Thrasher's 508

2009 Furnace Creek 508 - 2X_Thrasher

2009-02-02T20:27:00.000-08:00

Thrasher's 508 continues:
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"Hello and congratulations!"

"You have been selected to compete in the 26th Anniversary Furnace Creek 508 on October 3-5, 2009, “The Toughest 48 hours in Sport.” You are part of a select group who will participate in this world-famous spiritual odyssey through Death Valley and the Mojave Desert. We look forward to sharing the experience with you!"
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My friend, Robert James, and I are riding this year's 508 as a 2-Man Team entry..
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2009 2X_Thrasher
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2008 - How to Scuttle a 4X 508 Team Entry

2009-01-24T17:18:00.001-08:00

In 2008 the lure of the 508 was still with me. My friend Rob and I conceived a plan to enter the 2008 Furnace Creek 508 as a 4-man team; Rob had a couple of friends that were potential team members.

Since the four of us did not live in the same area, I considered that there were unique complications that we would have to deal with right from the start. I felt that the main complication would be to judge the level of commitment for each team member before we could make a serious entry bid.

After discussing my concern with Rob I crafted a message to all of the tentative team members to address the question: How committed are you?

A few weeks passed and we got no response; it's easy to say that you'll do the 508. It's a bit more difficult to commit and actually do the 508.

The message said:

Team..

The 508 is a huge undertaking. The act of riding the bike is just a small part of having a successful event; the preparation and commitment is by far the most difficult stage.

Every team member needs to take a hard look at themselves and ask, "How committed am I?" The answer to that question cannot be a silent personal answer. That answer must be verbalized to every other team member. We all need to have complete confidence that each respective team member has a 100% sense of commitment to do what it takes to complete the 4X-Furnace Creek 508.

While I look forward to participating as a 4X Team entry, the prospect of negotiating through the team-dynamic introduces a whole new set of uncertainties. Because each of the team members here is not collocated, there will be additional uncertainty because of the distances between us. Typically 508 teams develop and train together leading up to the 508.

We must have a complete understanding of all rules and requirements. Take the time to read the rules a couple of times; we need to remove the uncertainty of a possible DQ because of a rules violation. For example, "Rule 14 D. Each team must enter with two or four racers (or eight if it is in the eight-racer tandem category). If one or more of the team members gets hurt or cannot ride, no substitutions or additions are allowed to their team roster. -DQ". We need a commitment to participate. My initial interpretation of the rule is once we register there can be no substitutions.

Training:
Everyone here is a cyclist; Training and physical preparation is a personal process. Ask yourself if you're willing to show up in October with the endurance and climbing skills that it takes to complete your stages. The 508 is a no-drafting solo event; you may want to prepare for that by doing most (or all) of your training solo; be prepared for wind. Before you can answer the commitment question you've got to consider the Team Entry rules. The rules state that if a team rider cannot complete a stage, the team must return to the last time station and start again with the next rider in the sequence (Rule 14 C.). Failure to complete an assigned stage will put a burden on the team's ability to complete the 508.

Equipment:
Every team member is responsible for the condition of their equipment. Everything should be in 100% operating condition well before the start of the 508. New bike, new wheels, new chain, new cassette, new chain-rings, etc. should be proven on a few shake-down rides before the October start. Discovering a problem on the day of the ride could result in a team DQ. Ask yourself if you can remove all uncertainties with your equipment before we line up at the starting line.

Support Van:
Each team member will be responsible to share in all of the support van rental, set-up, operating and maintenance expenses. We'll need to rent the van and have it ready for inspection on the Friday before the start. Those expenses will include: Rental Fees (including insurance), gas, lighting, signage, bicycle racks, etc. Ask yourself if you are able to commit to those expenses (and any other) that will arise. We need to have that financial commitment on the table before we can proceed as a team.

Logistics:
You're obviously going to be responsible to pay your portion of the entry fee and get yourself and all of your equipment to Santa Clarita early in the day on Friday before the start. In addition to that, every team member is required to share in the expenses for the accommodations at the start and for the accommodations at the finish (whether we make it to the finish or not). Ask yourself if you are able to commit to those expenses (and any other) that will arise. We'll also need to have that financial commitment on the table before we can proceed as a team.

This message is not meant to be the complete list of things needed to do the 508. The whole task is big. It is huge from the very beginning of our preparation. And it does not end until we shake hands and say good-bye back at the starting line in Valencia.

The 508 is a special event.
The 508 deserves 100% commitment.
Being part of a 4X_508 Team demands 100% commitment

How committed are you?

Eric Thrasher Troili

The Queen of Death Valley

2009-01-17T22:08:00.000-08:00

Appendix 2 - The Queen of Death Valley
[Indigenous Peoples Literature - indigenouspeople.net]

"Ground Afire" is the meaning of the Indians' name for what is now known as Death Valley. "And in the height of summer there is no better name for this sun-tortured trench between blistered ranges. But when a group of forty-niners [1849] blundered into it, they renamed it Death Valley."

The valley and the high mountain ranges west and east of it are now called Death Valley National Monument. It is located in southeastern California and southwestern Nevada. Many square miles of the valley are below sea level--the lowest level in the Western Hemisphere.

More than 600 kinds of plants thrive in the valley. Its rocks make it a geologists' paradise. And for everyone, "the great charm of the area lies in its magnificent range of color, which varies from hour to hour."

Long, long ago, Indians used to say, this valley was beautiful and fertile. The people who lived there were ruled by a beautiful but capricious queen. One time she ordered them to build a mansion for her, one that would surpass any mansion ever built by their neighbors, the Aztecs.

For years, her people worked to make a palace that would please her. From places many miles away they dragged stones and logs. The queen, fearing that her age or an accident or an illness might prevent her from seeing her dream come true, ordered many of her people to assist in the work. Gradually, her tribe became a tribe of slaves.

The queen commanded even her own daughter to join those dragging logs and stones. When the noonday heat caused the workers to drag along slowly, with heads bowed, the queen strode angrily among them and lashed their naked backs.

Because royalty was sacred, the people did not complain. But when she struck her daughter, the girl turned, threw down her load of stone, and solemnly cursed her mother and her mother's kingdom. Then, overcome by heat and weariness, the girl sank to the ground and died.

In vain, the queen lamented and regretted. All nature seemed to punish her. The sun came out with blinding heat and light. Vegetation withered. Animals disappeared. Streams and wells dried up. At last the queen had to give up her life; she died with high fever. There was no one to soothe her last moments, for her people, too, were dead.

The mansion, half-completed, stands in the midst of this desolation. Sometimes it seems to rise into view of people at a distance, in the shifting mirage that plays along the horizon.

The Origin of People (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)

2009-01-17T21:56:00.000-08:00

Appendix 1 - Western Shoshoni Myth
[http://www.sacred-texts.com/nam/ca/wsm/wsm10.htm]

Coyote had a home. He hunted rabbits to make a rabbit-skin blanket. When he had a great many skins, he started to make the blanket in his house. While he was working on his blanket, he saw a shadow pass the door. He went out of the door to see what it was, and saw a woman running. She had a rabbit's tail on her buttocks. He chased the woman, and she ran toward the west. Coyote ran fast, but could get no closer to her. He chased her to the ocean.

At the edge of the ocean the woman stopped and sat down. She said, "I will lie on my back and swim across, and carry you over." They started across, the woman carrying him. When they had gone a little way, Coyote moved down on her. The woman dumped him off into the water. Coyote had already decided that, if she put him off into the water, he would turn himself into a water skate ("some little long-legged insect that runs on the water"). When she pushed him into the water, he turned into the skate and crossed the ocean. He reached the other side before the woman.

When Coyote got to the other side he found a tree and made himself a bow. He took green stringy stuff from the water, which he put on the back of his bow instead of sinew. He made the bow string of the same thing. Then he found some cane, made arrows, and began to shoot ducks. He took the ducks to the woman's house.

There were two women living at this house, the woman he had followed and her mother. The women were sitting outside their house. They told Coyote to go inside and sit down. When Coyote went in, he saw quivers made of fox skin hanging all over the wall.

The women started to cook the ducks. They ate the ducks; both women ate. Coyote was singing. He made a hole in the house and watched the women. After eating the meat, the women disposed of the bones. . . . Both of them did this.

They went into the house to sleep. Coyote made advances to the woman he had pursued. He was frustrated . . . In the morning, Coyote went out and got a hard stick. It was a kind of hard sage brush. He hid it by the house . . . The next morning, Coyote hunted mountain sheep. He killed a small one and took the bone from its neck. He put the neck bone by the house in the same place he had hidden the stick. . . . He made successful advances that night . . .

In the morning, both women were large in the belly. The older one started to weave a basketry water jug. She finished making the jug. Both women put their babies in the jug. When they had finished, they told Coyote to go back home and to take the jug full of babies with him. Coyote started. When he came to the ocean, the old woman put a flat stick across it and Coyote walked over on it. He came toward his home. He went to Owens Valley.

While he was carrying the jug, he heard a noise. He wondered what it was. He pulled the stopper out of the jug. Indians came out; many Indians. When only a few were left inside the jug, he put the stopper back. The woman had told him to pull it out when he came to the middle of the world, but he had pulled it out when he heard the noise. He put the stopper in again and came on to Death Valley. In Death Valley he pulled it out again, and the remaining Indians came out. They stayed here. That is why there are Indians here now.

Stage 8 - Almost Amboy to Twentynine Palms

2009-01-17T21:31:00.000-08:00

THE ORIGIN OF PEOPLE (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)
Part 8 - While he was carrying the jug, he heard a noise. He wondered what it was. He pulled the stopper out of the jug. Indians came out; many Indians. When only a few were left inside the jug, he put the stopper back. The woman had told him to pull it out when he came to the middle of the world, but he had pulled it out when he heard the noise. He put the stopper in again and came on to Death Valley. In Death Valley he pulled it out again, and the remaining Indians came out. They stayed here. That is why there are Indians here now.

Whether we are asleep, or awake, we are really watching the functioning of our own minds; we create the reality around us.

It was eleven o’clock when we made it to Amboy. I had been looking forward to the hula skirts and the crazy photo-op that I had read about. But since I had taken so long to get there, the officials at the time station may have lost some enthusiasm. I and the Thrasher crew lost some enthusiasm as well; we had been on the road since seven A.M. the day before.

After a brief tack west on National Trails Highway, the final 58 mile section climbs into the Sheep Hole Mountains on Amboy Road. The difficult climb terminates at Sheep Hole Pass and the subsequent descent into the Dale Lake basin is only a short relief. The final twenty miles are mostly upwind and slightly uphill.

Crossing the tracks and turning south on the Amboy Road was one of my last coherent recollections. Sleep deprivation and exhaustion conspired to crumble my sanity like Sheep Hole’s crumbling granitic domes.

In the darkness the eerily lit path ahead was a dim tunnel. The crosswind played night music through the power lines next to the road. My mind swayed in and out of consciousness; the boundary between sleep and reality blurred and finally disappeared as we approached the steepest part of the climb.

Slowly creeping up the pass I remember watching the tail lights of passing traffic. I wanted to keep the lights in sight as long as I could. My idea was that in the darkness I’d be able to see how much further it was to the top. I struggled to understand why the dim lights just kept going up and up. In my realistic dream state one particular set of tail lights became a UFO and left the planet. My assessment was definitely more dissimilar from reality than usual. The Thrasher crew must have known that I was losing it.

I woke up long enough to safely handle the descent from Sheep Hole summit. Any sense of realism quickly faded as I made the final bend towards the west; a mere twenty miles to the finish line in Twentynine Palms.

My cadence slowed to a near stop. The Thrasher crew must have been doing the math because they frequently reminded me that the clock was still ticking and the forty eight hour time limit was not going to wait for me to get my act together. Somewhere along this portion of the stage Vireo cranked past me like a bullet; that was the last time that I saw George until the finish.

Slogging upwind and uphill I sank into a deep multi-sensory shaman experience; looking back on it now it was truly a form of controlled madness. The wall that separates states of consciousness is a very fine veil.

Time had slowed to a crawl. It was the first time in my life that I truly saw my perception of the world; it was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Unable to perform optimally, my brain had begun to create images.

A powerful artifact of a past experience in this race became a reoccurring theme in my journey tunnel. Standing along the road Coyote, my spirit guide, manifested himself many times. He moved close from time to time, lying along the shoulder and raising his head to look at me as I rolled by. His reassuring gaze spoke. He said, “Keep going. You will do this. I’ll stay with you”.

In my state of cognitive deficit my brain created another set of images; bent and warped as if viewed through a fish-eye lens. The road became lined with clusters of seventy’s era muscle cars. Each collection was accompanied by a sullen few; their arms were crossed as if they were waiting for me to give up. Group after group quietly gestured and laughed at my plight. They were detailed, impressive and as believable as normal reality. I tried to keep their cigarette smoking negativity in my peripheral vision. Maybe I feared them. Or maybe I feared what they represented.

It wasn’t until the turn onto Utah Trail that I began to fully understand what was happening. I knew that I was going to finish; no question about it.

The final few miles on Twentynine Palms highway were waking miles. As I approached the last little climb before the finish line, I could see a light colored figure laying in the gutter near the base of the hill. I was awake. But the figure of Coyote, my spirit guide was right there. Coyote did not move. I kept pedaling straight at him expecting his image to evaporate. Coyote did not raise his head and I had to make a hard turn to avoid hitting him.

Coyote was real. He was there. He was right in my path to say goodbye; He stayed with me until the end. It was so powerful. I will spend the rest of my life trying to understand it. It was the most real experience that I have ever had.

I went through the toilet paper finish line at 4:21 A.M.; 45 hours: 21 minutes: and 31 seconds after leaving Santa Clarita. I fell off of the bike and rolled across the concrete. Vireo and Rob ran over and helped me back to my feet. Desiree hugged me and everything was right. Everything was just right.

Stage 7 - Kelso to Almost Amboy

2009-01-11T20:44:00.000-08:00

THE ORIGIN OF PEOPLE (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)
Part 7 - In the morning, both women were large in the belly. The older one started to weave a basketry water jug. She finished making the jug. Both women put their babies in the jug. When they had finished, they told Coyote to go back home and to take the jug full of babies with him. Coyote started. When he came to the ocean, the old woman put a flat stick across it and Coyote walked over on it. He came toward his home. He went to Owens Valley.

We stopped at the Kelso time station for just a few minutes; we got back on course just as Red-Eye Vireo pulled in. Earlier, on the Kelbaker climb, Vireo and I had exchanged a few words of mutual encouragement as I crept pass him. The fixed gear that he was riding looked lean; but he had it set up with a tall gear that made the lean look mean.

After Kelso the course continues south on the Kelbaker Road adjacent to the Devil's Playground. The climb starts almost immediately. The twelve mile gain between the Granite Mountains and the Providence Mountains summits at Granite Pass. After a brief drop onto the flank of Van Winkle Mountain the descent rolls under I-40 and out of the Mojave National Preserve. The downhill section then continues all the way to the last time station before the finish in Twentynine Palms.

At the start of the climb I felt good. Vireo and I exchanged positions a number of times on the ascent; the last time I saw him on the Granite climb he was huddling inside his crew van covered in blankets.

I was cold and exhausted. I had slept only twenty minutes in the past two days. The stress from everything that happened so far finally overtook all of my training and preparation. More than three years of effort came crashing down in less than a few seconds. The rush of exhaustion felt like a spigot had opened and drained every last bit of energy from me; I cracked.

The climb wore on and on. I was having difficulty staying on the bike. I started a troubling tendency to stop pedaling and get off the bike. At every one of those stops Rob would jump out of the van and talk me into getting back on. I was past the pain but I could not get past the debilitating effects of sleep deprivation and complete exhaustion.

I made the summit of the Granite climb just in time to stave off the hallucinations that would eventually overtake my mind. The fast descent to the National Trails Highway and the Amboy time station slapped me back to reality.

Those miles were the last touch of waking reality that I would see until the finish in Twentynine Palms.

Stage 6 - Baker to Kelso

2009-01-08T20:21:00.000-08:00

THE ORIGIN OF PEOPLE (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)
Part 6 - They went into the house to sleep. Coyote made advances to the woman he had pursued. He was frustrated . . . In the morning, Coyote went out and got a hard stick. It was a kind of hard sage brush. He hid it by the house . . . The next morning, Coyote hunted mountain sheep. He killed a small one and took the bone from its neck. He put the neck bone by the house in the same place he had hidden the stick. . . . He made successful advances that night . . .

Just after three in the afternoon we pulled into the Baker time station. My feet were sore and the Thrasher crew was frazzled. Our first priority was to scan the town for an auto parts store that might have anything that could help us out of our lighting dilemma. The suggestion that Baker was a possible place to find electrical assistance turned out to be overly optimistic. After we made a few forays into local businesses it became painfully obvious that we were in deep trouble.

Frustrated and tired, hungry and divided, the Thrasher crew made sandwiches and took care of personal details while I pleaded with the attending 508 race official to contact Chris Kostman to see if there was any way to salvage my race.

During that process I, and one of my crew, proceeded to troubleshoot our electrical problem. We discovered that we could make the lights work; but we could not get the lights to work and meet the letter of the rules. We really needed to get a direct ruling from Chris before we could continue.

A Thrasher crewman suggested that I should ride towards Kelso while he tried to get things sorted out. But until we got an official ruling on our predicament there was no way that I was leaving the presence of a race official. Also, there was no way that I was going to leave a lighting rewire job in anyone’s hands but my own. This 508 was my dream; and at this critical point I was not leaving it in anyone’s hands but my own.

While team after team passed us as we stalled in Baker, we hastily tore apart our wiring. As I band aided it back together with sweat and electrical tape, we finally got the official ruling from Chris. At around five in the afternoon we were approved to continue the race with a minor rule variance.

After two hours of stress and uncertainty I got back on the bike. With the Thrasher crew right behind me I pedaled across Baker Boulevard and up to the beginning of the 20 mile Kelbaker Grade.

Running through the heart of the Mojave National Preserve the Kelbaker Road is not much of a road at all. The surface looks like an evil comedian made a half baked attempt to smooth out the desert floor and then just poured some tar on top of the rocky mess that he created.

After more than three hundred and fifty miles on the bike the Kelbaker Road pounded an indelible memory into my every nerve ending. The slow endless climb wore on through the evening and into the night; in the darkness I never got to see the lava fields and the cinder cones that frame the route.

The long ascent eventually summits at a pass with no name. That wide gap between the Kelso Mountains and the Marl Mountains introduces you to a dangerous high speed descent to Kelso. With endless areas of broken pavement, the road jars its way across multiple cattle guards and over countless pot holes.

The constant pounding on that downhill section really took its toll on me. Eventually every single bump felt like a ball peen hammer strike; my already sore feet absorbed strike after excruciating strike. Halfway down the ten mile torture chamber I struggled to a stop. I hunched over my bike and cried; the pain was beyond anything that I had ever endured.

By the time that we made it to Kelso my feet and my brain were numb.

Stage 5 - Shoshone to Baker

2009-01-05T19:07:00.000-08:00

THE ORIGIN OF PEOPLE (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)
Part 5 - The women started to cook the ducks. They ate the ducks; both women ate. Coyote was singing. He made a hole in the house and watched the women. After eating the meat, the women disposed of the bones. . . . Both of them did this.

If it can go wrong, it will go wrong. The 508 is an extreme event undertaken in extreme conditions and circumstances; if there is a weak link, it will break. Unfortunately for me and the Thrasher crew there were two weak links that both had serious potential to end my 508.

The moment that I got off the bike at the Shoshone time station my wife ran up to me and spilled the news that there was a Thrasher crew member that was creating hardship for the team. The weak crewman was a longtime friend who had a selfish attitude and a hidden agenda that posed a real problem for the other crew members. My wife Desiree and my other crewman Rob had provided incredible support all along the course; In fact without that support there is no way that I would have survived this far.

During that drama we also discovered that the flashing amber lights had stopped working. I neglected to bring a spare set of lights and now there was a real possibility that we would have to DNF. Since Shoshone is little more than a gas station deli stop we made a decision to ride to the next time station to see if the town of Baker had the necessary electrical repair facilities.

Just a few miles south of Shoshone the cruise through Greenwater Valley gives way to an easy climb to Ibex Pass. Ibex Pass is just a brief gap between a set of three small ranges: Ibex Hills, Sperry Hills, and Saddle Peak Hills. While it hardly seemed worthy of being called a pass, we stopped for a photo-op anyways.

After Ibex Pass, I raced back down into the extreme south end of Death Valley. The wind was at my back and I couldn’t help but notice the Dumont Dunes just ahead and to the east. The dunes were littered with RV’s, ATV’s and motorcycles. The scene, back-dropped against the pure natural contour of pale living sand, was like something out of The Road Warrior. (Mad Max 2/The Road Warrior [1981] - In the post-apocalyptic Australian wasteland, a cynical drifter [Mel Gibson] agrees to help a small, gasoline rich, community escape the Humongous; a band of bandits led by Lord Humongous.)

The road out of the southernmost tip of Death Valley climbs slightly into what looks like a natural exit from Hell. The obvious gap in the Salt Spring Hills draws the curtain closed on Death Valley National Park and opens the way into the beautiful desert landscape of the Silurian Valley.

The grade is unnoticeably uphill and runs mostly straight south towards Baker. The mid afternoon the Humongous’ migration had begun in earnest. Loud fifth-wheel pulling diesel monsters howled around us again and again. Lord Humongous himself, riding a growling monster, belched out a gray-water spray of disrespect as he jammed his way back into the lane right in front of me. I was Mad Max for just a moment.

That incident made me lose focus and the excruciating pain in my feet and toes made me pull over for a roadside foot massage next to a dry lake. The Thrasher crew had a good laugh about the whole thing and I got back on the bike.

We rolled into time station 5 with a defective set of lights and a divided crew; not the formula for success that I had laid out thirty three hours ago.

Stage 4 - Furnace Creek to Shoshone

2008-01-31T21:28:00.000-08:00

THE ORIGIN OF PEOPLE (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)
Part 4 - There were two women living at this house, the woman he had followed and her mother. The women were sitting outside their house. They told Coyote to go inside and sit down. When Coyote went in, he saw quivers made of fox skin hanging all over the wall.

Furnace Creek sits amid a brief gap in the Amargosa Range; The Funerals extend to the north and the Black Mountains run to the south terminating at the Ibex Hills. Climbing and descending multiple alluvial fans, the route to Shoshone skirts the base of the Blacks before exiting Death Valley near the ruins at Ashford Mill. Once you climb over the Blacks and make your first crossing of the Ibex Hills, it’s a quick little descent into Greenwater Valley and the Furnace Creek Wash. From there, Shoshone is just a short ride ahead.

It was after four A.M. when I pulled out of the Furnace Creek time station. We probably spent too much time there. Since it had been a long twenty four hours, the brief rest was good for me and for the crew. Almost immediately after getting back on the North Highway the turn onto the Badwater Road marked the beginning of a never ending desert roller ride through the Middle Basin.

Just past Badwater my night began to take on a surreal guise. I don’t recall exactly where I saw the coyote. His large white profile stood just off the road. He turned his head to watch until I was right next to him. From just a few feet to my left, he ran ahead and disappeared into the night. That was my first encounter with Coyote; my Spirit Guide.

I had no concept of the passing of time. I just pedaled. Deep into its last quarter, the waning moon shone brightly amongst the gaps in the black escarpment to the east. A bright planet accompanied the slim crescent in a celestial duet; from my varying perspective riding along the base of the cliffs, I fixed my attention on the display that continually appeared and reappeared.

The predawn glow turned the sky from a milky black to a deep cold blue. Across the valley to the west, first light was the tip of Telescope Peak. As the remainder of the Panamint Range awakened in a cauldron of red, I was struggling to stay awake. My body felt fine. My mind was exhausted.

After Mormon Point, Jaguar pulled up alongside the Thrasher Team while I was getting off the bike. “I’m having trouble staying awake”, I said. Jaguar said that he was sure that I’d feel better when the sun came up. I hoped he was right as I climbed in the van with Desiree and fell into a deep sleep.

Rob virtually yanked me out of the van. “Enough sleep”, he said, “We’ve got to get going”. By that point in the ride, I had learned to trust Rob without question. He told me that I had slept for twenty minutes; he rolled my bike in front of me and said something like, “Get going”. I did what I was told.

I felt renewed as daylight crept across the desert floor.

Pinched between the Owlshead Mountains and the Blacks, Ashford Mill sits in the narrowest part of this end of the valley. The Amargosa River funnels through The Narrows at Ashford Junction. I’m not a geologist, but it appeared to me that the concentrating effect of the narrowed drainage system improved the quantity and the variety of plant species found in the area.

One last glance across the valley at the Confidence Hills and we headed east toward Jubilee Pass. Jubilee Pass is the climb that takes you over the Black Mountains and out of Death Valley. From the top of the pass the view back into the valley is unforgettable.

I don’t think that I stopped at the Jubilee summit. Tucked onto my aerobars I relaxed down the quick little descent to the base of the Salsberry climb. This steady grade up the west flank of the Ibex Hills gave me plenty of time for sightseeing. I was intrigued by Epaulet Peak and Calico Peaks to the north. I searched the top of Salsberry Pass for the Devil; I had heard he lived there. All I saw was Sheephead Mountain.

The easy cruise from Salsberry Pass into Greenwater Valley and across the Furnace Creek Wash just flew by. We rolled onto Highway 127 and picked up a decent tailwind that pushed me into the Shoshone time station at noon.

My spirits were high.

Stage 3 - Trona to Furnace Creek (Rebirth)

2008-01-23T20:30:00.001-08:00

The five thousand foot dark-of-night plunge into Death Valley cannot be accurately described. After what I had just been through, the experience pumped life giving adrenaline into my system.

I was using a high power HID light that lit up the road like it was day. Racing down the highway at full speed we blew by rider after rider on the descent; Rob calculated that we hit 55mph. By the time we sped out onto Emigrant Wash, the grade eased slightly and the temperature had risen noticeably. In my biggest gear, I jammed the pedals down all the way past Stovepipe Wells.

From there Highway 190 is slightly downhill across Mesquite Flat and past the Devil’s Cornfield. In the light of day the clumps of arrow weed look like stalks of corn ready for a demon’s harvest. In the pale blue HID lighting, the eerie mounds danced with their own shadows along the road of my rebirth.

Just a quick little hop up to the North Highway and we turned south towards Furnace Creek. After fighting headwinds all day, that turn in the heart of Death Valley was the turning of fate for my 508. I thought about the last time that I was on the North Highway. The previous October I had spent some time suffering on this road. On that night I had felt the full weight of the Funeral Mountains watching me from the east. But this time, I had already done my suffering.

I pumped up my cadence and raced the rest of the way to Time Station 3. The certainty of finishing my 508 had returned.

Stage 3 - Trona to Furnace Creek (Survival)

2008-01-23T16:40:00.000-08:00

I have no idea how long sat in the van covered with blankets. The only thing that I remember is Rob telling me that I had a choice to make. He reminded me about the huge investment of time and effort that had brought me to this intersection. “The most expensive double century ever”, he said. The thought of quitting was not in my mind. I just needed time to get myself back together.

I got back on the bike and made a feeble effort to start the climb up Townes Pass. I don’t think that I made it very far before I rolled off the bike again. This time I ended up lying down on the most comfortable patch of gravel that I had ever seen.

Once again, Rob and my wife Desiree saved my life. They dragged my incoherent empty shell back into our van; I think they let me sleep for a few minutes. In my fog, I lost track of the passing of time.

Rest and a few small bites of fresh strawberries must have done some good. Out of the blue I blurted out my first complete sentence. I had been thinking about Rob and what a great crewmember he was. “Why the hell did you decide to become an English professor?” I said. My brain was an old incandescent light flickering on. Finally the electrons were blinking back to life.

Rob must have sensed that the time was right to get me back on my feet. He and Desiree yanked me out and propped me up against the van. Rob handed me my tennis shoes and told me that if I couldn’t ride up Townes Pass, I’d have to walk up. He tried to put my left shoe on my right foot. I protested and switched the shoes to the proper foot. I figured that he was testing my coherency; that flickering light was stabilizing.

I walked for quite a while. On the road ahead I could see the flashing lights of the teams that had passed me. They were a ghostly amber snake flashing up to the stars.

The fresh strawberries and small bites of banana eventually brought me back to life. My light bulb was no longer flickering; but its dull glow was steady and getting stronger. I put on my cycling shoes, got on my bike and rode the rest of the way to the top.

At the top of the pass it was bitter cold. The wind was howling but it did not matter to me at all. I had made it. It was not the way that I had dreamed of making it. But, with the help of Rob and Desiree, I made it. I hugged the Townes Pass Elevation sign and we all celebrated together. I had survived.

Stage 3 - Trona to Furnace Creek (Disaster)

2008-01-23T16:26:00.000-08:00

THE ORIGIN OF PEOPLE (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)
Part 3 - When Coyote got to the other side he found a tree and made himself a bow. He took green stringy stuff from the water, which he put on the back of his bow instead of sinew. He made the bow string of the same thing. Then he found some cane, made arrows, and began to shoot ducks. He took the ducks to the woman's house.

This stage has been the most difficult stage for me to document. It’s difficult because I was incoherent for a large portion of it. It’s further complicated because I have been either unwilling or unable to recall the details of this near race-ending disaster. It seemed like things were going great until I made a huge blunder in the Panamint Valley.

My spirits and my energy level were high as I rolled out of the time station in Trona. The waning glow of the desert sunset held just enough light for me to rail off of the foot of the Slate Range and drop into the Panamint Valley depression. I felt glued to the road on that that descent; I made a high speed pass that I'll never forget. Just before the 6:00 P.M. daylight riding cutoff, the evening sun spread across the valley casting the shadow of the Argus Range on the Panamints to the east. Shortly after my crew hooked me up to the lights, the Panamint Range quickly turned from a soft evening glow to a hard charcoal silhouette against a backdrop of ten billion stars.

Approaching the Trona Wildrose Road, I contemplated the prospect of staying awake for the next thirty hours. My mind was awash with the thought of riding through the night. I considered that caffeine laced Tropical Hammer Gel packs were the logical choice for an all nighter; a mere 100 calories and 25 mg of caffeine each. At that crucial moment in my 508, I neglected to take into account that my stomach already had plenty of calories. I slammed the gel pack and looked ahead to the climb that I had dreamed about for more than three years; Townes Pass is generally considered the crux climb of the Furnace Creek 508.

After I made the turn onto the Panamint Valley Road, my stomach started to feel queasy. The jarring ride through the valley got worse and worse with each passing mile; my queasy stomach got worse with each passing minute. It wasn’t long before I made a panic stop and threw up.

The next choice that I made was probably the most damaging decision that I made during this three year journey. Empting my stomach of the excess calories made me feel good again. My queasy stomach was gone and my reaction was to immediately get back on the bike and ride. That worked for a little while. But as my body burned through my last remaining reserves, my pace slowed and a paralyzing fog filled my head.

Right after the turn onto Highway 190, I think that I fell off my bike. I vaguely remember seeing my bike in the dirt as I shivered myself into the van. I was so cold. I couldn’t put words together to form a sentence.

Stage 2 - California City to Trona

2007-12-23T18:05:00.000-08:00

THE ORIGIN OF PEOPLE (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)
Part 2 - At the edge of the ocean the woman stopped and sat down. She said, "I will lie on my back and swim across, and carry you over." They started across, the woman carrying him. When they had gone a little way, Coyote moved down on her. The woman dumped him off into the water. Coyote had already decided that, if she put him off into the water, he would turn himself into a water skate ("some little long-legged insect that runs on the water"). When she pushed him into the water, he turned into the skate and crossed the ocean. He reached the other side before the woman.

The barren landscape of the Mojave Desert just blends one hour with the next. Other than sage, the deep, well drained alluvium soils appear to support very few native plant species. Miles and miles of nothing provided little cover for my frequent nature breaks. About ten miles north of California City, the route passes the Hyundai-Kia Motors California Proving Ground site. I gave it only a passing thought. But the smooth pavement of multimillion dollar test track seemed completely out of place.

The slight downhill grade into the Fremont Valley eventually turned northeast along the foot of the El Paso Mountains. Here, the Redrock Randsberg Road grinds through the desert highlighting the first of many dry lakes; Koehn Lake, or what’s left of it, hosts a series of salt evaporators in a little town called Saltdale; You’ve got to wonder just how much money there is salt.

Dropping into Fiddler Gulch near the end of the Randsberg climb, I remember thinking that the cool weather was working in my favor. Nestled between the Rand and Lava Mountains, Randsberg was a scene straight out of a Rob Zombie film. Replaying my copy of The Devil’s Rejects in my head, I got out of there as quick as I could. The Thrasher crew was equally uncomfortable until we left Johannesberg and turned north onto the Trona Road.

At the crest of the Summit Range, a girl in a blue skin suit got an impressive bike change from her crew. I was a little startled by the perfectly executed exchange as she railed down the Trona Bump into the Searles Valley. A short time later Jeff Jaguar Martin and Jo Carmichael on their tandem told me the chick in the blue skin suit was the female solo champion from 2004; Jaguar mentioned that trying to keep up with her might be a bad idea. Since I had seen her disappearing act, I agreed and continued to ride my own 508.

Except for seeing the distant Trona Pinnacles in the evening sun, the rest of the ride into Time Station Two was unmemorable. The only thing I recall was a strange looking bike path between Argus and Trona; I thought about moving off the road and onto the path. After closer inspection however, the rock strewn, gravel imbedded and bump infested trail was more of an off road adventure than I was prepared for.

Stage 1 - Santa Clarita to California City

2007-12-13T14:53:00.000-08:00

THE ORIGIN OF PEOPLE (Death Valley, California. Shoshoni)
Part 1 - Coyote had a home. He hunted rabbits to make a rabbit-skin blanket. When he had a great many skins, he started to make the blanket in his house. While he was working on his blanket, he saw a shadow pass the door. He went out of the door to see what it was, and saw a woman running. She had a rabbit's tail on her buttocks. He chased the woman, and she ran toward the west. Coyote ran fast, but could get no closer to her. He chased her to the ocean.

Considering that I’d have no sleep in the next forty eight hours, choking down three boiled eggs and two pieces of bread at four in the morning was not the best way to start the day. Right or wrong my rigid pre-race protocol had to be met; three years of training is a hard habit to break.

I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that I didn’t recognize the person I saw. An almost gaunt figure stared back with unfamiliar eyes. The person in the mirror told me I was ready for the 508. He told me that I would finish. “See yourself at the finish line” he said, “See yourself there, and see nothing else.”

The route for Mountain Section 1 climbs over the Sierra Pelona. The Sierra Pelona Mountains are one of the Transverse Ranges that are still rising out of the earth as a result of tectonic forces along the San Andreas Fault System. The easy climb pauses briefly at Elizabeth Lake (Elizabeth Lake is actually a sag pond in the San Andreas Rift zone) before Johnson Summit exits Porthole Ridge into the Antelope Valley.

Riding across the rolling terrain towards the Tehachapi Mountains was a pleasure. There was a cool headwind that was mildly annoying. But given the scope of the task yet to come, a little breeze hardly bears mentioning. My only significant memories of that featureless spin across the valley were the countless “Land for Sale” signs posted all along the road. I rolled past our support van and asked Desiree if we should look into retirement property; she laughed and told me that she had the same idea. Since I was born in Lancaster it would be just like coming home.

Approaching the Windmills Climb was an awesome experience. The east slopes of the Tehachapi are peppered with sparkling white wind generators and every one of them was spinning. I knew that there was a good reason for choosing the gap between the Tehachapi's and the Paiute's for a wind farm. The narrow valley creates a perfect venturi that down-slopes toward the east; good for windmills, bad for cyclists. I paid little attention to the climb; I was mesmerized by the churning blades spinning at every turn.

After the Oak Creek descent, it was just a quick little cruise through Mojave with a great view of the bone yard at the airport. Heading north out of town we rolled up into the Horned Toad Hills and then pedaled down the gently sloping remnant of an ancient alluvial fan to California City.

One stage down and seven to go.

2007 - My Demons of September

2007-11-05T19:30:00.000-08:00

The Panamint Shoshone primarily gathered pine nuts, mesquite beans, and seeds for food. Bands of families lived in small villages made up of conical brush houses. They spent their winters in Death Valley, taking advantage of ripening plant resources, and hunting animals and migratory birds. During the winter, the Panamint people enjoyed a rich ceremonial life, which included storytelling and singing.

The month of September was filled with both certainty and uncertainty. Lining up at the start of the 508 was certain. But, there were occasional hints of uncertainty attached to the finish line in Twentynine Palms. A neurotic host of voices haunted the logical side of my brain. Every day the demons in my head got louder. If someone around me coughed or sneezed, I’d hold my breath and run away. And more troubling, riding my mountain bike was turning into a major head trip.

I stuck to my training plan: every other weekend 350 miles. Between the 350’s I’d ride easy 150 mile weekends. During the work week I’d recover on Old Blue and ride mountain bike in the evenings. Some evenings Desiree and I would take pleasure rides on the roads around the Everett area.

On the 23rd, I rode the High Pass Challenge. The Cascade Bike Club put on a decent ride through the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. The route climbed a total of 7,500 feet to Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument on Windy Ridge; starting from Packwood the ride clocked out at 114 miles. At the halfway point (4, 100 MSL) the temperature was 38 degrees and it was gusting up to 20 MPH. One of my demons protested about riding in the cold. He yelled his complaint over the howl of the wind, “you’re acclimating to the wrong end of the thermometer!”

My head was spinning on the last few miles of the HPC. I thought about the three year climb that brought me to this point of my obsession to ride the 508. My body felt ready. And except for my demons, my mind was ready too.

2007 – No Drafting Season

2007-11-02T20:16:00.000-07:00

I call my work bike “Old Blue”. Five days a week Old Blue is sixty eight pounds of recovery ride. He’s a steel framed coaster brake single speed; fully accessorized with a big front basket, a cartoon sticker bell, and an explosion-proof flashlight that I use for a headlight.

I joke to myself that I’m a professional cyclist for The Boeing Company. My job as an Equipment Coordinator at the Everett Site takes me to every corner of the plant. The most efficient way to get around is on a bike. Just for fun I mapped out a sample trip: http://veloroutes.org/bikemaps/?route=5492 . I was surprised to see that the trip was 5.5 miles and had an elevation gain of over 400 feet. Considering that I ride multiple trips day in and day out, my professional cyclist joke may not be that far off.

Training in 2007 was marked with a no drafting commitment. The 508 had become a part of me. Not a single day passed without thinking about some detail concerning the race. Every pedal stroke had a purpose. As an inexperienced ultra cyclist, every ride was an opportunity to learn what not to do.

My season started in January. If the road was dry, I was on it. In between snow days, there were frost covered roads to ride. The Frostbite TT was in late February. When I cued up for the start, the mystique of the 508 put James “Cutthroat” Trout right behind me. (He’s an accomplished ultra cyclist, 508 Veteran, 2005 RAAM Solo Finisher). I got a chance to talk to him about my plan to ride the 508. Half way through the rain soaked 14 mile TT he blasted by me without a word.

As soon as the weather improved I started doing century rides; local routes that had the most climbing possible. I did so many that I lost count. My favorite was a big 116 mile triangle that went up into the foothills of the Cascades. Sometimes I’d go hard and sometimes I’d take a pleasure ride. Either way though, the rides were always unsupported no drafting solos.

In August I ramped up the miles on a new TREK Madone. In between my 350 mile weekends, I did a triple S.O.B. The S.O.B. (Summits of Bothell) is 8 summits in 38miles with 3,250 feet of climbing: 2:47, 2:45, 3:01; 114 miles with almost 10,000 feet of elevation and I still felt great.

By September my 508 was definitely within reach.

2006 - Fall from Hell's Gate

2007-10-28T21:50:00.000-07:00

October 29, 2006 Fall Death Valley Double Century

After 175 miles and 9,000 feet of climbing in Death Valley, I'm feeling pretty good while rounding the corner at Hell's Gate. A momentary stop for turn-point verification appears to be a small personal victory as I pass a number of riders who are refueling in preparation for the final push into Furnace Creek. A little more than 20 miles ahead is the culmination of a season's long training effort that has been a journey of priceless experience.

Riding through the silence of a Death Valley night, I think back to the first century ride of the year; the McClinchy Mile in Arlington, Washington. 111 miles in mid-March that proved to be a six-plus hour challenge to endure the elements of wind and cold of the Pacific Northwest. The same sensation from that frigid March morning's cold air rushing over my body seems real to me now as the descent from Hell's Gate slaps me back to reality. Plunging headlong into a place that many have called Hell should not feel this cold.

Climbing 2000 feet of elevation in the 7 miles to Hell's Gate had been a sweaty affair. Now the cooling effect of evaporation was working against me as the desert night sliced all the way to my core. Succumbing to hypothermia in Death Valley? I would have laughed out loud if I could have only stopped my body from shivering and my teeth from chattering. Instead of laughing I spent every second of that black descent with both hands full of brakes just trying to hang onto the bike. The situation cascades deeper into Hell as I can tell that my stomach will soon become the biggest loser in my body's battle to keep vital systems intact.

A grievous lighting equipment miscalculation further exacerbated an already bad situation. With poor night lighting equipment it is impossible to tell where the pavement ends and the desert begins. It is a struggle to keep the wheels as close as possible to the faded yellow center stripe and I find myself frustrated with the California Highway Department. I wonder how many years it has been since they’ve stepped as much as a foot in Hell. The sad reality is that the highway department had nothing to do with my poor decision to use inadequate lights on this ride. My mountain biking lights would have been a better choice even if they are a bit heavier than the mistake now fitted to my handlebars. There’s no time for these distractions now.

Somewhere I read about hallucinations due to sleep deprivation during long rides. This ride’s not long enough for mind tricks. I'm sure a couple of helmet flashing UFO’s and a sagebrush rooster don't count as real hallucinations. Just over twelve hours isn’t long enough to feel the effects of sleep deprivation. But, I can't stop yawning and my mind dangerously strays away from the faded yellow stripe in the middle of the road. I can’t help but wonder if hypothermia affects the brain as well as the body.

After a brief incursion into the desert for some off-road night riding, I manage to get back onto the pavement without donating any skin. Scoffing out loud I allow my thoughts to wander to a similar off-road incident that I had on last June’s Flying Wheels Century ride. I recall that at that time my wife Desiree had a good laugh and I consider the fact that I should have learned my lesson by now. That beautiful June ride was Desiree’s first century. With a big climb at mile 83, Desiree motored up that hill like it was merely a distraction.

Earlier this morning I left Desiree at Scotty’s Castle in Grapevine Canyon. She had completed the climb just like we had trained for it; strong. I’m sure she was not entirely happy with the hill training that I put us both through this season. This afternoon at the halfway point in Desiree’s 108 mile task it looked like Goat Trail hill repeats, Stevens Pass punishment, and finally a Chipmunk Canyon primer in the Eastern Sierra Nevada made today’s climbing task just another afternoon ride for her. She must be back at The Furnace Creek Ranch by now. I’m confident that she made it just fine.

I need to concentrate on myself for now. I had better get off of the bike and gather my focus. This is the first of three breaks off of the bike on the descent from Hell’s Gate. My hands, legs and arms are freezing up tight and the shivering is making it difficult to stay on the road. Random thoughts run through my mind during the brief stops in the dark; a recollection of today’s easy climb up Grapevine Canyon and past Scotty’s Castle to the border crossing; a rolling conversation with a Furnace Creek 508 veteran who eventually disappeared into the heat of midday at the Nevada Highway 95 turn point; the awesome sight of Ubehebe Crater and the terrible road surface on that stage.

Finally the road flattens out and I tell myself that it’s time to pedal. There’s no response. I tell myself again, “It’s time to pedal!” No response. There’s an obvious disconnect between my brain and my body. After a few tries my legs complete a couple of shaky revolutions. The pain is excruciating on each pedal stroke and I’m struggling to find any cadence that works.

After what seemed like hours of slowly weaving down this road to nowhere, I can barely make out a demoralizing cluster of lights glimmering in the distance. From here, mired in my own private Hell, it appears that the lights are unreachable. I think that I could be finished and I can almost hear that cluster of lights laughing at my misfortune.

Fumbling my way off of the bike to walk it off and to think for a while, I talk myself into enjoying the moment. Completely alone in the dark here in the heart of Death Valley, I can feel the Funeral Mountains looking down on me from the east. Above the landscape and off in the western sky, the moon is skimming through a transparent veil of high cirrus clouds. From below sea level, looking out of my place in Hell I can see the sun shinning brightly on the surface of the moon. What happened to the heat of the day? I had not considered just how quickly the desert turns from friend to foe. I feel so abandoned by the sun’s light and warmth that dissipated as quickly as a wisp of smoke in the wind. The desert surrounds me with a deep silence interrupted only by the occasional sounds of small groups of riders whizzing past me at incredible speeds; more demoralization.

As I walk along, my teeth are no longer chattering but I am unable to stop my body from shivering. A couple of hiccups later I donate all of the liquid left in my nauseous stomach to the desert; my shivering stops and I feel better knowing that some small parched creature of the night may discover happiness in my misfortune. I feel good enough to tell a passing support vehicle that I’m doing fine and I’ll make it back to Furnace Creek. It’s obvious to me that I was not very convincing. They circle back around a couple of times to give me an opportunity to change my mind. The support on this ride has been fantastic and I appreciate their concern. But, there’s no way I’m going to get swept up by a support van. Certainly not after all I’ve been through to get this far. I have too much invested in this effort to quit now. I am going to ride to the finish on my bike or I am going to walk the rest of the way. I will finish!

Back on the bike the short walk and the desert donation have had a small effect on my ability to pedal again. A few more small groups of riders pass me and I can hear some of them discuss my predicament. My snail’s pace and unsteady wobbling down the road is a dead giveaway. Most of their encouraging words are absorbed in the silence of the valley. One passing rider yells back to me. The words that I hear are, “You’re almost there. Only thirty miles to go.” Did he say, “Only Thirty miles to go?” Did I hear that right?

The far off demoralizing cluster of lights that I saw earlier must be Furnace Creek after all. I don’t remember those now unreachable thirty miles from earlier this morning. All I can remember is the 17 miles of a super fast pace line from the ranch all the way to the Stovepipe Wells turnoff. Where in Hell is the Stovepipe Wells turnoff? How is it possible that there are thirty more miles to go? I hate that cluster of glimmering lights and I am angry at the thought of thirty miles to go. Telling myself that anger is counter productive I ignore the distant lights and just fix my eyes to the road and pedal. I think that the passing rider must be out of his mind with exhaustion. I am sure that one of us is delirious; at this moment however, I’m not sure which one of us it is.

Soon after I left my “thirty miles to go” math problem unsolved in the desert, the answer reveals itself on a Death Valley National Park information sign smiling at me from the side of the road. It says, “Furnace Creek ¼ Mile.” It wasn’t, “thirty miles to go.” The passing rider must have said, “three miles to go.” I guess hypothermia can affect hearing too.

Just ahead the dim lights of the Furnace Creek Ranch give way to the finish line tent set up at the gate. I limp across the line at 14 hours and 9 minutes. My beautiful wife Desiree is there to meet me with a smile and a hug. After I hand her my bike and take off my shoes, we slowly make our way back to our room. I have accustomed myself to never ending ride segments during the day today and the final hotel stage was nearly as difficult as the first stage earlier this morning. But with Desiree’s humor, help, and encouragement, this is definitely the most satisfying moment of the past 14 hours.

2006 – Journey to Tomesha (Death Valley)

2007-10-28T21:44:00.000-07:00

"Ground Afire" is the meaning of the Indians' name for what is now known as Death Valley. And in the height of summer there is no better name for this sun-tortured trench between blistered ranges. But when a group of forty-niners [1849] blundered into it, they renamed it Death Valley.

After spending the bulk of last season building up to my first century, I really thought that I could be ready for the 508 by October. But a nagging IT Band irritation from a poor bike fit gave me a good excuse for not registering. The reality was that I had a long way to go before I had a chance at making it to Twentynine Palms.

Since I wasn’t going to register for the 508, I signed up for the Fall Death Valley Double Century. From an experience perspective, riding two hundred miles in Death Valley would give me an opportunity to check out the desert climbs and recon some of the 508’s route. I wanted to see Townes Pass first hand.

Before fall, I felt like I needed to do a double century on my own. I had been thinking about riding over the North Cascades Highway to Winthrop. The first half of the route looked good; plenty of water stops along the way. The last half however appeared to be more interesting; no roadside water at all.

In late August the weather and my fitness level seemed just about right. I left the house before sunrise and the first hundred and twenty miles went great. I made it to Newhalem in just over six and a half hours. With no water stops for the next seventy three miles, I filled both of my large water bottles and my 70 ml water bladder. Then I crammed multiple bottles inside the oversized pack that I brought for this stage.

The five thousand foot climb over both Rainy Pass and Washington Pass was demoralizing. Heading west from Newhalem, Highway 20 undulates up and down for over forty miles before it drops back down towards Mazama. Just as I’d crest one rise, a steep downhill section negated almost every foot of elevation gained. It felt like climbing a steep sand dune; three steps up and then sink two steps down. (The veloroute.org mapping data shows over 13,000 feet of total elevation gain: http://veloroutes.org/bikemaps/?route=5424 )

By late October I had not fully recovered from the Winthrop ride when I finished the Fall Death Valley Double Century. It wasn’t easy; but I proved to myself that I could ride two hundred miles. This time I thought, “If I could ride two hundred miles, it can’t be too much harder to ride five hundred miles”.

2005 - The 508 was a Burr Under My Saddle

2007-10-26T16:20:00.000-07:00

My cat Ozzy was compelled to jump. He’d jump up there almost everyday. I’m sure he knew there was no way for him to get down. Once he did it, it was over for him until I’d climb up on the roof and get him. Pouring rain or searing afternoon sun, it didn’t matter. I watched him do it time after time. The look on his face was one of terrified resignation. He didn’t want to jump. He was compelled to jump. I know now how he felt.

In 2005 the 508 was a burr under my saddle. That number gnawed at me every day. I spent time on the internet researching everything that I could find about it. I put a 508 graphic on my PC at work. The image was a tiny speck of a cyclist in the distance on a desert road. The graphic had a quote by Seneca the Elder, “It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare, it is because we do not dare that things are difficult”.

Early in the season my wife Desiree and I decided that we should get road bikes. Since she was lukewarm on the whole mountain bike thing, we thought that road biking together would be fun; I secretly recalled the 508. She and I spent a few weeks checking out the road scene and riding as many demo bikes as we could find. We eventually chose the Trek 2100. I think that we must have looked like a couple of dorks riding identical bikes. We also had fancy riding clothes that matched our bikes. We laughed about it and called ourselves "Team Troili".

The more I rode, the more I wanted to ride. I heard people talk about century riding and I had no idea what that meant. Once I figured it out, the prospect of riding a hundred miles sounded like a fair challenge. “Besides”, I thought to myself, “If I could ride one hundred miles, it can’t be too much harder to ride five hundred miles”.

I was sure that big rides were going to take a ton of food. I wondered how I was going to carry it all. That question was the beginning of an investigation into unsupported endurance cycling. I poured over tons of material on long distance riding. One internet article mentioned Steve "Beaver" Born and his "Double Furnace Creek 508". Now I felt much better about my dream to ride the 508; I figured that if this “Beaver” dude did it twice in a row, I could definitely do it once. I had never been serious about riding a road bike. I had not even ridden a century. Now my ego and I were conspiring to ride over 500 miles.

In August of 2005 I finally completed my first true century. The ride was 110 miles from my home in Everett, over Stevens Pass to Leavenworth. The total trip time was seven hours. Excluding breaks, the actual saddle time was just over 6 hours; 110 miles in 6 hours over a 4032 foot mountain pass seemed like a reasonable result for my first century. My reaction was, “Four more century rides like that and I’ll be doing the 508 in 30 hours; no problem”. I have often failed to separate fantasy from reality.

2004 - A Dream in a Goodie Bag

2007-10-22T20:17:00.000-07:00

Flying Horseshoe MTB Festival, Cle Elem, WA
NORBA Cross Country Race - 06/05/2004

I was pissed to find out that I'd have to buy a NORBA License to compete in the Men's Pro Division at the Flying Horseshoe MTB Festival in Cle Elem. For the past year or two, I had been crushing the guys that I ride with every Thursday night. As far as I was concerned, I was going to crush the field in my first bike race of any kind. I reluctantly registered as a single event Sport Class rider.

Goodie bag in hand, my huge ego and I went back to the parking lot to wait for the start of the "Men - Sport - Master - 40-49". I tossed the unopened bag in the back of my truck and turned to watch the start of the Men's Pro race. Immediately after the starting gun it was obvious that I had no business even considering that I belonged in the Pro group; the riders disappeared up the hill faster than I could ride down it.

I had no idea of the significance of that goodie bag now wrinkled in a heap. A piece of the crumpled contents would later change my life. A tiny little cache of minerals and a pouch of banana flavored carbohydrate sat unnoticed for weeks. Occasionally I'd look at the bag. But it was only a bitter reminder of the punishment that my ego had to absorb at the Flying Horseshoe MTB race.

When my goodie bag finally fell out of my truck, instead of just chucking the whole thing in the trash, I opened it and took a look at the funny white capsules and the weird looking silver pouch that said "Hammer Gel - Banana". I went to the web address on the packet and found the world of endurance fueling.

A strange number was mentioned again and again. I had never heard of Furnace Creek and what the hell did 508 mean? I quickly discovered what it meant: 508 miles with 35,000 feet of elevation that must be completed within a 48 hour time limit. I thought, "Impossible!...But I can do it".

Preface - 2007 Furnace Creek 508

2007-10-21T21:10:00.000-07:00

Moments are to be seized and savored. This moment took three years to seize and it will take a lifetime to savor. (10.08.07 45:21:31).

This moment was forty five hours and twenty one minutes of heaven and hell. At 4:21 AM on October 8, 2007 three years of training and preparation for this single event became the fulfillment of a dream. My obsession was to finish the Furnace Creek 508. But it became much more to me than just finishing. It has become a life lesson that has changed me forever. Many things are crystal clear to me now because of the 508; Things that had been shades of gray have become a stunning black and white.

I could not have accomplished this solo finish without my beautiful wife Desiree. Her selfless support of my purely selfish goal is humbling. For three years I spent countless days away from home on training rides. Desiree never complained. She planned our meals based on my nutritional demands and timed them to coincide with my always late arrivals. She selflessly volunteered to participate in the 508 as a crew member. Over 45 hours in our crew van and she smiled every time our eyes met. I love you Desiree. [457]

It has been two weeks since I crossed the finish line in Twentynine Palms and I have spent hours trying to recall exactly what happened. Unfortunately, I remember very little of the event. Brief images flash across my brain. But honestly, the only things that I remember are the things that disturbed my focus.