- This story chronicles the toughest, worst, greatest,
most incredible day of my athletic life on a bicycle. It features a race
across four 12,000 foot passes and one 13,000 foot pass. It features suffering
and struggle and finally, defeat. But in the defeat, there is a lesson.
You will find the lesson in the end, which, truly, creates the beginning.
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- This past summer, I lined up with Lance Armstrong, seven
time champ of the Tour de France, on the starting line of the Leadville
100, mountain bike Race Across the Sky. Later in the race, while he screamed
down the 13,000 foot pass, I headed up. I stopped astride my bike and saluted,
"I salute you!" Lance saluted back. What a thrill for me on my
lifetime on a bicycle! Frosty
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- Leadville 100 Mountain Bike Race Across the Sky:
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- Looking over the handlebars, I had no reason to think
I'd live through the next 100 yards of ugly, rutted, rocky, vertical drop
before my eyes. But, like a lemming in Norway being compelled to commit
suicide, I dropped my front wheel over the lip of the ridge and hung on
for dear life. My mountain bike plunged downward into the merciless grasp
of gravity, air and speed. I pulled my body back over the rear wheel and
hoped for enough traction to keep me from launching outward like a kid
throwing a rock over the Grand Canyon. As the bike bucked and raced over
the rocks, the tires lost grip, so I let up on the brakes to keep from
crashing. The beast quickened beneath me. I braked again but the speed
of the bike increased too much. The ruts, three times as deep as bowling
alley gutters, threatened to crash me. Half way through that nightmare,
I felt fear, but kept going because there was no other choice. If I should
fall, I would tumble to the bottom. I felt like Wiley Coyote dropping like
a bomb to the bottom of the abyss. Remember that look on his face? It was
mine. Disbelief! Totally stunned! Why me?
-
- It took me three years to be accepted into the Leadville
100 Race Across The Sky. The reason: I didn't get my application into the
mail by New Year's day. The race had become so popular, it closed within
five days of the first of the year. This year, I mailed it immediately.
-
- Months later, a packet arrived in the mail. "Congratulations,
you've been accepted into the Leadville 100 mountain bike race." I
was excited to race in one of America's most grueling mountain bike races-albeit
concocted by a madman.
-
- In 1982, Leadville, a mining town in Colorado, lost 3,000
jobs when a mine shut down. In order to draw people and jobs to the area,
somebody concocted a 100 mile foot race. It was crazy enough but, at 10,300
feet at the starting line and four passes at 12,000 feet and one at 13,000
feet--anyone in their right mind wouldn't do it. No money was offered.
Only a silver buckle was given to those who finished.
-
- Yet, hundreds of people showed up the first year. Now,
they apply a year early to make the cut off. Even with the untold misery
of running 100 miles at high altitude, the race grew into legendary stature.
-
- Years later, a renegade group of mountain bikers confronted
the race director about a mountain bike race following the same route.
Voila! The Race Across The Sky was born.
-
- I heard about it from a guy in my local bike shop. He
gave me the address. On my third try, I was accepted.
-
- By May, I was well into the triathlon season. In June,
I raced the Longmont Triathlon, The Monument in July and Boulder Peaks
the first of August. By all accounts, I was in pretty good shape. I trained
on mountain bike trails in Boulder. But ten days before the race on August
9th, I had to go out of town. My schedule was hectic and allowed only two
days to train. Still, I felt my body exceeded any shape that race would
require.
-
- On Friday, I loaded my bike onto the car rack and headed
toward Leadville. In mid August, wild flowers and sparkling rivers made
the drive inspiring.
-
- Leadville lives in mining history. Legends abound from
mining days with the Unsinkable Molly Brown and Tabor. The Tabor House
to rowdy night life all combine for interesting perspectives into mining
life. Main Street resembles an old Clint Eastwood movie "High Plains
Drifter." Mostly, Leadville is a mismatch of buildings and houses
with no theme or style. They reflect the rugged individualism of the town
at 10,152 feet.
-
- Registration was set up in the local gym on 6th Street.
Some 1,300 men and 60 women were medically checked and given their T-shirts
and bag of goodies. It was an unpretentious crowd of athletes. They came
from as far away as Washington State and ranged from 18 to over 60.
-
- After registering, I walked along Main Street. Gold and
silver gleamed from jeweler's windows. Several antiques shops exhibited
items from a hundred years ago. The buildings were 100 years old.
-
-
- Leadville, the highest city in America was a city of
extremes. Harsh winters at high altitudes challenged early miners. Yet
they came to seek their fortune.
-
- Now, warrior athletes came to pit themselves against
an extreme land--on a hundred mile ride--a mountain bike race across the
sky. Many racers had no idea what they were in for...including this rider.
-
- At 4:00 p.m., Mr. Black gave a welcoming speech and recognized
a few of the riders who had set records for the race. The best ride was
7:05 hours. I thought since they had done it that fast, surely I could
do it in 12 hours. The man talked about the 12 hour limit and winning the
silver buckle--and how we should not quit and ignore the pain on the quest.
I sat there in the bleachers thinking, "How hard can this be...not
THAT big a deal...I'll easily finish in 12 hours."
-
- At 6:00 p.m., we gorged ourselves at a carbo loading
party. It was a feast. Steaming spaghetti, sauce, warm bread and salad
awaited hungry mountain bikers. Afterwards, I retired to my tent in the
middle of the woods outside of town. I set my alarm for 4:45 so I could
break camp and check in for the 6:30 a.m. start.
-
- Above me, a starlit sky drenched the ink black void of
space with a million sparkling chandeliers. Around my campsite, silent
pines thrust skyward like cathedrals. And further still, Mt Elbert and
Massive at 14,450 feet each, punctuated the heavens with their silent presence.
I crawled into my sleeping bag as a pack of coyotes broke into a chorus
of yips and howls.
-
- When the alarm sounded, I felt a crispy nip in the air.
Dew drops had frozen on the tent. Once out of my bag, the cold mountain
air jolted my skin like walking into a butcher's freezer. I dressed and
cooked a batch of oatmeal. After eating, I packed the tent and headed toward
town.
-
- At the starting line, 1,300 shadowy figures on bikes
had lined up and spread across the street in a megaphone shape. Their steaming
breathes pierced the air like the horses in the "Charge of the Light
Brigade."
-
- I checked in and lined up. Number 328 was strapped to
my bike's frame.
-
- "We're 15 minutes to the start," the announcer
said. "Make sure you're checked in. Everyone be careful at the beginning.
We want to have a successful start. All slow riders get to the back."
-
- It was cold. Everyone wore jackets, gloves, and tights.
Behind us, the eastern sky brightened with yellow gold streaking from the
horizon. Moments later, the mountains in front of us slowly glowed in the
early morning light.
-
- "Ten seconds to go," he yelled into the mic.
-
- The green digits counted down. Our breath vapors quickened.
A police cruiser out front began pulling away. Dozens of riders yelled
their own battle cry. "Let's get it on!" "Make it happen!"
"Hard Core!" "We rule!" "No fear!"
-
- When the clock clicked to 6:30--a hoard of riders stood
on their pedals and the mass of mountain bike riders forged forward in
one amoebic motion. Gears clicked and chains jumped up the free wheel cogs.
We were off.
-
- I started near the rear which meant a 30 second delay
for the lead bikes to pull ahead. Quickly, the cold air numbed my gloved
fingers and chilled me. In mass, the group raced down the first hill by
now a hundred yards long and 10 yards thick. At the end of the street,
we turned 90 degrees right. It looked like a giant snake had turned and
as soon as it slithered out of the corner--it accelerated into the tree
lined road. The yells quieted to a silent determination. The whir of the
tires and clicks of the gears broke the quiet. The road meandered through
the woods.
-
- That first mile ran down hill--easy. Dark green trees
shot upwards. An eerie quiet descended as the riders thinned out and the
group became elongated. Cold bit into my fingers and my ears stung.
-
- Abruptly a police officer directed us to a dirt road.
It shot across a meadow and climbed along a ridge. A low hanging vapor
cloud clung to pines along the mountain flanks ahead of me.
-
- Minutes later, the dirt road, an old miner's trail cut
upward steeply. From freezing cold, I started sweating like a pig. My breath
grew quicker and I gasped for more air. Already at 10,500 feet, the road
climbed through thick pine trees. The harder I pedaled, the more I lost
my breath. Behind me, two dozen riders shed their clothes.
-
- While I had trained for and run three triathlons that
summer, I couldn't get enough oxygen to keep a good pace. I labored. But
I was in good shape so pressed on.
-
- The sun hit the skyline, lighting the peaks and turning
the sky blue. Wild flowers and pink fire weed lined the rutted trail as
it zig zagged its way toward Sugar Loaf Pass at 12,000 feet. Many riders
passed me, but I pressed onward.
-
- At the top of the first pass, a mule deer popped into
view. I raced by him down hill. The one track trail led through a deep
forest thicket. The misty scent of pine wafted in the air and dew drops
glistened while spiders webs sparkled in the sun. Once down the mountain,
we hit an asphalt highway and coasted down several miles until we turned
back into the woods. Huge rocks blocked our way so we shouldered the bikes
and picked our way along the rocky trail for 15 minutes until we hit a
mining road.
-
- By that time the sun shone everywhere and wild flowers
lined our path--with the sweet scent of licorice in the air. We headed
up a valley and soon came to a switch back which led up a narrow, rutted
track that carried a 9% grade. It climbed still higher until we had reached
tree line and before dropping down along a high voltage power line.
-
- From there, ruts twice as deep as bowling alley gutters
waited to break me or my bike in half. Half thrilled and half in terror,
I picked my way along the mine field under what is known as Power Lines
Suicide Alley. My 2.25 knobby tires held their traction while I braked
where possible and hopped over the gutters in my path. From furious pedaling,
I felt pain my arms from keeping my beast under control. My triceps ached
from constant jolting and tension during the down hill.
-
- At the bottom, we were directed along another asphalt
road to the first check point/water/food stop. We tanked up our bottles
and were off. The road flattened along a valley for five miles and resumed
onto a dirt road. It climbed again into the mountains and spit us onto
a one track trail barely covered by grass. The track meandered through
a meadow and along a ridge. Suddenly, it dropped 20 degrees down a hill
into a small valley and raced upward again on the other side. I followed
the road until I got to the other side looking over a wide canyon.
-
- At that point my legs held energy and strength. I was
strong. A certitude continued in my mind that I would finish the race.
It was a beautiful day in the 70s, so not much sweating. The bike rode
well and shifted into gears very efficiently.
-
- The ridge carried me out to a point. Before I knew it,
I was looking over the handlebars at thin air. The trail dropped 40 degrees.
I had no reason to think I'd live through the next 100 yards of ugly, rutted,
rocky, vertical drop. Down I plunged, scared shitless. Breaking was dangerous
as the bike would fall away from me, and not breaking, it increased to
a terrifying speed. Total terror ripped through my blood stream. I sat
back to hold my back tire on what little terra firma there was. If I fell,
it would be a rumbling, tumbling 100 feet of ripping and tearing of my
body. I felt like Wiley Coyote dropping like a bomb to the bottom of the
abyss. Just remember the look on his face and it was mine! Disbelief! Totally
stunned! Why me?
-
- While continuing the final yards of my descent, my eyes
bugged out and I rode the white knuckle express. At the bottom, I spit
out onto another road and climbed again along a ridge. Several miles later,
the road shot down an embankment onto a trail along Twin Lakes.
-
- A crowd of people lined the race course. At the end of
the lake, food awaited hungry riders. Fruit and veggies loaded the tables
along with power drinks to replace our fluids. After loading up, I stood
on the pedals like a pony express rider and pulled away from the stop.
-
- The trail snaked over the undulating terrain. To my surprise
the lead bike racer headed toward me going the other way. He had already
done 20 miles to the top of the 13,000 foot pass and back again. I was
astounded.
-
- Nonetheless, I cranked over the path until I started
up an old sandy mining road toward the top. The higher I climbed the tougher
it got to breathe. Other bikers whizzed down at break neck speed.
-
- At that point, a man named Craig hooked up with me. "If
you'll pull me up that mountain with you, I'll be might obliged,"
he said.
-
- "Sure," I said.
-
- From there, we battled the mountain together. It was
a battle too. The higher we climbed, the tougher it became. With each mile,
the mountain took away our oxygen. Each mile became steeper. The more calories
we burned the less we had to burn. Yet, we forced ourselves up that mountain.
Soon, we passed the tree line into high mountain tundra. Panoramic vistas
swept in front of us, but the road kept climbing steeper still. It offered
rocks and ruts--every second a chance to crash.
-
- Looking ahead, I saw a line of riders churning along
a ridge line toward some gray tents. Behind them, open sky and jagged peaks.
They raced across the sky. "The race name fits," I muttered to
myself. A half hour later, I pushed across the ridge and made my way to
the check point. Exhaustion drained every cell in my body. Even with eating
cantaloupe, pears, oranges and bananas, I collapsed on the ground.
-
- Five minutes later, I jumped back on the bike and pulled
away. Craig sat on the ground, "I'm done man...you go for it."
-
- "Take care, big guy," I said.
-
- I picked my way along the muddy trail, missed the big
rocks and raced down the mountain. A half hour later, I cruised through
the third check point and headed back over the trail that let into the
woods. At that point, my legs weren't responding with as much power as
I needed.
-
- Along the way, I looked back at the mountain I had climbed.
It stood 3,000 feet over my head. How did I do that? It loomed over me
and I knew the route--etched deeply into my thighs. It had pounded me.
-
- The route back to the fourth check point presented easy
rolling hills and along the valley. I stopped at the check point which
was the gateway to the last twenty miles of the race.
-
- "You're too late to finish the race," the lady
said. "I need to cut your bracelet off."
-
- "I wanna' finish the race," I said.
-
- "We've swept the route," she said. "If
you fall or get hurt, you'll be mountain lion dinner."
-
- I scrunched up my nose, '"It would be a hell of
a way to go."
-
- "Suit yourself," she said.
-
- "Thanks."
-
- I stepped into the toe clips and shoved off. My legs
responded but they weren't enthusiastic. Up that power line trail I climbed.
Ruts and gullies threatened to drop me every second along the way. The
sun shone through the trees in the late afternoon. The trail, often no
more than gullies became impossible for me to pedal--forcing me to walk
and push my bike. I shoved my bike upward, and weakened as I approached
12,000 feet. At the top, I felt busted.
-
- There I wondered if I had the power to make it up the
last mountain. A whole bunch of thoughts drifted through my brain as I
struggled alone. Why was I doing this? Why so much pain in my body? Sometimes
when I get myself into such challenges, I thank my mom and dad for giving
me the courage to quest even when it doesn't mean anything--yet it means
something to me. It's crazy to do this, but then, it's the best time of
my life. How many others know this great adventure today? Damned few!
-
- Soon, I rode down the trail and got off the bike for
the rock trail. Back on the trail, I biked upward toward the last pass.
Back on the dirt trail, my body failed my commands. By now, the sun sank
low on the mountain. Fatigue reduced me to pushing my bike up the trail
making very little time. The race official was right, I COULD become mountain
lion dinner if I got hurt. At that point, it would have been easy to quit.
I hurt in every corner of my body. My energy long since had vanished. It
took me over an hour to push, pedal and drag my bike and body to the top
of the last pass. Darkness was 45 minutes away which meant the trail would
become dangerous. At the top, I knew I could make it but I was two hours
plus over the 12 hour limit. Funny feeling about being defeated by the
race, but winning in my mind. A mixture of emotions coursed through me
as I mounted the bike for the long ride downward to the finish.
-
- Ever careful, I braked and slowed along the dangerous
stretch. Once off the mountain, I cranked through the gears in the gathering
darkness. Through the woods to the pavement, then to five miles more of
gravel, my muscles strained in agony as if I were dragging a 100 pound
anvil behind me. I was out of water, out of food and out of power. Soon,
I turned onto the last mile stretch on cement where I had started at daybreak.
-
- Powerful emotions swept over me in that last five minutes.
-
- "Thanks Mom, thanks Dad," I said. "Thanks
for giving me persistence in my life."
-
- I thought, "Thanks Dad for the sports that shaped
my life--the winning and losing--never fearing failure. Whatever my Dad
did for me, he did it to the core of my being. Every kid would be lucky
to have a dad like mine. Nothing has ever stopped me because I've never
quit."
-
- A few more hills up and down, and I headed toward the
finish. But, as I pulled into the corner of Main Street and 6th, everything
was gone. No banners, no clock, no finish, no people. In back of me, the
dying light swept weakly over Mt Massive. Back there, I spent a day struggling
toward the finish line. And when I made it, the finish line vanished. I
felt physically broken.
-
- Stopping, I stood astride my bike--silent. A few tourists
walked past but they had no idea the ordeal I had just finished.
-
- Across the street, one of the racers talked to friends
and showed them his shiny medallion that hung around his neck with a red,
white and blue ribbon.
-
- For me, there was no medallion. I glanced at my watch.
It was 14 and 1/2 hours since I had pushed off into this race. For me,
the victory was not the time that I finished, but THAT I had finished.
They don't give out awards for people like me. It's people like me that
give the first place finishers all the glory. Without us, they couldn't
win anything because there would be no gauge. No matter. I raced my race
and I won, too.
-
- I smiled as I mounted my bike and rode down the street.
The darkness closed in on me. It had been a grand adventure on two wheels
and a hell of a Race Across the Sky.
-
- The End
-
- How to compete in the Leadville, Colorado: RACE ACROSS
THE SKY:
-
- This race is so popular for its insanity, it has become
legendary. It breaks grown men down and sees them crying along the course.
People drop out from the pain. Others break bones and tear their bodies
to shreds. Falls are common on some of the more dangerous paths. If you
want to try your hand in this race, you must send a self addressed stamped
envelope to: Leadville Trail 100 Mountain Bike Race P.O. Box 487 Leadville,
CO 80461 Ph. 719-486-3502
-
- They will send you a race entry. You must get it back
to them by the third week in January and the sooner the better. They will
pick you from a lottery. If you don't make the lottery, they will send
your check and entry back to you. You have a 70% chance of success.
-
- This is one mother of a race. It will change your life.
It will affect your emotions. It will cause you to reconsider yourself.
If you cross the finish, it will be one of the greatest athletic successes
of your life.
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- Other bicycle adventures by Wooldridge: Bicycling Around
the World: Tire Tracks for Your Imagination ; Bicycling the Continental
Divide: Slice of Heaven, Taste of Hell ; Handbook for Touring Bicyclists.
Copies available: 1 888 280 7715.
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