with optical illusions around spatial perception? The mountains around Bishop are just like that: a road that looks flat can be a 6% grade, and what looks like 6% can be 8 or 9%. The gradient display on my bike computer is probably the main reason I didn’t lose all hope. The final third of this climb was not only 8-9%, but into a fairly stiff headwind.

I passed the tiny town of Aspendell where the café was, and presently perceived a rider behind me. Huh? Here, really? It was Ken. He and John had enjoyed a coffee out on the café porch and took off after us as we rode by. This was the best photo I could get of Ken; the camera stabilization software was no match for my unsteady hands.

The highway dwindled into a smaller road that got narrower and steeper as we approached Lake Sabrina. Not shown: the final grind of about 14%, when photography became impossible.

This selfie would have included John but we weren’t sure how far back he was and it was starting to rain. It’s a pity; we saw him like a minute into our descent but weren’t about to go back up that final pitch for the photo-op. Lake Sabrina is looking pretty sad with the drought and all.

We all met up at the café and were able to get a table on the porch.

The outdoor seating was a good thing because the staff & clientele weren’t hugely devoted to COVID protocols. John and Ken had noted earlier that nobody was wearing masks, and they’d heard snippets of conversation such as, “We don’t have a vaccine problem, we have a Biden problem” and “George couldn’t make it, he came down with the COVID.”

We had some great burgers etc. and the waitress was nice enough to take at least fifty shots of us across two phone cameras. You already saw one of them, at the top of this post.

It was cool up at 9,000 feet but during the glorious 14-mile descent we started to cook. After a good, long day in the saddle we were glad to pile into the van and head back to the condo. Here’s the Day 2 profile:

And here’s the map:

I already mentioned the pizza. The guys were really worried I’d eat more than my fair share. I assured them that if we ran out, we’d just get more. In the end we had a few leftover slices. Back at the condo we watched “American Ninja Warrior” and hurled verbal abuse at the screen … that’s how brain-dead we were.

Day 3

The next morning I had the worst bags under my eyes I’ve ever seen. I snapped a photo that would later cause my kids to shriek with terror and glee. (No, I’m not going to share it here.)

For this final leg we didn’t need the van: we rode right from the condo in Mammoth. Again my legs were oddly non-destroyed. I began to wonder if having a beer might actually help somehow. We started climbing right away, up this Mammoth Scenic Bypass (which as Ken pointed out sounds like what you’d take if you want to avoid the scenery).

Then it was a not-entirely-pleasant blast along Highway 395 for about 20 miles to the turnoff on Highway 120 west that goes over Tioga Pass. (For an entire blog post about cycling Tioga Pass, click here.)

It’s a long climb—12 miles—and gains about 3,000 feet.

Here’s a nice shot looking down the pass (i.e., to the east … I stopped and turned around to snap this).

Everyone went his own pace. Peer into the distance here and you can see Ken. Note the camera glitch involving the double-yellow-line.

There are a couple of pretty lakes up there. I reckon this is Ellery Lake.

Craig made the summit and rolled down the hill to pace me over the final bit, and got this photo.

Here are four of us at the summit, a few minutes before John arrived. (If I had the skills I’d Photoshop him in … or skip the ride and just fabricate the whole photo album, come to think of it.) This is at just under 10,000 feet elevation.

The descent was uneventful and lizard-free.

At the junction with 395 we stopped at that Mobil station with the oddly, famously good restaurant to refuel. Fortunately we don’t run on gasoline because this is the most expensive I’ve ever seen.

Now all that remained was the 39-mile schlep back to the condo. It could have been a 29-mile schlep but we chose to ride around June Lake, to take in the scenery and avoid some of the unnervingly fast traffic on 395. I knew these miles would hurt, as we had a headwind and over 2,000 feet of vertical gain ahead.

Needless to say, all this meant more time holding Craig’s wheel for dear life.

I don’t think Craig drags us along out of pity; rather, he just doesn’t need to draft anybody and surely sees no point slowing down (which would happen if I were to lead). The only time he didn’t pull was when he was snapping photos, like this one. (By the way, it may appear here that I’m smiling, but I assure you, that’s more of a rictus. If you could see my eyes you’d know better.)

After some rigorous climbing we reached a pretty sweet vista. The point of this photo is the gradation of facial hair.

Finally we reached the general store at the end of the loop. We gorged on junk food while Ken peered into an existential abyss. “Deep into that darkness peering, long [he sat] there wondering, fearing,/ Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

Highway 395 was a grind … headwind, heat, rubbish road surface. The turnoff to the Mammoth Scenic bit was a relief, except we had to climb. The grade was a mother, generally only 5-6% but four miles long, into the wind, and I was fried. It was the hardest I’d worked all day but finally it was over and we coasted most of the way on to the condo where things suddenly got real, real good:

Here’s the Day 3 profile:

And here’s the map:

Epilogue

Is there anything to be gained from this experience, or from reading about it? Can we glean some lesson from all this effort and strain? Is there some point to it all? Upon much reflection, I can say: no. All the suffering was completely pointless. But then, that’s kind of the point.

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From the Archives - Daily Peloton: Everest Challenge 2009 Stage 2

Introduction

This post continues the saga, from my archives, of the 2009 Everest Challenge stage race. This originally ran in the Daily Peloton. (My dp stories were lost after a server meltdown, so over time I’m re-posting them here.)

The report below is of Stage 2 of the race; for background info and my Stage 1 coverage click here.

Here’s the Stage 2 profile. Just look at that final climb … over 10,000 feet of vertical gain. Abominable, especially after all the suffering preceding it.

Racing the Everest Challenge, Stage 2 – September 25, 2009

We ran a bit late in the morning and barely made it to the start line on time. Lucas had just enough time to check his placing from the previous day and was ecstatic to discover he’d finished sixth. So long as his legs and/or cracked crank arm didn’t fail, he figured he had a good shot at a top five overall. I decided it was just as well I didn’t know how I’d finished on Stage 1. I felt pretty good about my performance; to find out I didn’t place very high would have been a downer, while finding out I’d placed, say, top ten might have put unwelcome pressure on me during today’s (final) stage.

I did get a little hint, though. A Masters 45+ rider rode up next to me and congratulated me on the previous day. “You seemed to get stronger during the race,” he said. “I was trying to reel you in for over an hour but never actually did. Several times I thought I had you but realized it was just another rider you’d passed.” I asked if he knew how he’d done, and he said eighth. I was really stoked—the times of the 45+ riders are actually pretty similar to those of my 35+ field. (Cycling is a perfect sport for crusty old veterans, and the harder the course the better. If there was a doping control at this race, your typical 45+ would likely test positive for piss and vinegar.)

Oddly enough, I felt totally fine throughout the first climb, to Glacier Lodge. This was a 9-mile 8% grade topping out at 7,800 feet. The temperature was perfect; I managed to find others to make pace with. Here I am slogging away.

After a little over an hour I saw Lucas, then Paul, then Jamie coming back down the mountain, and then suddenly I was at the top. I took on a bottle of energy drink and launched myself at the long, relatively simple descent. Man, what a blast. For the next nine miles, I averaged over 43 mph, peaking out at 52, all the while averaging a heart rate of just 108. There was nothing to do but hold a tight tuck and pass climbers. I wish life itself could be like this: automatic, effortless success, just for being me. I blew by Jamie and thought of holding up for him, but figured he’d latch on during the flat section anyway. Sure enough, he did, and as we motored across the flats toward the second climb, I found another big guy to work with and we made contact with a group of about ten riders, including Paul.

The second climb, Waucoba Canyon, is the least difficult of the whole race—8.5 miles at 5%, to a summit of 6,645 feet. Paul, Jamie, and I worked together in our little group, which was really satisfying—after all, I’d barely seen these guys the previous day. The only question was, how long could I last at this pace? I wasn’t hurting yet, but day-to-day recovery has been a weak point for me ever since 1991, when I went from racing every weekend to just jumping in now and then. Plus, the temperature was already climbing; it was 80 degrees and not yet 10:00 a.m. 

The terrain was sparse but picturesque—like something out of the Road Runner cartoons, with ruddy, sandy hills rising up on either side, dotted with scrubby dabs of shrubs. The road snaked this way and that through the canyon.

I continued to marvel at the elite company I was keeping and the race I was having, and then suddenly—as if Fate had read my mind—I started to have stomach problems. Not nausea, but a sharp pain, like my gut being tied in knots. I didn’t have to ease up, but I was good and worried now. I didn’t complain to the others in my group—no sense tipping my hand—but suffered silently and went easy on the energy drink. All I could do was hang tough and hope my stomach problem would resolve itself.

[I’ll tell you something now that wasn’t in my original dp story: the stomach problem was due to the race-provided Heed energy drink. I’d been warned … it was notorious for causing stomach problems. One pal said, “It gave me such bad gas, my stomach bloated like a beach ball, and every time I farted my belly would get visibly smaller.”]

After about forty-five minutes we started seeing riders coming back down toward us. Among the first was Lucas, out in the wind by himself. He shouted for us to come up and help. I couldn’t understand what exactly he expected us to do—suddenly spark across, making it to the turnaround and back down to him like a fricking boomerang? Exactly what kind of rider did he take me for?

Before long we reached the turnaround, and I actually stopped, to get my bottle refilled with plain old water. I’d brought a baggie of drink mix with me, and in less than thirty seconds had mixed it all up and was back on the road. The group I’d been in had dispersed, but in no time I caught Paul and Jamie. “Oh, good, our descender is here,” Paul said. They took my wheel and we bombed the descent together, averaging close to 40. We passed a number of guys, none of whom was able to latch on. And you know what? My stomach was all better.

Now came the climb I’d been truly dreading: the endless slog to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest , 21 miles at 6% for a total elevation gain of 6,160 feet to peak out at 10,100 feet. As race director Steve Barnes had pointed out, there’s actually some descending along this route, which dilutes that 6% figure. And, of course, this was the sixth major climb in two days so we were all pretty knackered going into it. Top it all off with temperatures in the nineties and you’ve got yourself a real smackdown.

Fortunately, Jamie, Paul, and I were in a group with four others, and one of the riders had private support: a friend who would drive by in his Volvo, park ahead of us, and hand up bottles. His largesse extended to anybody riding with his pal; I had at least three nice, cold bottles of water from him (though Paul never did get the vodka martini he’d requested).

The pace felt comfortable to me, and my heart rate was only in the low- to mid-140s. The heat was a grind, but at least I was hydrated. The situation seemed too good to last, and it was: Jamie punctured, not to be seen again until the top. I felt a strange survivor’s guilt, with my 55-gram inner tubes and four-inch almost-worthless clip-on pump. I kept thinking, “That bullet was meant for me….”

Then I saw a familiar orange-clad figure up the road. Funny how you can recognize a rider from a mile away just by his position on the bike. It was Lucas, and we could tell he was having some difficulty. Gradually we caught up to him, and it was pretty clear he’d gone out too hard, probably due to irrational exuberance over his great ride the previous day. Lucas and I decided that I should pace him for the rest of the climb to defend his overall placing. We watched Paul and the other two ride away, and then over the next hour and a half, I watched my power meter and knocked out a steady, sustainable pace and kept Lucas out of the wind.

I didn’t struggle with this decision. I’ve always managed to be on teams with superior riders, making me a natural domestique, and I say this without shame. In college I always supported my star riders and it paid off—they won a lot and I felt it an honor just to contribute. My favorite event? Not surprisingly, the team time trial. So now, personal ambitions aside, it felt good to make myself useful on this endless climb.

As we gained in elevation, the heat subsided, and eventually we began to see scraggly, bent-over, blasted trees: the ancient bristlecone pines forest we’d seen on the map. By “ancient” I mean these are literally the oldest living organisms on Earth, some of them almost 5,000 years old. In other words, they are as old as I felt as I toiled away, mile after mile. I have to chuckle at the phrase “bristlecone pine forest,” though; “forest” suggests abundance, and this looked more like the dregs of a Christmas tree farm after a retail frenzy. I don’t think you can get a real forest this close to the tree line.

I suppose I shouldn’t admit this, but in addition to gazing at the pines I took a moment here and there to appreciate the vistas spread out before us—the best of the whole race (or maybe I was just finally able to lift my head up and pay attention). But most of the time the climb was a fairly grim affair, as I maintained a steady pace and kept an eye on Lucas. From time to time his muscles cramped, and I tried to help him ride through this by offering what little encouragement I could. (As he knows, I’ve never had a muscle cramp in my life.) I felt a little like a motivational speaker at times, and this was the image I had in mind:

It’s a refrigerator magnet my wife picked up during our recent vacation in London—a replica of a poster produced by the English government during the onset of World War II. Not that we were at war of course, but the sentiment seemed fitting at the time.

Exactly twice a rider came by us. Each time, I quickly asked what category he was: any answer but “35+” was the right one. Otherwise, I’d have to make a quick decision whether to keep pacing Lucas, or get medieval on the guy’s heinie. It seemed to me there couldn’t be that many 35+ riders ahead of us, and I didn’t want to miss out on a possible top-ten finish to post on my bike club’s website. Fortunately for both of us, neither rider was a 35+, and we did our climb mostly in peace.

A word of advice to anybody who tries a race like this: don’t look up—the grade and peaks ahead of you can be demoralizing—and don’t look down at your bike computer: the mileage ticks by so slowly you start to wonder if the damn thing is working. Don’t count down the miles—just turn the pedals. And don’t forget about fuel! Though each sip of energy drink brought with it a brief wave of nausea, I was diligent about drinking. To bonk after this much hard work would be a tragedy.

Finally we got to the really steep pitches that announced the imminent final summit. Looking at the percent-grade graph on my PC, it’s no wonder we suffered here: the graph looks like an electrocardiogram, with all the peaks just above the 10% line and the dips just below it, for an average grade of 8.5% over the last 2.5 miles. With my 39x27 I was weaving across the full width of the road like a drunken paperboy on a steep driveway. I’m surprised I didn’t wear out my bike’s headset. Lucas, sensing somebody coming up from behind (there was nobody) started sprinting and I had to yell at him to sit back down lest he suddenly detonate.

Actually, I was worried for myself as well: Lucas normally drops my ass on the big climbs, as does Paul, as does Jamie, and all day I’d felt like I was crashing the strong men’s party. It all seemed too good to be true and I was sure at any moment my legs would seize, or I’d puncture, or get struck by a stray bolt of lightning. But we avoided disaster, and the steepest sections didn’t find me over-geared.

At long last, to our delight and relief, we finally crossed the finish line. In our euphoria we forgot the “exit interview,” and after a short descent to the food station had to double back and do a final bit of climbing to make sure our numbers had been recorded by the race officials. Finally we coasted back down, ditched our bikes, and joined Paul for some well-earned relaxation. Miraculously, for the second day in a row there were enough chairs to go around. I chatted a bit with the guy next to me, who turned out to be the winner of my category, Mauricio Prado. Next time I’ll watch for him.

Lucas tends to sweat a bit when racing in the heat.

We all got medals for finishing (which meant everything to my eight-year-old daughter upon my triumphant return home).

Jamie and Craig rolled in, and we ended up spending about an hour at the final summit, punch-drunk on endorphins and exhaustion. “I will never do this again,” I thought to myself. “At least not until next year.”

Results and stats

The “Bay Area Five” ended up having solid results, perhaps better than we’d anticipated:

• Paul: 4th on Stage 1, 7th on Stage 2, 4th overall, Masters 35+ (and almost 17 minutes faster than last year!)
• Jamie: 5th on Stage 1, 8th on Stage 2, 6th overall, Masters 45+  (and over six minutes faster than last year, despite his puncture!)
• Lucas: 6th on Stage 1, 9th on Stage 2, 7th overall, M35+
• Dana: 9th on Stage 1, 8th on Stage 2, 8th overall, M35+
• Craig: 12th on Stage 2, M35+; alas, the officials failed to get his number on the first day

(As I mentioned in my Stage 1 report, I had no specific goal for this race other than to finish, ideally with dignity, whereas my daughter predicted a top-ten finish. I guess she was right … but I’m still not into goals.)

Some notes on the following graph:

• My bike computer does a rudimentary power calculation based on my weight, my speed, and my elevation gain (f=mgh), ignoring wind and rolling resistance, so the wattage is on the low side
• My altimeter was reading low as well, compared to the elevation marker signs
• The vertical line down each graph shows where the stage finished
• In each graph, the average values listed along the right-hand column ignore the final (untimed) descent; note the net elevation gain of 5,814 feet!
• My average heart rate not counting descents was 143 for Stage 2 (vs. 149 for Stage 1)
• The temperature readings are often exaggerated in these graphs, probably due to the sun baking the asphalt (of course, the rider feels this too)
• You’ll want to click on this image to zoom in, obviously

Appendix - bits and bobs

Ever wonder what cycling road racers eat? Well, for a long training ride it’s this. And what shouldn’t racers eat? This. And what did I eat during the Everest Challenge? During Stage 1 I consumed seven gels, six bottles of energy drink, and a bottle of water. During Stage 2 I ate six gels, and drank four or five bottles of energy drink and about three bottles of water. And what did we eat before and after the race? Click here for the full food-and-camaraderie report.

Finally, you may wonder if, having conquered the Everest Challenge, I have any advice to offer for anyone contemplating such a brutal event. Why, I’m glad you asked! Check out this post.

My pals and I rode the Everest Challenge five more times, from 2010 through 2014. I’ve chronicled all of them in these pages; if you’re interested just Google “albertnet everest challenge [year].” If this tale was too rosy for you, rest assured I didn’t always manage the race so smoothly … I had some years where things went badly enough to satisfy your thirst for schadenfreude. Enjoy please enjoy.

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