The 508 2022

This year, The 508 was only 3 weeks after HooDoo500. Usually there are 4 weeks. For these 500-mile races, I usually take about 2 weeks recovery time after the race, and I don’t do too much riding the 1 week before the race. This meant that this year, I barely did any riding between the races - just one relatively easy 55 mi ride with a friend in east bay, and one trip up Mt. Um. In some ways, this made it feel like I wasn’t really preparing for the race, but at the same time, I was going into it well rested, so it was possible that would work out better than previous times.

The Mosquito fire is burning near Tahoe, and the wind has been blowing the smoke over Reno. The air in Reno has been dark and ashy, dimming the sun to a light orange circle that doesn’t seem to quite shine through. Like in 2020, the organizers said that it should clear up the day of the race, but of course there were no guarantees. After my experience riding through the smoke that year - and consequently dropping out due to the smoke - I planned to ride in a mask this year. It would slow me down, and be sweaty and uncomfortable, but I was much more likely to complete the race if I didn’t inhale a lot of smoke. And besides, looking at the smoke maps the days leading up to the race, it seemed like you’d only have to get 40 or so miles outside of Reno for the smoke to let up.

In addition to the smoke, I was watching the weather. Weather is always a big component of this race, and it was nice to see that there was no precipitation in the forecast, but it was likely to get down to freezing. The afternoon of the first day was likely to get hot around the long and exposed climb, but only into the 80s or maybe low 90s.

For the cold night, I went and bought a fleece vest. I wanted something insulative that I could put under my wind jacket, but that was breathable. One of the things I try most to avoid in the cold is getting hot enough that I get sweaty, and then having to ride in wet clothes. So I figured that if I was getting too warm, I could easily take off my jacket, and the wind would blow through the fleece and dry/cool it quickly. In addition to that, I had waterproof gloves, arm warmers, several neck gaiters, knee warmers, wool socks, and toe covers.

For the sun, I had a hat with a neck cover, sunsleeves, and always sunscreen.

Race prep:

• Check the weather

• Check the smoke

• Review the course

When I raced HooDoo this year, I made note of the maximum heights and mile markers for the largest climbs, and wrote that on tape on my handlebars. I liked having that information easily accessible, so I did it again this time, in even more detail. I like to think that it helped with pacing to know how much further I’d have to go to the next landmark at any point in time.

This year the race was under new management, and they decided to get rid of the neutral section at the beginning. Several racers were disappointed with this, since the neutral section is really the only time you get to talk with and meet the other racers, and it’s a nice slow warmup following a lead car. This year there was no lead car, and they told us the race starts when we leave the start line.

We rolled out of the start line and rode at an easy pace. We rode the first section like it was neutral, even if it wasn’t. I chatted with several people, meeting a couple other randonneurs, and a woman from Boulder racing solo supported, as her first 500 mile race. I gave her some tips for the race, though I’m sure the information that people consider valuable varies from rider to rider. 

About 10-15% of the riders wore masks. I’d chosen a N95 with a valve, which I hoped would prevent it from getting too gross and humid inside. It let in a little more smoke smell than another mask I had without a valve, but I wasn’t sure I could tolerate that other one for too long. Mirko had a reusable mask that looked high quality, and I meant to ask him what it was, but I forgot.

We reached the first climb, and the slow moving pack split up, as the real race began.

I kept my mask on through the climb. Keeping my mask on for this climb had put me behind almost every racer in 2020, but this time I figured that it didn’t matter if I got behind, because I’d likely be at an advantage later over people who would start to have trouble with the smoke. And I wasn’t really racing against any other people on the course - they were all in different categories. The time that I was trying to beat should be possible even if I go slow at the beginning. So I did.

I was surprised that, while most of the pack was ahead of me, I dropped a handful of people on the climb. I have an advantage climbing because I don’t have to push as much weight up the hill, but I’m carrying more gear than all the supported riders, so they tend to go a bit faster.

20 miles out was still smokey. 50 miles out I reached the first time station, and texted in my time to race HQ. Still smoke. I thought it would be clear by here. 80 miles out the smell of smoke finally started to clear, and while it still looked hazy, it seemed enough better (and was clearing rapidly enough) that I thought I could ditch my mask without putting the race at risk. It would be so much easier to breathe without it. I left my mask at the time station in Fallon, and continued into the hazy hills, hoping I’d made the right decision.

A message popped up on my GPS:

Kym, how's the smoke situation?
(oh wait she started already, never mind)

I’d told my team at work about this race (and the smoke), and messages to the team chat that were received by my phone got passed onto the little screen on my handlebars. I mute them when there are too many, but it’s kind of fun getting little connections to the outside world in the middle of nowhere on the race. I snapped a photo and sent it back with a few sentences.

After Fallon, there was a rest stop for randonneur (self supported) racers, around mile 125. The guy staffing it had raced self supported last year, and we’d met on the course. A few days before the race this year, I found a note from him on my desk at work, as he also apparently works at Google. He had set up a nice spot for us, with a table and chairs under an umbrella, and lots of goodies in addition to our drop bags. And the most necessary supply: water.

I got to Sean’s stop at Middlegate around the same time as multiple other randonneurs. I had been not too far behind Mirko for most of the race so far, and he was still there when I arrived. I had learned last year that he also works at Google, and while we all stood around talking, I brought it up.

I told Sean that after the race last year, Mirko and I had been chatting and when I mentioned Charlie’s name, we quickly determined we all worked at the same place. He asked who Charlie was, and neither I nor Mirko could recall a last name at the time (Mmmmm? I think it’s an M.). When I finally did recall “Martin”, another racer piped up, “Oh, I know Charlie! I’ve ridden with him, he’s a good guy!”

We left Middlegate and started up the long, hot climb. Here, finally, I was a bit faster than Mirko, and eventually dropped him.

I remember this climb always being more long, difficult, and hot than I expected. This time, it was exactly as long and difficult as I expected, since I had written the numbers on my handlebars. It was a little unexpected that it wasn’t more difficult than expected, and I was happy about that.

Past here, there’s a long, flat section of road that is full of little cracks. They’re just big enough to go THUNK every time you ride over one, and there are enough of them that there’s a constant thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk at maybe 60 hz for ~10 miles. Each thunk travels through the bike into your hands, then wrists, then hopefully most of the shock is absorbed by the time it hits your shoulders. It’s always made my hands hurt, and is the most unpleasant part of the race for me. This time, I brought extra pads to put in my gloves, specifically for this part.

I got to the cracked section. It looked like it had been resealed! Maybe it was better! But as I rode on it, it definitely was not.

It had been chip sealed. The new layer turned the surface a uniform dark gray, so you could no longer see the cracks as well, but each one still hurt. The chip seal hadn’t actually made it into the cracks to fill them. In addition to this, the newly added chips on the surface contributed a constant, angry vibration. The road was terrible before, and this was somehow much worse.

The rough section lasted much longer than I expected. It was unpleasant. Finally, the road started to approach Austin, and I was pleased to see that I was ahead of the pace I’d kept previous years.

When I got to Austin, it was still an hour until sunset. I chatted a little with my friend Paul who had volunteer to staff that time station, and other randonneurs on their way through. It’s always nice to have a break and be able to talk to people after being alone in the middle of nowhere for a while.

Someone said that Deanna ran into a cow, and then dropped out. She… ran into a cow?

The race rents a hotel room here for randonneurs to share for naps, cleaning up, changing clothes, or anything else. Previous years, I’d stopped to take a nap here before continuing, but this time it was too early for me to be able to sleep. I went into the room and took a quick shower to wash off the sunscreen and accumulated grime, then spent a while on one of the beds alternately putting my feet up and stretching my legs. Anything to increase bloodflow and refresh the muscles. It makes a big difference. I got some food from the gas station.

I came out of the room into the dark. It hadn’t gotten cold yet, but I put on my fleece vest, and put my wind jacket in my pocket.

The combination of clothes that I had turned out to be exactly right for the weather. I was pleased with that.

From Austin to Eureka is generally boring, and at night. So I listened to music. Over time, I’ve found that music can play a major role in keeping a consistent pace at night, and preventing me from getting too sleepy or zoning out due to the lack of visual stimulation. The week leading up to the race, I’d built a playlist, curated for tempo and energy. It served me well.

Many racers passed me going the opposite direction. I shouted cheers at every one of them. Some of them cheered back.

I got to Eureka. I had been considering sleeping there when I got there, but I was making good time, and thought I could make it back to Austin before I got too tired.

I went into the gas station next to the time station, and bought a large cup of hot chocolate. It burned my tongue.

It’s always a task to get enough calories on rides and races like these, so anything to get more calories is good. I had food in my pockets, but got some candy bars as well. You can’t ride with chocolate in your pockets during the day, as it will melt, but it’s good for sugar and calories at night.

I left Eureka and headed back towards Austin. There were only a few racers behind me, and I saw them approaching Eureka as I left.

I slowly caught up to and passed one, and then another supported rider. And a couple of randonneurs who were riding together. They seemed to be having difficulty keeping pace in the middle of the night. Understandable.

It only got down to about 40 degrees. We got lucky.

I was concerned about the climb up to Austin, as I usually get there late enough in the morning that it’s starting to get hot, while I’m dressed for very cold weather, and don’t have anywhere to put my jacket and other warm clothes if I take it off. Fortunately, this time I got there early enough that it hadn’t warmed up too much yet, and made it back to Paul at Austin.

I took my drop bag into the hotel room and rinsed off quickly in the shower, took a very, very brief nap, and changed into clothes for the sun. I put on sunscreen. I left my arm warmers and vest - I had room to carry the arm warmers, but it seemed likely that I’d be ok without them, even if it got chilly towards the end of the race.

And then I left Austin to battle that bumpy and jittery road again.

Part way through, the wind started to pick up. Blowing in a straight headwind, it slowly went from annoying to problematic. As the wind increased, I dropped into lower and lower gears, until I was spinning in my lowest gear, and going forward at around 6 mph. Without the wind, I could easily maintain 15-20 mph through this section. With it, I was getting nowhere. I definitely wouldn’t get back in time if I was stuck riding 6 mph.

Another randonneur and I occasionally caught up to each other and leapfrogged, as either one of us stopped to take a break from the wind and mentally regroup.

The bumps on the road ended. The wind continued. It was not too far that the road turned and climbed into mountains, which would hopefully at least put the wind at a different angle, but it seemed so far away at my slow pace. I stopped for a break and sat off the side of the road, in the minimal shade offered by a 2 ft bush.

Paul’s car zoomed past me without him noticing - all the racers had passed his time station and he’d closed it, and was now driving around to check on the racers. I texted him that he’d passed me, and saw him come to a stop and turn around a minute later.

The wind died down.

He pulled over his car and got out to ask how I was doing. I was fine, just taking a break from the rough winds. He said the winds were supposed to be much worse after the descent from the mountains. I told him that I didn’t think it could be much worse than this - or than it was, at least - it had gotten calmer since he stopped to check on me.

I finally got to the climb ahead of me and, in addition to the wind dying down some, it was no longer a headwind. There were some cows walking on the other side of the road, and I cautiously pedaled past them. They stopped to stare at me. Another group of cows further ahead did the same.

I reached the top of the climb, and dropped down the long descent to Middlegate. It was windy here, but not as bad. I stopped at Middlegate to resupply, and left with another randonneur who had gotten there shortly before me. We decided to try to ride together to fight the wind.

It quickly became apparent that we couldn’t ride together. When it was less windy, I was going much faster than he wanted to ride. When the wind picked up, it took all my effort to keep up with him for a few minutes, and then I would be dropped. While my size works to my benefit on climbs, it’s a big disadvantage in the wind - I get pushed around much more easily due to having less mass (and a higher surface area to mass ratio, as one scales with a square and the other a cube). So we split up.

It was starting to get smokey. My mask was 50 miles away.

Over the next 50 miles, I averaged maybe 14 mph. I run a lot of numbers in my head while I’m riding, and I reached a point where I’d have to maintain 12 mph average to beat my previous course record. That was very doable, assuming conditions didn’t change too much.

The wind gradually increased.

By the time I’d gotten to Fallon, the smoke cleared. I picked up my mask and put it in my bag in case I needed it later. The randonneur I’d been riding with had gotten to that time station just a bit before me, and was sitting and relaxing, chatting with the time station staff. I ended up spending longer than I intended there. The TS staff told us that it was supposed to be really windy from 5 until 8, but it should clear up around 8.

I hadn’t been eating enough, but all the sugary stuff was making my mouth sour and gross. I had more sweet snacks in my drop bag, but didn’t want those. I went into the gas station nearby and got some pickles, and a mango smoothie. I knew that I probably wouldn’t eat enough during the rest of the race with how my mouth was feeling, but that I wasn’t going to be going very hard and so it would be ok.

I left the time station while the other randonneur was still getting ready to go. The wind picked up.

At this point, I could only maintain about 12 mph in the wind. I might be able to beat my previous time, but it was seeming less and less likely. I had a lot of margin between that and the cutoff time, though, so I wasn’t too worried about making the cutoff.

The wind increased.

As I headed towards the final time station at Silver Springs, it got dark. My speed had dropped to 9-10 mph. I stopped a couple times to regroup. It was almost 8pm. One of the race officials drove past me and pulled over. She got out of her car and wanted to check on how I was doing. Slow, but ok. Frustrated with the wind. I wasn’t going to beat my previous time, but I was unconcerned about making the cutoff, so I was just taking it at an easy pace. She got back on the road to check on the others.

8pm passed. The wind increased. I passed the final time station with no one staffing it, texted in my time, and kept going. 18 miles to the turnoff to Six Mile Canyon Rd, the final steep climb in the race.

20 mph headwinds. I rode in my lowest gear, trying hard to stay above 5 mph. Every 20 minutes or so, I stopped to give my legs a break, or to stop and think about whether there was some better approach. 9pm. I pulled out my phone and checked the wind predictions. The wind was supposed to die down at 8pm in Reno. In Silver Springs, it was supposed to die down after 11. I pushed on a couple more blocks. I stopped and walked to sit behind some mound of dirt to get out of the wind for a few minutes. The wind increased. I got back on my bike and got a few blocks further.

10 pm. I had about 6 more miles to the turnoff to Six Mile Canyon. The headwinds would turn into crosswinds there and be much less of a problem. One mile at a time. I went for one mile and stopped again. I found a place to sit on the side of the road. Riding in this wind was wearing me out mentally, and I hadn’t gotten much sleep so far. I decided to just sit here for a bit - a half an hour sitting here wasn’t going to make or break the race, and I’d be in a better place to keep going afterwards.

I pulled off the side of the road and turned off my headlight. I found a place with a little shelter from the wind and closed my eyes. I thought through what remained in the race, whether I’d get too cold getting in later than I expected, how slow I would have to go to not be able to make the cutoff, how many other racers were still out there, anything but thinking about fighting the wind.

Finally, the wind started to die down. After sitting for 45 minutes, I got back on my bike. I could ride at 10 mph now. 12. 15. 17. I got to Six Mile Canyon and turned out of the headwinds. This was the last real challenge in the race, as everything after this was downhill, save for a couple miles on surface streets.

Six Mile Canyon is a steep road. Being at the end of the race, it hits you when you’re already spent, and can’t even think about going hard. A couple of years ago, I was riding with a racer who called it Eleven Mile Canyon, and another who changed it to Twenty Mile Canyon.

Progress up this was slow, but even with the elevation gain and grade, it wasn’t slower than that flat road out of Silver Springs. I told myself I could take breaks when I had to, since at this point  I was guaranteed to finish, and had already missed my previous time. I only stopped once half way through, and once near the top when the road pitched up at an extreme angle for a block. I walked that block.

Finally at the top, I turned my headlight on to a brighter section and started the descent. The road was empty and wide enough to not have to be too careful on the turns. It was chilly, but not too cold. Descending felt good.

Eventually the road leveled out, and I was on a street with traffic lights and a bike lane. Just a couple more miles and a couple more turns until the finish line. I would get there around 3am. Cutoff at 6am. No need to rush.

Half a mile before the finish line, my headlight went out. I’d used up the battery putting it on the brighter setting for the descent. I stopped to plug it in and recharge it for a couple of minutes. I knew the race officials would be upset if I got to the finish line and was evidently riding without a headlight. Charging it for a few minutes would only give me a few minutes of time before it went dead again, but that should be enough for the last 5 blocks.

I got into the finish line. 3am. Paul was waiting with some grapes that I’d asked for. The race director said I'd descended the last hill faster than anyone else, and that he and Paul were watching my GPS tracker and were surprised at how quickly I'd gotten to the finish line from the top of the mountain. The race director handed me a finishers medal, I stood for a few pictures, and then went into the hotel to shower and sleep.

Even though I didn't beat my previous time, I consider this a win. I don't feel I made any mistakes in facing the challenges this year brought, and I was pleased with how well my night clothes worked with the temperatures.

HooDoo500 2022

 I’d done HooDoo 500 unsupported twice before: I finished the first time, just shy of the time cutoff. Last year was my second time, and I ended up DNFing around mile 370 after riding all the previous day in a devastating heat wave. That one took a lot of people out, and there were no Voyager (unsupported 500 mile solo racer) finishers.

This year, the couple of months leading up to the race, I had been planning on doing several rides from San Jose to Los Angeles. Each one took a little under 2 days, and I could take the train back up instead of fighting the headwinds. Unfortunately, on the third ride I ended up crashing after riding into some sand on the side of the road near San Luis Obispo. I didn’t end up with any substantial injuries, but took a few weeks off to recover from that. So, leading into HooDoo, I had practically not ridden at all in the past month. Not the ideal prep, but at least I was well rested.

This year I just wanted to finish. My previous finish had been on a 512 mile course, and they’d increased it to 520 miles, trading a steep and somewhat dangerous descent for a longer, less steep, and less dangerous descent late in the ride. I also thought there was a good chance I could beat my previous time, even with the additional miles, just because my previous time was so slow. If I didn’t, this year did have a longer time cutoff with the additional miles.

HooDoo has an option to race “conjoined” with another racer. That means you can’t ever be too far from them, and if they drop out, you have to drop out. The benefit is that you can help each other out, with carrying gear, fixing problems, and drafting. No one had taken that option before this year, but there was a pair on the 500 mile route attempting this.

They start all the unsupported riders together at 5am. Some of them are doing 300 miles, some are doing 500. It was a bigger group than last year - maybe about 8 of us. Thank god it wasn’t as hot.

We took off into the dark, with all the flashing lights and reflective vests lighting up the road. I chatted with a couple other racers briefly, but as soon as we got off of the surface streets, we spread out. I was able to keep the racer ahead of me in view until a little before we got into Hurricane, and I knew there were at least two behind me. Not sure if they were 300 or 500 mi racers.

Getting into Hurricane, the sun came up, and gave us our first views of the stunning scenery that lines this route. A bright rock structure glowed against the darker mountain behind it.

The climb out of Hurricane is the first real climb of the race. It’s the first taste of steeper pitches and red rocks and hot sun that you hope to avoid as the road ducks behind hills. The climb “ends” after 10 miles, but really keeps going up for a total of 45 miles, just at a lower pitch. After the first 10 miles of climbing, it levels off to a steady 1-2%, that just makes you feel like you’re not doing a very good job at keeping a good pace, since the road looks flat.

This road is rather unpleasant. It has a very small shoulder, sometimes lacking a shoulder completely. Sometimes when there is a 6” shoulder, it’s stamped with a rumble strip, making it all but impossible to ride in. So you ride in the 1-lane highway, with the semi trucks and fast cars. Most of the trucks are pretty good about giving you a lot of room when they pass. Smaller cars often are too. Some of the pickup trucks hate bikes, though, and intentionally pass as close as possible to try to scare the cyclists. They blast their horns. One of them sped up and swerved close to me to pass me at high speed, only to have to slam on the breaks a second later to avoid hitting the slower moving car in front of it. A couple blew black clouds of smoke - rolling coal - at cyclists.

Though most vehicles were fine, I’ve never seen vehicles harass cyclists as much as I did on this race and on the 508 this year. Never before on these races, and even in the cities when you’re riding in traffic more it hasn’t been this bad. I’m not sure what’s going on, but there was a huge uptick in drivers acting stupidly and dangerously around cyclists.

Finally the highway crossed the border into Arizona and we got a shoulder that was wide enough to ride in. The signs indicated that if we kept going, we would eventually get to Grand Canyon. The route turned left to head back into Utah.

There were signs indicating dust hazards. Big piles of fine red sand drifted onto the sides of the road. Little lines into the middle of the road. Some of it had evidently been swept off to the sides. More warning signs for the sand. Then the sand got deep. I rode through the first two patches I came across, and lost traction and almost fell towards the end of the second one. I walked through the next two. The sand diminished. The road climbed more, and reentered Utah.

The road passed Coral Pink Sand Dunes National Park. Even more red sand.

Finally, the little road we were on leveled off, descended a bit, and rejoined a highway. This highway was good - it had a shoulder, and it wasn’t covered in sand. Nice improvements over the previous roads.

It got hot. The road climbed to the first stop at Orderville. It’s not a very comfortable stop to hang out at - it’s usually hot and with limited shade, but they have bathrooms, and a race staff would be there with water and our drop bags. I hadn’t seen any other racers in a while, and most likely the ones ahead of me were way ahead, and the ones behind me were way behind.

Under ideal circumstances, I like to get a chance to wash off the sweat mixed with sunscreen, reapply sunscreen, and change out of my sweaty jersey into a clean one. When I rode up to Orderville, the race official staffing it flagged me down. She had her car parked in the corner of a dusty lot, with no shade nearby. The wasn’t really any place to sit, and the sun was beating down hard, so I just refilled my bottles, refilled my pockets with food, and took off again. Standing in the sun was much more uncomfortable than riding in it - at least on the bike, the moving air would cool your skin. On to the next stop.

The next section of the race is gorgeous. You go near Zion, near Bryce Canyon, near Grand Staircase Escalante. There are some hot climbs and steep pitches, but you almost don’t notice as you focus on the stunning scenery. Throughout this section the course climbs to stay around 6-8,000 ft elevation giving some welcome relief from the heat.

Up ahead, there were thunderheads. Worst case, a bad rainstorm or wind. Best case, they kept retreating. Though actually, we got something better - it sprinkled just enough to cool off the air, and threatened to get cold and wet and never did. The sparse gusts of wind didn't put up too much resistance, and after a couple short sprinkles, the clouds moved aside.

The road pitches up to something like 17% at some point. You can’t pull over, there’s no shoulder. It’s too steep to ride on my lowest gear ratio, but I get out of the saddle and push through it. It’s the hardest 0.1 mi in the first half of the race, maybe in the entire race.

And then it cools off. And the climbs ease up. And you descend into Escalante.

Previously, HooDoo had had 3 hotel rooms that unsupported riders could stop and take a break in - Escalante, Bicknell, and Panguitch. This year, they said Bicknell was unstaffed and no hotel room. Escalante and Panguitch were staffed, but I was unclear if there were hotel rooms. I figured if there wasn’t one at Escalante, it would be fine - I had stopped to nap on the long climb after it last year, and could do that again this time if necessary. Either way I didn’t want to stop for too long. The climb after it was a big one, and I wanted to get off the mountain before the mountain got too cold in the early hours of the morning.

There was a hotel room. I stopped and took a shower to get rid of all the sunscreen and grime. I carried a small bottle of sunscreen and would reapply it tomorrow morning. I spent some time stretching my quads and took a quick nap, and left into what was now complete darkness. It wasn’t cold yet, but it would probably get there.

Some randonneurs print out the entire course or set of directions, put it in a plastic bag, and keep it on their handlebars. It always seemed a bit awkward and inconvenient to me, but I had an idea before this race. Before this race, I took a piece of masking tape and wrote on it in tiny print - the mileage of each of the time stations, and the mileage and elevation of each of the major climbs. While I had the whole route on my GPS, it was nice to also have an easy reference sheet so I could know where my next goal was.

This climb had always seemed almost unending the previous two times I did this race. It’s a combination of it being dark, so you can see neither the progress you’ve made or the road up ahead, and the climb legitimately being pretty long. This time, though, I had an end mileage and an end elevation, and I appreciated those. From Escalante to Bicknell is only 73 miles, but it feels a lot longer in the night.

I reached the top. Last time I had to stop 5 times on the way up because I was too hot, or starting to get sleepy. This time I listened to music and went slow enough that it was sustainable. And it wasn’t too hot.

I made the summit. I stopped for a couple pictures. I descended the other side. Unlike last time, there weren’t cows - but last time I descended in the early morning instead of the middle of the night. Maybe cows don’t tend to be on the roads in the middle of the night.

After the descent, the next problem was finding water. Both of the previous times I’d done this, I’d nearly run out of water between Bicknell and the next stop. I hadn’t actually run out, but it was a real concern. And this time there wasn’t a stop with water and drop bags in Bicknell.

The road T’d into a highway in Torrey. Across the street was a gas station. It was closed, like everything. Buying water from a store was likely not an option. I’d scouted the route using Google Maps before the race, and found some random stores that had vending machines outside, so I could get soda - or maybe water if I was lucky - from one of those if necessary. I walked around the gas station, in hopes of finding a spigot. That would be a bit better than having to refill everything from a vending machine, though I was not yet at Bicknell, and so if I refilled here, it would be even more distance before I could refill at Panguitch.

I got lucky. There was a spigot towards the back of the gas station. I refilled both of my bottles, plus my CamelBak. A little over 3.5L of water. Hopefully enough.

I got back on the road. More miles in the dark, more music to listen to. I passed the Bicknell time station and texted in my time. Another racer - this one with a support crew - stopped at the Bicknell time station as I was leaving. Somewhere in the next couple blocks, we passed into a different town named Lyman. I shifted into a higher gear to go faster on the flat ground. Something felt wrong.

I shifted back into a lower gear. The derailleur made the noise, but not the gear shift. I tried again, and it shifted. I tried to shift back into the higher gear, and it didn’t. I tried again. It didn’t move. I switched into a lower gear. That one worked.

I stopped. The racer who I’d seen in Bicknell passed me and asked if I needed help with anything, and I told him I was alright. He kept going.

I checked pressed the various buttons on my shifters and derailleurs. My derailleurs were fine - I’d recharged them recently, and they would shift if I pushed the buttons on them. My right shifter was fine. My left one was dead.

I’d ridden about 16,000 miles on this bike without changing the batteries in those shifters. I knew that I had to at some point, but it was something I’d just been putting off, because it hadn’t been an issue yet, and if they died on some little ride near home it would be fine. Inconvenient, but fine. Here was not fine. I mean, here was more fine than earlier in the race, because at least it was flat here, but still. I looked up the batteries on my phone. Coin batteries, that weren’t guaranteed to be stocked by gas stations, but there was a chance. Any big enough general store should have them. But not in the middle of the night, and not in the middle of nowhere.

Previous years, I’d worried about running out of water between Bicknell and Panguitch. I’d stopped on the side of the road and looked up stores on my phone. There was nowhere with water. Most of the time, you’re in a desolate plain, with no structures visible in any direction. The towns you go through are tiny, dilapidated, and shut down on Sundays. One or two may have a gas station. But they are closed on Sundays. This did not bode well for finding batteries.

I texted a friend, asking him if he could look at a map and find anywhere that I might be able to find batteries between here and Panguitch. I rode a little bit more, then decided to stop for a break outside a grocery store. Maybe they would open in the morning, and maybe they would carry batteries. Maybe I’d wake up and feel like going again before they opened. Either way, I wasn’t getting anywhere fast right now. I set an alarm on my phone for a few hours, so that I wouldn’t stay there way too long. I took my space blanket out of my CamelBak and wrapped it around me to keep out the increasingly cold air. I shut off the music and closed my eyes.

I woke up. The weak morning light was just starting to illuminate the town. It would be several more hours before the grocery store opened up. There was a gas station across the road that was just opening. I went in and looked at their batteries. They had coin batteries, but not the ones I needed. Oh well. Time to get back on the road. My friend had identified 3 places between where I was that might have batteries - a gas station, a general store, and an RV park store. I vaguely remembered the general store from the previous two races. Both times, I’d hoped to get water there, and then been disappointed because they were closed on Sundays. But I would check out all 3 options.

My left shifter being dead meant that I could shift down gears on my cassette, but if I wanted to shift up a gear, I had to stop, get off my bike, and poke the button on the derailleur to get it into the gear I wanted. I couldn’t shift on my chainrings without getting off and poking the button on the derailleur. So, I could get into any gear I wanted, but it was a pain and extremely inefficient. I could shift down while riding, and that was it.

Where I got lucky was that this was the flattest 100 miles of the race. Not flat, but flattest. Climbing hills like this would be a nightmare, but doing the small climb out of the Bicknell area, and then the relatively flat several hours after that would be… ok. Not great, but doable. If - strong if - I was able to get batteries in Panguitch, I should be able to finish the race. If not, the climbs up to Cedar Breaks would be near impossible on the pseudo single speed bike that I was now riding. Panguitch was a real town, at least. They had gas stations and grocery stores and things like that. And there was a staffed time station where I could ask for help if I had to drop out of the race, in the worst case.

I put my bike into the little chainring, and a high gear on the cassette. I would go down gears as necessary. The road pitched up, and I dropped down a gear. And a second one. And a third. And then the road flattened out, and I was spinning too fast, and couldn’t go into a higher gear. Then uphill again, and I dropped down one more gear, before cresting this little bump. I pulled over, picked up my bike by the saddle, and pressed the button on the rear derailleur to go up again, spun the pedals to get it to drop into that gear and repeated. 5 gears higher. I went down the other side and started climbing again, dropping gears every minute or two until I was in next to the lowest gear, and the road flattened out. And I was spinning too fast again and had to pull over to shift into a higher gear. Again and again - pull over to get into a higher gear, ride in that and slowly shift down as necessary, then get to a point where the gear is way too low for the road grade, pull over, and get into a higher gear again. Eventually - finally - this section of climbing rollers ended.

I’ve always considered this section the worst part of the race. It’s hot. It’s flat. It’s boring. There’s no shade. There are no landmarks. It feels like you’ve been riding forever but haven’t actually gone anywhere, and there isn’t even anywhere to go. You could keep riding forever, and the landscape would feel the same. It’s not physically difficult. There aren’t really any climbs, and there generally aren’t headwinds. There aren’t many cars to worry about, and there’s nothing technically difficult to navigate. It’s mind numbing. There is nothing.

I usually try to reserve my headphones for use at night, since that’s when I’m most at risk of spacing out, getting distracted, getting bored, and just needing something to hold my attention. But I listened to music here.

I passed the first place my friend had found. It was a gas station. They had a hand written sign in the window, saying they might open in a couple of hours. I didn’t have time for that. I kept riding.

The music, the more tolerable temperatures, and constantly thinking about my shifter - is there any way it would be possible to finish the race if I didn’t get a new battery? I was making good time, but the Cedar Breaks climb was brutal. This section was not easy, but it was less of a struggle against the insistent tedium than previous years.

The land laid flat in all directions, stretching out to infinity. At the brink at infinity, hills rose out of the clumps of dry shrubs. There was landscape here, but you would never reach it. Somehow, impossibly, I was making progress through the infinite. Half way through, with a million miles behind me and a million miles ahead, and hills that could never be reached, just beyond that.

I passed through the little town of Kingston. Everything was shut. Dry. Dusty. Cars on the road, but no people. No stores. The town wasn’t abandoned, it was stuck in a weird stasis. Two blocks, in the middle of nowhere, and then it was gone.

I finally came up to the general store, and shortly following it, the RV store. Both were closed on Sundays. No more batteries. No more options until Panguitch. That sucked, but the road was relatively flat, and it was only one-third of an infinite distance away now, not an entire infinite distance.

Nearing Panguitch, the wind started to pick up. Headwinds. Not strong enough to be problematic, but definitely enough to be annoying, especially without gears. I could go into a lower gear for the wind. But then I couldn’t get back into the higher gear without stopping. I opted to stay in the higher gear and press on.

A car passed me, slowed down, and turned around. It passed again, and pulled over on the side of the road. Someone stepped out and crouched behind the car. He set up a camera, and I recognized the race official for the Panguitch time station. Most of the racers had already passed him, so he went out onto the road to check on the remaining ones. I was one of the last people - there weren’t too many behind me - so he figured he’d follow me a bit and see how it was going.

I hit my brakes and stopped next to him. He was disappointed because he was trying to get an action shot and I messed it up. Oops. He asked how I was doing, and I told him that my shifter wasn’t working. It had been broken since Bicknell. It was a long ride here from Bicknell. He told me that he would get me new batteries and help me install them in Panguitch. He’d had that happen to him before on a brevet.

I would make it to the end of the course.

The ride into Panguitch was slow, with the gradually increasing winds. Eventually the city grew out of the desert scrub, and I rolled past a couple blocks of actual real buildings before pulling up to the time station. He was there waiting for me, with new batteries. And he had a hotel room for me.

We went into the hotel room, and he helped me open up my shifters and put fresh batteries in them. He told me to not mind the racer in the other bed who had DNF’d. It was a full size plastic skeleton.

I took a shower, washed off all the grime, and took a short nap. I wanted to get out of there before it got too late, since even though I would probably make it to the end before the cutoff, it’s not like I had a lot of extra time.

I opted to forego sunscreen, and wear sunsleeves and try to keep my face covered with a hat. I didn’t want to have the feeling of waxy, salty, greasy sunscreen on me for the rest of the night if I could avoid it. And the sun would be setting soon enough, right?

With a couple last minute words of encouragement from the TS staff, I left Panguitch, and immediately started up the steep climb towards Cedar Breaks.

The climb up to Cedar breaks is not just steep. It is long. It is unshaded. It is deceptive. Each climb is followed by a small dip that you think might be a break, but quickly turns into another even more tiring climb. I remembered this from the first time I’d done this race, so at least this time it wasn’t unexpected, but it was hard. Each time you think it might let up, it does for about half the time you need it to. It’s hot. It’s sweaty. It’s twisty, so you can’t even keep track of what direction you’re going. And you’re always just a few more dips and climbs from the summit. But the summit isn’t visible.

Eventually as you get higher there are some trees, a little too far away to give shade. And eventually, right near the very top, they actually approach the road. But then you don’t need them, because the road levels off.

This time was easier than last time. I think the still-hot-but-slightly-cooler temperatures helped a lot. It was a hard climb, and a tiring climb, but it wasn’t demoralizing the same way it was the first time when I didn’t know when the false summits would end. I had my cheat sheet on tape on my handlebars.

After cresting the top at 10,600 ft, it levels off. And then it starts to go down. And then it starts to go down fast. The steep road passes through the town of Brian Head, and I hit 46 mph on that descent.

Before I left the town I pulled over to get my bearings before it got dark. About 110 miles left. Mostly flat. Not a lot of extra time, but if I averaged 12 mph, I would get there comfortably within the time cutoff. I use 12 mph as a kind of base speed to estimate by - assuming the upcoming stretch doesn’t have a lot of steep climbing or extreme winds, I can generally average 12 mph bare minimum. Usually a lot more, but it gives me a good lower estimate. So if going 12 mph the rest of the way would get me in before the cutoff, I would get in before the cutoff.

I turned on my music. It wasn’t dark yet, but I wanted music.

The route went through Cedar City, and an unmanned time station. I texted my time, went inside a gas station to buy Gatorade and candy, and kept riding. I was making pretty good time, but I was tired. A little later, I decided I had time for a short break. I pulled several feet off the side of the road, turned off my headlight (don’t want to run out the batteries unnecessarily), and sat down for a few minutes. A state trooper passing by at the same time stopped and asked if I was ok. I said yes, and that I was just taking a break. In the middle of nowhere on the side of the road late at night. He asked me how far I was going. I told him I was doing a long race, and eventually to St. George. He seemed skeptical, but was satisfied that I was ok, and drove off.

I sat in the darkness for a while. I closed my eyes. I let the song playing on my headphones finish, then got back up, turned on my lights, and got back on the road.

My handlebar cheat sheet said that there were 2 more little climbs. Everything else was flat. I had to average 12 mph to get to the finish by the cutoff now, but that seemed like it would be ok. As long as I could keep a reasonable pace on the climbs. I came to the first one. It wasn’t too steep, and I decided to put a lot of my remaining energy into it, and get past it quickly. It worked. The summit was easy, and the descent alternated through warm and chilly patches of air. I debated putting on warmer clothes, but reconsidered every time I hit a warm patch. I kept riding.

Another few miles in the dark passed by quickly - I was getting close and could start to see some lights that might be connected to the city. The road pitched up for the last climb. There was roadwork that pushed everyone towards the middle of the road, but fortunately no one else was driving out on this dark highway in the middle of the night. It got steeper than I would have liked, and kept climbing just a little further than I could easily push through, but I stood on my pedals and pushed through to the top. The last climb. Everything else was easy.

The road flattened out. I reached the top of Snow Canyon. I called the race director, as instructed, so that she could note my time and be prepared for me at the finish.

The roads down Snow Canyon were the nicest of the entire race. I wish I could have ridden them in the light - smooth, well banked curves, steep enough downhill to be fun without being too dangerous.

All too soon, Snow Canyon was over, and the road leveled out onto city surface streets. I hit a stoplight. I checked the time and my distance. Plenty of time. Past the intersection, I had just a handful more miles on surface streets, interrupted by the occasional stoplight. There were a few cars on the road at this odd hour.

A few more turns, and I made it to the finish line. Well within the time limit, and I’d beaten my previous time, but only kind of. Previously, I had finished the course in 48 hrs, plus a 1 hour time penalty, adding up to 49. This time, I’d finished in 48.5 hours. New course record. I’ll take it. Next time I’ll do it without a major mechanical and beat my time by a solid few hours, at least.

I beat my course record. My friend Lori set a course record for the stage race (dividing the course onto 3 different days, and summing the time) at 33h 9m. The 2 guys racing Voyager conjoined finished just after me, setting a course record by virtue of being the only ones who've attempted.

Middle - fastest voyager
Left - 2 guys racing voyager conjoined
Right - me in 3rd place (though I have 1st place for women)

(we are on podiums, hence the weird heights)

The 508 DNF (again)

 “Last year, we were only missing the locusts. This year should be less interesting, but hopefully more fun.”

Last year we’d ridden through rain, hail, wind, a lightning storm, dense fog, and unending smoke. A lot of racers had dropped out, and this year was looking to be a better year. Clear air, and no extreme weather in the forecast.

The night before leaving for Reno, I’d finally addressed a minor recurring issue on my bike: I have a Wolftooth Roadlink connected to my derailleur, allowing me to run an 11-32 cassette with a cage that would normally be too short for it. It works well almost all of the time, but I’ve found that when I hit particularly hard bumps, or go over things like cattle guards (rumble strips are fine), it can get knocked loose and I have to re-tighten the bolt holding it in place. Nothing difficult or complicated, but it is rather annoying to have to stop and pull out a tool every other time I hit a hard bump. So I put removable Loctite on it, and hoped it would fix it.

We got to Reno, and check in went smoothly. One of the volunteers helping check gear questioned whether the over 3.5L of water capacity I had - more than in any previous years - was enough, but said it was fine once he saw my Camelbak and water bottles. With my registration, I got a 508 t-shirt in size small, seemingly two sizes larger than the size small from last year. Debbie had had a similar sizing change with the supplier for the Hoodoo shirts, and had given me an XS that was at least one size larger than last year’s S. I had the previous years’ shirts to compare. I did not get smaller.

At the pre-race meeting, Rob introduced all of the racers and teams by their totems. This race had a lot more randonneur (self-supported) racers than Hoodoo, where I’d been the only one. Among the field of randonneurs were two randonneur fixie riders, one of whom was also racing under “classic” rules - bikes must be made with technology from 1983 or older: steel frame and fork, 32 spokes per wheel minimum, no aero bars. He had claimed the totem “Super Vegan Cow,” and this would be his 5th 508 finish. The other fixie rider was also the only other female randonneur, racing as “Aye-Aye”. I race as “Thunder Jerboa”.

After the pre-race meeting, Paul went to a staff meeting. He’d be staffing the time station at Austin. Seated in a little town up in the mountains, it’s a stop that everyone’s happy to get to after a long segment that includes the most difficult climb in the race. I suspect it’s also the spot that racers are most likely to drop out at.

The morning of the race, Paul got up a little before me to help with setting up the start, and I followed a little later. A slowly growing crowd of racers picked up their GPS trackers and turned on their lights. Some people took pictures, and the randonneurs were ushered to the front of the pack - we would be the slowest, as we were carrying more gear than everyone else. I noticed Aye-Aye standing near me. She had flat pedals and sandals.

They went over some last minute reminders, played the national anthem, and we followed the lead out car from the parking lot.

I led the pack.

I started off at what I felt was a reasonable pace. The other riders didn’t want to go faster than me, but the pace car did, so the pace car slowly started to drop the pack before it slowed down to our speed. The beginning of this race has a long neutral rollout until you get out of the city, with plenty of turns and stoplights, so it’s quite convenient to have a car to follow. The neutral rollout is also often the only chance you have to talk to most other people on the ride, so I traded a few introductions with other riders. I tried to talk to the other randonneurs, because, unlike the supported riders, we were allowed to ride together once we were out of the neutral section on the course.

6 miles, and several turns, stop signs, and stop lights into the course, the pace car turned left and slowed down, allowing the racers to come up to its side so the driver could say something. Apparently the left turn should’ve been a right turn, so we were all to turn around. It was a divided road, with a little sidewalk-height concrete strip in the middle. Some people hopped the divider, some people turned around and rode back on the shoulder. I went to cross the divider but had to wait for a truck to pass, and by the time I was back on the road on the other side, I was 50 feet behind the rest of the pack. And then I hit a stop light.

This part was still neutral, so everyone was supposed to be riding together, but I could see up ahead there were some people at the front of the pack pushing to go faster and slowly dropping racers off the back. There was a big gap between me and them because I’d gotten stopped, but I figured it wasn’t worth the energy to close the gap - it’s not like anyone was saving any energy drafting anyway.

I hit another red light that the rest of the pack had just barely made it through. The cross traffic had a green light for a while. The pack turned a corner out of view. The light changed to green for oncoming traffic and a protected left turn for them, while my light stayed red. It was still before 5am, so the lights waited for the empty streets. Then the cross traffic had green lights again. Apparently my direction had to be triggered.

Another cyclist rode up behind me. Aye-Aye, one of the randos on a fixie. I started to tell her that we might not be able to get a green on this intersection, but then a truck pulled up beside us and triggered the light. We crossed, and the rest of the pack was completely out of sight now.

I slowed down a little to ride at her comfortable pace and we chatted a little bit. She’d also tried to do the race last year, and had quit about 60 miles earlier than I had, also due to the smoke/rain/lightning/wind/everything but locusts. She wasn’t racing to beat a time, or to beat anyone else, she just wanted to get to the end at her own pace.

We got to another stoplight that we had to turn left on. It wouldn’t trigger. We eventually just ran the red light.

The pace car passed us, trying to catch up to the front of the pack. We kept riding in the empty night. Then the pace car doubled back and pulled in front of the two of us, guiding us through the last few turns of the neutral section to the spot where the pack was actually supposed to split up. By the time we got there, the rest of the racers were visible as blinking tail lights climbing Geiger Grade, the long climb marking the start of the race.

As the road slowly pitched upwards, I dropped into lower gears, then dropped into the little chainring. My chain started making that familiar clicking sound where you can tell that it’s not fully settled into one sprocket, and may unexpectedly jump to a neighboring one. I shifted down again and it kept clicking, then one more down and it subsided. That seemed like what was happening when the Roadlink would come loose, but I had just put Loctite on it, and it didn’t quite feel like it did when it was loose. Maybe the Loctite had glued it into a position where it wasn’t fully tightened? That would suck, and might make it harder to fix during the race than had I not put anything on it at all.

I slowly pulled ahead of Aye-aye, in not quite the right gear, but the one that didn’t make noise. It was still dark. The road got steeper, and I switched into my lowest gear and was met with an awful, rapid clanging sound. I quickly switched out of it. Was my pedal hitting something? Probably not. My shoe? No. Was there something on the wheel hitting something? No, that didn’t make sense to change when I changed gears. I switched back into that gear and out again to hear the clanging sound. It sounded like the frequency of the spokes. Maybe one of the spokes was broken or bent or had something caught on it? I pulled over at the the spot that there was room off to the side of the road. It was still dim, but I could make out the Roadlink well enough to tell that it was positioned correctly. I lifted up the back of my bike and spun the wheel, with it in the lowest gear. No clanging sound. Nothing on the front either. I got back on my bike as Aye-aye rounded the corner leading up to where I’d stopped.

I switched into a higher gear, then back to the lowest, and it made noise again. So I switched back up, even though the road had gotten steep enough that I really wanted to be in my lowest gear. As the light from past the horizon slowly filled the sky and was reflected to the earth in a pale glow, I stopped again to look at my bike. The Roadlink was in the right place. The spokes were fine. There was nothing caught on anything. The derailleur wasn’t damaged. I looked at it from the back. The derailleur looked ever so slightly angled. A close inspection left my hands covered in the sneaking black bike dust that gets into everything, and convinced that my derailleur hanger was bent. I tried to bend it back, but wasn’t able to make any progress towards it sitting into the gears better. It was angled such that when there was weight on my bike - when I was riding it - the spokes bowed imperceptibly outwards and the bottom of the derailleur cage hit them. I couldn’t ride in that gear if I didn’t want to damage my spokes.

There hadn’t been anything sitting on top of my bike in the car. It had just been standing upright in the house the days leading up to the race. I definitely had not crashed on it and bent the derailleur between Hoodoo and this race.

Aye-aye caught up with me and asked if I was ok as she passed me. I gave her a thumbs up and got back on my bike.

It got knocked over. A few weeks ago, my bike had gotten knocked over from leaning against a wall. It had gotten knocked over a handful of times previously and had been completely fine, so I didn’t think twice about it. But that must have been what bent the derailleur hanger, and I hadn’t checked it thoroughly afterwards. I should have checked it more before the race.

Continuing up the climb, I felt through my gears. The lowest one was out. The second to lowest was ok, but the two above that would jump and skip. The one above those two didn’t seem to jump, but made a threatening clicking sound that seemed to angrily whisper that it was going to jump or skip if you don’t get out of it soon enough. The one above there was ok, but at that point we’re not really in low gears any more. Only one of the gears I’d use for climbing worked, but I could also stand up and pedal in a gear that was on the low side for flat ground.

Above that gear, I switched into the big chainring. More of these gears were ok. I could only test the first few while climbing, though, and the others would have to wait until I got to Virginia City at the top.

So this was going to be the big challenge for this race.

Up ahead, the road twisted up Geiger Grade, and I could see the blinking tail lights of a few other racers. I couldn’t catch them, but I wasn’t getting further behind either. I felt like I could go faster at a similar level of effort if I could drop into my lowest gear, but I didn’t want to push that speed in this gear and start to wear myself out this early into the race. The dawn revealed the city of Reno far below, and the mountains guarding the city. The colors were washed out by a light haze. The fire burning near Tahoe recently had threatened this race with smoke, but it had been contained and blown in other directions by wind, so the thin dregs remaining seemed next to nothing.

I crested a minor summit and stopped briefly to try to bend the derailleur hanger back again. All I got was more soot on my hand, which I wiped on my leg. Better there than on my jerseys, because at least it comes off of skin.

From there, the road went down for a tenth of a mile before starting to climb again. This gave me a chance to test out the rest of my gears. Most of them had no threat of jumping between gears or skipping, but several made louder clicking sounds than I liked. The very top gear felt kind of funny, but I was pretty sure the chain wasn’t going to fall off - the derailleur hanger was bent in the opposite direction of what would’ve encouraged that - so I deemed it safe.

The road leveled off, and the course went through the tiny town of Virginia City. Signs leading in advertised the Way It Was museum, and tourist traps selling old, or putatively old, knick knacks lined the streets. The city was still asleep.

A race staff waved me towards a left turn out of the single street holding the city, and I descended down the other side of the mountain, just as the sun started to peek over the hills. The sun was red.

This descent is much more fun than it is to climb in the opposite direction. There are some interesting curves, it’s not too fast or slow, some small steep sections, and it doesn’t last too long. At the bottom, the road flattens out, then passes by an area where all the support cars have their first chance to give support to their racers, and finally meets Highway 50. I passed the support cars, and a few of the racers that had been ahead of me finishing up with their crews there.

One thing that’s fun about being a randonneur is that all of the other support crews seem to cheer you on. You’re not racing against their racer, and they always offer to help you out if you need anything. Sometimes it’s every few hundred yards - you pass a stopped car and they ask if you need anything, and you decline, then another one asks if you want anything and you decline, then another asks, and you eventually have to decide if it’s worth smiling and thanking them all, or just riding by with a thumbs up.

On Highway 50, it was much easier to see more of the racers. Most of it is pretty straight and flat, and on this I made goals of, and slowly caught, a sparse handful of supported racers ahead of me.

Riding here on relatively flat ground was much less affected by my missing gears, so I was able to gain ground on the people who I couldn’t catch on the climb. I wasn’t actually racing against the supported racers, but it’s nice to be ahead of at least some people, even if they don’t matter for your placement.

I eventually caught up with the fixie classic randonneur racer. I slowed down a bit as I passed him, and asked if he wanted to draft. Here, unlike Hoodoo, unsupported racers could draft off each other. I figured I wouldn’t get much drafting off him at the moment, but there’s always value in goodwill amongst racers, and going a speed he could draft off of wouldn’t slow me down enough to matter. He jumped on my wheel.

We had a slight tailwind, I think. Or maybe a slight downhill. Or maybe we both just felt strong that morning. We maintained a pretty good pace around 15-17 mph, varying with the wind and road conditions. I don’t usually watch my speed that closely, but tried to maintain a relatively constant pace that wouldn’t be too hard for the guy I was with to draft off of.

We talked a little, but mostly rode in silence. On this race, you don’t trade names for introductions, you trade totems. Super Vegan Cow. He said he usually rode with Aye-aye, but she seemed to be pretty far behind. He had also ridden through last year’s bad weather, and had dropped out near where I had.

We got into Silver Springs and neared the first time station. Super Vegan Cow said that he didn’t need to stop, and asked if I did. I had plenty of water and food, so I didn’t. We rode up to the time station and gave them our names, and they wrote down our times. As we started to pull away, one of the staff called out my totem and needed to ask me something. Super Vegan Cow rode away, and I turned back to talk to the staff.

They told me that they were looking through the bags for Eureka, and the had one that had my totem on it and was labeled “Austin”. Did I need them to bring it to Austin for me? It was supposed to get quite cold at night around Austin, and both my Austin and Eureka bags had warm clothes in them, but it could be problematic if I had neither bag at Austin. I told them that if my bags had gotten switched between the two cities, it was fine, but if both the bags ended up at Eureka, then one should go to Austin. If my Eureka one was at Austin, then they shouldn’t also bring my Austin one there. They responded, “So you do need it to go to Austin?” I responded that, yes, if there isn’t a bag at Austin, it does need to go there. But if the bags are just swapped, then it doesn’t. Their response of “Ok, we’ll take care of it” did not inspire confidence that they’d fully understood my request, but I wanted to get back on the road, and they waved me off.

Super Vegan Cow was somewhere on the road up ahead of me, but I couldn’t see him. A supported racer that I didn’t recognize was within shooting distance, and I slowly closed the distance between us and passed him, revealing another rider several hundred yards ahead. A different supported racer slowly passed me, then gained on and passed the rider ahead of me. As I caught up with the rider ahead of me, I recognized that it was the same guy I’d been riding with.

I pulled up beside him.

“Is everything ok with your drop bags?”

“I’m not sure. After my bags got brought to the wrong places once at Hoodoo, I now label them all, and they said my bag labeled ‘Austin’ was at Eureka. But I’m not sure if my Eureka bag is at Austin, which would be fine, or if they’re both at the same spot. I don’t really care which is where, I just need one in each stop.”

“I never label my bags. The boxes for the drop bags were in order, I think, in the room where we checked in. So they should have all ended up in the right spots.”

“I dunno, maybe some of the bags fell out of one of the boxes and they put them back in the wrong box?”

“Well if you get to Austin before I do, which I’m sure you will, you’re welcome to have anything you need out of my bag. It’s - I’ll describe it for you so that you can find it. I don’t need anything from it, so you can take any warm clothes or food you need. It’s a bag - it’s mostly full of sandwiches. If you open it, there will be a lot of sandwiches on top. And the handle has got a bit of string tied on it. You know, that kind of brown string made of natural material?”

I was grateful for the offer, though doubtful that any of his warm clothes would fit me. Still, it was good to know that if they didn’t manage to sort out which of my bags would (or should) be where, I would at least be able to pick up some food and a bit of cold protection there.

I got in front of him again so that he could draft, and we slowly caught up to the racer that had just passed both of us.

The ride to Fallon was relatively uneventful. We passed a few racers, and a few passed us. I wasn’t expending a particularly large amount of effort to keep us going - no point in getting worn out this early in the race - but I felt like I was going faster because I had someone on my wheel. It helped keep me aware of my speed and not accidentally slow down through negligence of my speed. A couple times he pulled ahead of me and I drafted off of him for a few miles each time. Usually when I swap off with other people, it’s a welcome break from the effort I’m putting out. Here, I was riding easy enough that I didn’t need a break, and it didn’t make the two of us go faster, but it was nice to be able to feel like I was floating down the road with no effort.

As we got into Fallon, the roar of two fighter jets bellowed from overhead. I pulled out my camera to take a picture - maybe Gunnar could tell me what they were after the race - but they were long gone. I rode with my phone in hand for a bit, then put it away. We rolled up to the time station, checked in, refilled our water bottles and pockets, and hit the road again. The skies roared again, and again I got out my phone, but it was too late. I held it in my hand for a while as we rode, but that seemed to be their last pass.

Fallon to Middlegate is 45 miles. 45 dry, flat, exposed miles, but fortunately we had neither heat nor wind to fight. We continued on with sparse conversation. I stared out over what appeared to be a dry lakebed, crusted with salt and dotted with black rocks. Past the lakebed were some mountains, which probably led into the range that we would eventually climb into. Up ahead and off to the left, the flat ground abruptly rose into some unexpected sand dunes against the mountains.

“I don’t remember those, do you?” “The sand dunes? No, I don’t remember them. Maybe it was just too smoky last year? They can’t be new.” “No, they can’t be new. I never noticed them before.” But both of us had ridden two years ago as well, when it wasn’t smoky. And he’d raced multiple prior years, so the course should be familiar to him.

A light tailwind picked up, and I sped up. Super Vegan Cow’s fixed gears made it hard to pedal at the right speed to stay on my wheel, so he dropped off.

I got to Middlegate a little before him. Just after turning off Highway 50, there was a pop up tent set up, with chairs and a table in the shade. A couple other randonneurs were already there, snacking, refilling water bottles, and taking a break. I sat down. I was making pretty good time. Not fast, but fast enough that there would be no rush to get to Austin or Eureka.

They had bags of peanut M&Ms for us. I ate a bunch of them and refilled my pockets with food. Super Vegan Cow and another randonner rolled in, while the randonneurs who’d been there when I arrived left. The shade was nice, and Middlegate is always a bit of a social place where everyone sits down and chats for a few minutes. I filled my bottles and put ice in my Camelbak. Super Vegan Cow took off a little before me, and I followed.

Climbing is interesting for the fixie riders. They only have one gear, so in order to keep the cranks turning, they have to maintain a minimum speed rather higher than that for everyone with gears. They may have to spend large parts of the climb standing up to achieve this, so the climb would probably be much more tiring, but faster, for Super Vegan Cow than me.

The road pitched up. I dropped down into my second lowest gear - the only climbing gear I had. It was too low, and I would have to spin too fast on a climb this gradual, so I switched up several gears. This was too high, and I spun the cranks slowly, then stood to keep them turning, then switched down to the second to lowest gear again.

The road got steeper. Now it was a good grade for the gear I was stuck in. I passed a couple racers. The weather was good, but I started to get hot, and the ice water in my Camelbak was welcome.

I watched the elevation profile of the climb on my Garmin. Without being able to switch to other climbing gears, this climb was harder than it should have been, and I was looking to figure out where it would make sense to take a quick break. At least a third of the way up. Half way, maybe. It gets steeper further up. But the sides of the road weren’t friendly for resting on anyway - sagebrush and little plants that would probably hurt to sit on.

I passed another rider, then saw a dirt turnout on the side of the road, with a tree in the middle. Shade. I pulled over there and laid my bike on the ground and sat down, just for a couple minutes. That same racer slowly biked past up the hill and asked if I was alright, and I gave him a thumbs up. I got back on my bike and continued.

A few hundred yards up the road, there was another dirt turnout. This one had a picnic table in it, and on it sat another randonneur, trying to take advantage of the shade partially covering a corner of it. He had his head down, and was taking a break, but looked like he was in ok condition.

Just ahead of me was Super Vegan Cow. He had gotten off his bike and was walking with it. As I passed him, I repeated what someone had said to me at Hoodoo: “Anything is faster than zero.” He nodded.

I passed by some support cars for other racers. They each asked me if I needed or wanted anything, and I said I was fine. They offered me water and food, and told me to just let them know if I ever need anything. I smiled and said thanks.

A car without markings for the race passed and pulled over just ahead of me. Cindy, a race official patrolling the course, rolled down her window to talk to me.

“How is everything going? You doing ok?”

“Yeah I’m good!”

“I always keep an eye on you guys. I worry about the randos out here. Just want to make sure you’re all ok. Have you seen the others?”

“I just passed Super Vegan Cow a little while back. He was walking, but he’s doing ok. I think Aye-aye is way back, I’m not sure where she was. I passed a couple of others, but I’m not sure who they were.”

“There was someone asleep on a picnic table back there, is he ok? Was that Xolo?”

“Yeah, I think he’s ok, just taking a break. I’m not sure what his name is.”

“Ok! Good luck!”

She pulled back onto the road and drove up and out of sight.

The rest of the way up was a grind. It’s always a grind. I looked for the cows. There are always cows. There were only two cows this time.

I made it to the top without stopping again, and was grateful to begin the descent.

The road was empty and not too twisty, so it was a smooth and fast descent.

Rounding a corner, I saw a parade of cows up ahead on the road. Walking in a straight line, head to tail, three or four had already crossed, three were on the road, and another four had yet to cross. I hit my breaks and slowed down. Hopefully they’d finish crossing before I got there.

They stopped and stared at me. I stopped and stared at them. I waited. They stared at me. I took out my phone and took a picture. They stared at me. “Go!” I yelled at them. They stared at me. “C’mon, go!” I waved my hand dismissing them. They stared at me. I stared at them. They looked forward again and continued their unhurried single file caravan across the road. I continued my way down the mountain.

My Garmin showed a short, very steep climb coming up, interrupting the descent. I watched as the computer showed it getting closer, expecting a severe hill after every corner I rounded. It did not appear. Garmin showed me reaching the climb, whizzing up it and down the other side, and continuing the descent after the ghost hill.

The descent leveled out into a long, very straight, very flat road. I could see a couple racers ahead of me in the distance. There was a crosswind that occasionally reoriented some gusts to be headwinds or tailwinds, and felt like it was overall pushing me faster. Inch by inch I closed the distance to the racer ahead of me.

I caught up with him. Another randonneur. I rode next to him and asked how he was doing. He said he’d gotten very dehydrated on the climb, but had gotten some water from another racer’s crew, and was recovering from that. I had extra water and offered him some, but he had enough water now.

This was his first time doing the 508. I mentioned how good the weather was this time compared to last year. I also mentioned to him that we were coming up on the roughest roads of the course.

Up here, whether it’s due to poor maintenance, freezing conditions, or who knows what else, there’s a seemingly interminable section of road with expansion joints - jarring cracks in the road that you hit multiple times per second. The repeated shocks make everything your hands and your sit bones hurt, and there’s no way to go around them or make them any softer. They just suck. They are by far my least favorite part of the race. I told him, though, that it looked like he had much wider tires than mine, so he should be better off.

Then the road turned to the left and the bumps started. I rode off ahead and left him behind, noting the mileage on my Garmin. This section wasn’t literally endless, and I wanted to know how much less than infinite it actually was.

What had been a crosswind before picked up. Blowing from behind, it seemed an untrustworthy tailwind, so I took advantage of it as much as possible while I could. I shifted into a high gear, leaned into the drops, and pushed hard across the rapid ThunkThunkThunkThunkThunkThunk of the expansion joints. I’d never ridden across them this fast before, and they didn’t seem particularly better or worse at higher speeds. But at least they’d be over faster.

ThunkThunkThunkThunkThunkThunk it had been 5 miles and I really should pull out some food and eat so that I didn’t deplete my energy reserves riding hard, but I was worried that if I let up for even a minute, the tailwind would fade away. I drank more water. I kept pushing, because where else would I be able to maintain 20-25 mph without wearing myself out?

It had been 7 miles. Still ThunkThunkThunkThunkThunk. I hadn’t passed anyone, and didn’t see anyone else on the road. No one had passed me. The wind held up. ThunkThunkThunk.

10 miles. The expansion joints go on for ten miles. That was the least-bad ride I’d had over the bumpy section. Still jarring and uncomfortable, but it was over much faster than other times.

The road turned again and I lost my tailwind. It was nice while it lasted. Now to get back to Highway 50 and climb up to Austin.

As I neared Highway 50, the sun started to dip towards the horizon. I debated turning on my tail lights. It wasn’t getting dark yet, but I didn’t want to be caught without lights on. I didn’t want to stop yet, though, so maybe it would stay light enough to the intersection with Highway 50, and I’d turn them on there. That’s what I did - one bright light on my Camelbak, and my head light. I had an extra on my seatstay, and another one in my bag just in case.

Shortly after I started up Highway 50, a car passed me and flagged me down. The guy inside asked me if I had any extra lights, because he couldn’t see mine. He said my front light was fine, he just couldn’t see my tail light. Did it run out of batteries or something? I had been using it in the morning, but I thought I’d charged it since then. I checked and, no, it was still flashing. But I moved it off of my Camelbak and onto my bike, since he seemed to think that was better. I’d always thought having the lights higher up made them more visible, especially with how small my bike is. I turned on the one on my seat stay as well.

The section of Highway 50 up to Austin is a climb. As the sky started to dim, the road got steeper. Darker. Steeper. Darker. Steeper. I couldn’t get into my lowest gear, so the climbing became slow, and I had to stand. I got off my bike for a minute to stretch my legs, then got back on and slowly made it the rest of the way into Austin. It seemed like a similar time to when I’d gotten in last year, but I was in much better shape - I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t wet, I hadn’t been hailed on, and I hadn’t been riding through smoke for a hundred miles.

Paul and Ryan greeted me near the time station, and recorded my time. I asked for the key to the hotel and grabbed my drop bag. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake there as I had on Hoodoo - I was going to take a long enough break that I wouldn’t be too tired to keep riding at a decent pace through the night.

In the hotel room, there were four beds, and no other people. I emptied my drop bag out onto the corner of one and pulled out the power bank. I attached my phone to it to charge, then stripped off my clothes and took a quick shower to get rid of the salt. Not 100% clean, just rid of the salt and road dust and dead bugs.

I ate some food and laid down for a nap. I’d gotten in some time around 7:30, took under a half hour to check in at the time station, sort through my drop bag, shower, eat, and get dressed again in clean clothes. I set the alarm for 9pm and knew I could push it a little later if I felt like it. I had time.

The annoying chimes of a once pleasant tune, ruined through living as an alarm, woke me up. I assessed how I felt and decided I was good to continue on. I put on arm warmers and a jacket. It didn’t seem cold enough for leg warmers, but maybe I’d change my mind once I was on the road. I went back to the time station table and left my bag there, refilled my Camelbak, put on my reflective gear and lights, and was ready to leave. Ryan told me that the wind had died down a lot. From here on out, there shouldn’t be much wind at all. He said the air would be calm and easy for the rest of the ride to Eureka. And it should stay in the 50s until there.

I left Austin.

Austin is mid way up a climb on Highway 50. The city sits on a road going upwards, and it continues to climb as you leave the city. Immediately after I left the buildings, the wind started picking up. Gusts of crosswinds and headwinds initially helped keep me cool as I was climbing, but they slowly organized into a more constant push from one direction. Most of the way up it was a headwind, but for a brief switchback the wind was at my back and helped me climb. As I got higher up, the wind got stronger. I was already having a hard time climbing, given that I couldn’t get into my lowest gear, but now I also had the wind in my face. The wind pushed back against every inch of progress I made.

I finally, slowly, got to the top of the climb. The other side is an easy descent, then a smaller hill, then another long flat section to Eureka. I started down the descent, and a gust of wind shoved me halfway across the road. I slowed down and wrestled for control of my bike. Strong headwinds slowed my descent to 15 mph, and the gusts required constant attention to battle.

Several times I got pushed onto the rumble strip on the side of the road, or into the middle of the lane. There was no traffic, so I could take the lane, but I was uneasy being pushed around. I crossed the dip between the hills and started climbing again. The wind pushed against me, my lowest gear was inaccessible, and the road got steeper. Eventually, I got off my bike and walked. I could climb with great effort at a little under 5 mph, or I could walk with much less effort, and no risk of being blown all over the road, at a little under 3. That seemed like the best option given current conditions.

The wind picked up, slowing down my walking. I paused and texted Paul. The wind had NOT gone away. He responded that it was calm in Austin.

I kept walking as the wind kept blowing. The worst of the gusts let off, and I got back on my bike to complete the climb.

I slowly rounded the top and descended into the plateau leading to Eureka. The wind here was persistent, but less dangerous. I could maintain 12 mph - maybe. Much less than the 20 that I had heading towards Austin with a tailwind, and less than the 16 or so I could maintain with no wind. But anything is more than 0.

I started to get tired. It had been a few more hours, and this was much better than Hoodoo, but I needed to do something about it. I’d tried eating a gel with caffeine in it a little while ago, but caffeine is kind of hit or miss for me. It didn’t do anything.

The quickest but least pleasant solution I know of to getting sleepy is to drift onto the rumble strips for half a second. It doesn’t work while climbing because you’re going too slow, but on flat ground, even with a headwind, it works. You have to direct your wheels, intentionally, onto the rumble strips and then immediately off them, because the vibrations are pretty jarring. If you keep dipping into the rumble strip every few minutes, it will keep you alert but not necessarily enjoying the ride.

Another thing that works well is talking, but you need to have someone to talk to. I did not. Somewhat related to this, singing along, aloud, to music can work pretty well. Assuming there’s no one around to hear you and wonder why you’re singing.

After dipping into the rumble strip a few times, I pulled out my phone to try to find some music. Unfortunately I’d forgotten to make a playlist before the race, so I had the option of listening to the songs from a single artist or album on repeat, or listening to all of the songs saved on my phone. I chose the latter.

Listening to music on its own doesn’t necessarily help. You can fall asleep to music. But faster and more upbeat music go a long way in keeping me awake. I skipped through some songs until it landed on Boston’s “Foreplay/Long Time.” That was a good one to stay awake to.

I made a mental note to make a playlist for next time. The right music is better than caffeine, better than rumble strips, and better than trying to sing. Listening to music, and trying to maintain concentration through the slower songs, kept me focused on riding.

10, maybe 20, miles out from Eureka, the winds momentarily died, then turned around. All of a sudden I had a tailwind pushing me to the turn around point. The miles went faster and faster until I hit the climb to Eureka, then I made my way up the black hills leading into town. I was getting there a little after 4am - later than I preferred, but still leaving me nearly 26 hrs to do the 250 miles back to the finish line. 250 miles, overall downhill, and I wouldn’t need to stop for any more multi-hour breaks before then. I didn’t feel worn down from the race yet at all, and probably was in better shape than I’d been 250 mi into any other race. I’d sacrificed a few hours of race time for it, but it seemed well worth it.

I got into Eureka and got my drop bag and headed into the hotel room to change. Super Vegan Cow was there relaxing. As I went through my stuff, I asked him how his ride was going. He had gotten in just before me, and also had a hard time with the wind. We were both glad to be out of it, and I mentioned how they’d told me at Austin that there wouldn’t be any substantial wind. He said he wasn’t going back out to fight the wind in the other direction.

Super Vegan Cow told me that it probably didn’t make any sense for me to, either. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to going back out into the wind, but figured that was the unavoidable next step. He said that I probably wouldn’t have time to make it back to Austin before the time cutoff - it was nearly 5am, and there was a time cutoff when they closed at 10. With the winds how they were, and a big climb up to Austin, it would be a big task to do those 70 miles back in 5 hours. Likely impossible.

Austin closed? I didn’t know that. I guess I had gotten there before 10am on my first year, and last year I’d dropped out before then. I texted Paul, asking when his time station closed. Either it closed at 10, and I wouldn’t be able to make it either way, or it didn’t close, and spending a little time hanging out in this room wouldn’t make a difference for my finish.

We talked about races we’d done, other racers we knew. About the bike he was racing on, and his experience riding fixie. About Aye-aye, and how she and Super Vegan Cow rode fixie together. Apparently Xolo, another randonneur, was sleeping in another room in the hotel, and was planning on DNFing and riding back the next day. He wasn’t going to finish the race, but wanted to bike back. He was planning on having his dad meet him at the hotel in the morning, then provide support for him while he rode back.

Paul texted back. His time station closed at 10. There were 4.5 hours and 70 miles between now and being in Austin at 10, and that was impossible. Maybe possible with a strong tailwind, but the chances of that were surely zero.

I responded saying I wouldn’t be able to make it before they closed.

“Ok, I see. Are you at Eureka? Tracker is questionable.”

“Yeah, still at Eureka. I can bike back towards Austin, but it’ll take a while to get there. It took like 8 hours to get here because of the wind.”

“I’ll support you in what you choose. If you decide to bike back I can stay and wait for you at Austin, and/or I can come out and meet you. Winds ok now, my app says, but they’ll pick up at 9.”

“In that case, I’ll probably stay at this time station a while longer to sleep a little more, then start biking back.”

I guess I’d do what Xolo was doing. None of us would be able to finish the race.

I napped for another hour, then talked with Super Vegan Cow more. He’d found out that Aye-aye got to Eureka and immediately turned around without trying to contact him, because she thought he was sleeping. He wanted to get back on the road and ride with her, but had tried to call her with no success. The cell reception is missing for large sections of the race course, especially up here.

He asked me to ask Paul to tell Aye-aye that Super Vegan Cow wanted to ride with her, if he happened to see her on the road.

It was about 7:30 am. I was killing time until Paul could leave his time station and drive here. I hadn’t decided whether I’d try to ride back, or just get in his car. Even if I did get back, it wouldn’t be a real finish.

An hour later, Paul texted me that he’d met up with Aye-aye on the road. Super Vegan Cow had initially wanted her to wait for him, but just recently decided that his knees hurt too much from the first half of the ride, and that he shouldn’t do the second half as originally planned. So I relayed a message from him that he wouldn’t be catching up to ride with her. That was earlier than expected - she shouldn’t be at Austin yet, if she left Eureka after 5.

A few minutes later, just before 9, Paul showed up at the hotel. Apparently he’d gotten another race staff to cover the station so that he could come here and give Super Vegan Cow a ride home.

After our initial greeting, he asked me:

“Why are you still here?”

“What?”

“Why are you still here?”

“I didn’t think it made sense to go if you were just coming here… what? What do you mean why am I still here?”

“You still have time!”

“What? I definitely can’t make it to Austin from here in an hour.”

“You don’t have to make it there in an hour.”

“But there’s a cutoff at 10?”

“I don’t think there’s a cutoff at 10, it just closes at 10.”

Super Vegan Cow inserted that he was pretty sure you have to get there before 10 because of a cutoff. Paul got in contact with the race director, and confirmed that, no, in fact there was no cutoff. There was no time cutoff at any point along the race, except for the finish line.

There was time. Maybe. Just over 20 hours to the time cutoff at the finish line. 250 miles. Overall downhill. And I was more well rested than I’d expected, given that I’d spent the past 5 hours sitting in Eureka killing time. It would depend on the weather.

While I had been sitting in the hotel room in Eureka, I wasn’t planning on continuing riding, so I hadn’t been charging my lights or my phone, and my phone was about to run out of batteries. I hooked it up to a power bank while I changed into clothes to ride in, applied sunscreen, refilled my bottles, ate some food, and filled my pockets with more food. I made one last attempt to fix my derailleur hanger, but it was stubborn, so I washed the dirt off my hand and walked my bike out the door.

I’d left my short finger gloves in Austin, since I figured I’d be riding to Eureka and back at night, and would only want warm gloves at night. I didn’t want warm gloves in the day, though, so rode without them.

The beginning of the ride was fast. I descended the hill from Eureka, and felt there was wind, but it seemed to be blowing from all directions simultaneously, so didn’t slow me down.

Paul drove past me with Super Vegan Cow in the car and they waved. I waved back.

As soon as I got to the flat section, the winds started to coalesce into a sheaf of gusts with a generally agreed upon direction. Unfortunately, it was the opposite direction I was going.

I rode on, and the sun grew hotter, and the winds grew stronger. It wasn’t particularly hot, per se, so much as it was just very bright and dry. I had dropped down into lower gears to try to fight the wind, and was trying to stay out of my lowest available gear - it was too low, but the ones around it were inaccessible. Fighting the wind wasn’t harder than climbing hills, but it felt more tiring. It felt more discouraging, because you’re not actually going somewhere up high, you just going on flat ground very slowly.

I dropped down into my lowest accessible gear. I checked the ones around it and they were still no good. The air started to smell like a suggestion of a memory of smoke. I kept riding against the insistent wind. Everything moved slower but the wind.

I got off my bike for a quick break, and walked along the road into the wind for a bit. It definitely smelled like smoke, I wasn’t imagining it. Not as bad as last year, but it was there. I wasn’t sure if I was imagining that I could feel it in my throat. I drank more water.

Back on the bike, I kept pushing through the wind. 10 mph. Not enough to get me to Austin at any reasonable speed, but maybe the wind would be better on the other side. I texted Paul, asking, and got a response that it would be windy until Austin, but may calm down later in the day. 10 mph or less to Austin might not give me enough time after Austin to get to the finish, even if the weather was better after. There would've been enough time if I'd left 5 hrs earlier instead of sitting in a hotel room waiting.

The wind slowed me down even more. I felt the smoke in my throat, making my breaths rougher. I got off my bike and walked into the wind and texted Paul that I might not be able to make it to Austin soon enough to have enough time for the rest of the race. And it was starting to get smoky. My text wouldn’t send; there was no cell signal.

I got back on my bike and slowly pushed forward. The smoke taunted at the back of my throat, and I pulled out my phone every few minutes to check for signal. No signal. Still no signal.

Walking seemed better than biking in the headwinds. It was a little slower, yes, but it was much less effort, and I wouldn’t get thrown around by the wind the way I would on a bike. And it wasn’t actually that much slower - the wind was making riding feel like walking through deep water. 8 mph.

I could feel the smoke in my throat.

Finally I found signal, but it immediately disappeared. I turned around and walked back 20 ft on the road and found signal again. I tried to walk a little further for a nicer place to stop, but the signal disappeared. Apparently I had a 5 ft spot I could stand in.

I called Paul and asked him to come get me. Between the smoke and the headwinds, the rest of the ride was looking to be pretty rough, and slower than would get me to the end in time. He said he’d meet me, and I gave him a cross street - the only cross street I’d seen since leaving Eureka, leading to a dirt road and an empty field, and walked the 50 ft there to stand and wait.

After a half an hour, I saw his car come up the road. I waved to him, but he didn’t see me, and drove past. I tried to call him, but I didn’t have signal. So, I walked back to the little 5 ft spot with signal and called to tell him he’d driven past me. He said he looked at the intersection and I wasn’t there. I was there. But whatever - he said he’d turn around and get me.

Another 5 minutes and I was in his car, headed back to the hotel hosting the race. I looked up the AQI in Eureka and Austin, and both of them put it in the 20s, saying the air was very clean, and had no particulate matter. The smoke outside begged to differ.

I got a text from race HQ, instructing riders to get inside their support vehicles to descend Geiger Grade. The high winds were creating dangerous conditions, and they didn’t want any crashes.

At the finish line, we went to say hi to Rob, the race director. He asked me how I was doing - apparently multiple people had been watching me and wondered why I stopped. What had gone wrong? I told him that another racer had told me that there was a cutoff at Austin that I couldn’t make. By the time I’d learned that wasn’t true, I’d lost too much time to be able to make it back my the cutoff. He was surprised and disappointed by this, and felt bad about it, even though it was in no way his fault.

We chatted a little about other races and rides. A little about RAAM. It was good to get to know him more. He had had to take down some of the finish line decorations due to the high wind, which threatened to blow away anything that wasn’t tied down. Everyone coming back would have miles and miles of headwinds to fight.

Paul and I went and got dinner, then slept in the hotel.

The next morning, the air was crystal clear and still. The winds had blown in the smoke, and blew it right back out. Perfect riding weather, but no one felt like riding.

I’ll be back next year.