This past weekend I was fortunate enough to be able to flee the cold weather of New York and head south of the equator to the land of Mount Gay rum for an extended weekend of non-training. Rest from the bike and all the preparation – what a concept letting the body heal from all of the riding and racing over the past years. It was also a weekend to contemplate what was in store for the coming year. So with drink in hand I spent day after day watching sunsets like this (there is a bit of irony to what this shot means)
while I tried to formulate a plan for the coming season and the just what approach would be the right one.
It was around this time in 2003 that a good friend in casual conversation mentioned the Wilderness 101. I was intrigued with the idea of riding a 101 miles off road, gave it some deep thought for about 2 minutes before declaring I was in for my first mountain bike race. It proved to be a decision that would shape the course of my life for the better part of the next decade.
With a complete lack of knowledge on preparing for an event of this magnitude or any concept of the insanity I had just committed myself to I set about “training”. Living in New York City, not exactly the mecca of mountain biking, I diligently put in my rides up and down the bike path along the Hudson River. By the time race day came I was convinced my preparation was complete, having mastered the 20+ miles of city riding. After all how much harder could the 101 be, it was essentially the same ride just 5 times and with a bit of climbing thrown in (11,000’ worth)! Determined and cocksure I toed the line, and as my just as my good friend Footie did in his first 101, I hit the first 40 miles hard (which also happen to be the easiest 40 miles in the race) and by the second rest stop I was confident. Then the real climbing began and with it the suffering and oh did yours truly suffer. With training that was all on flat paved bike paths my misery began in earnest as I was on and off the bike hiking the majority of the climbs. In the end, despite 5 flats and several broken spokes I managed to cross the line some 12:47 minutes later.
Elated that I had made the finish I called Beth, let her know of my success (if you can call it that) and swore never to set foot in Coburn, PA again. Well I found myself back in NYC at 2am and after numerous beers and conversations with the local chinaman I had written a full debrief and was already planning my triumphant return to the 101 the following year (amazing the lack of short term memory) only this time I was going to be prepared. Enter my new coach and soon to be second most important person in my life - Marci Titus-Hall
The preparations commenced immediately and the results would show the following year. Back at Coburn for a second go I was determined to break my original goal of 12 hours and despite a broken chain and a couple of mechanicals I managed to cross the line in just over 11 hours. Now the hook was in deep and I was really enjoying the suffering that ultra endurance events required, the battling with the demons in your head and the rush that came with crossing the finish line.
I was back in 2006 and decided to throw in the Shenandoah 100 and it’s 14000’ of climbing just for good measure. Times were dropping and I was now down in the mid 10 hour range for each race. The new goal of a sub 10 hour time seemed to be on the horizon, until for unknown reasons decided it was time to see if I could make the line on a single speed. Having made it to the finish in both the 101 and the SM 100 on a fully rigid single speed
I wanted more and I wanted it to be longer and hurt even more. Welcome Costa Rica, La Ruta, and unknowingly the first signs that something was amiss.
Suffering is what I wanted and suffering is exactly what I received in a dose that I thought was going to kill me. The first day was one that left even the pros like Adam Craig stunned, declaring it was the hardest single stage he had ever ridden, in fact so hard that the one section added to the course for that year was removed the following. How much did it hurt, well think 80-90% humidity, 55 miles and 15500’ of climbing through the muddy jungle logging roads of Costa Rica. So hard was this stage that the organizers decided, mid race, to extended the cutoff my 30 minutes and even with this over 50% of the field was eliminated.
By the time it was all over 3 days later I could barely walk due to all of the pain I was in, but I was elated – I had survived and finished the hardest mountain bike race in the world, but little did I know that physically years of wear and abuse were coming to a head.
With a little over 2 weeks off to recuperate and countless sessions of physical therapy to repair the damage to my body it was on to the next event. If I could survive 3 days and almost 30,000’ of climbing on a 1x9 how would I fair at 8 days and 51,000’ climbing – on a full rigid single speed? Welcome Absa Cape Epic where I would now be riding not just for myself but also as a team member for Independent Fabrication!
To the surprise of not only the organizers (my teammate and I were granted an entry because no one believed a single speed could finish) and to the other racers, we finished. The difference this time was other then the usual suffering in a race like this I came away unscathed physically.
The remainder of the season was uneventful and by the time the 101 was over so was my season, simply burnt out from 2 years of racing with no down time. With my 50th birthday and the step up to the Masters class coming the following season I wanted to be rested and ready for the National Ultra Endurance Series and the four 100 mile races to come. Gone was the single speed and a new fully geared Ti Lefty 29er from IF was in the stable.
The season was great with podiums in all four races and finally cracking the 10 hour mark at both the Cohutta 100 and Wilderness 101. The icing on the cake came in Baja where I managed to evade the narco wars, not get shot, and in Masters win 2 stages and overall Masters title at the inaugural Baja Epic.
The 2009 season was a bit more relaxed with less of a focus on the ultra endurance race and more on having some fun with the crew from Dark Horse Cycles. The inaugural Singlespeed-a-Palooza was a hit with the entire field, and having to race expert and against guys young enough to be my son, I opted for all out fun and chased the proverbial carrot on a stick only mine was a PBR on a stick with a dancing hula girl on the bars a ukulele made into a Camelbak and a flask of Del Maguey mescal mounted to the frame.
The beginning of August arrived and it was time for the 101. The irony being I was back at the race I swore never to enter again for a seventh straight time and with my wife Beth going for her first ever race (just as 7 years ago it was my first race). Humidity killed me and it was a race not to remember with my time regressing by almost 40 minutes from 2008. The season closed out with a fantastic ride at the SM 100 where I broke the 10 hour mark and was on the podium again.
The serious racing was over and it was time for the boys to go play at the 24 hours of Moab – on single speeds. We had a blast for the first 14 ½ hours before packing it in with the realization that the lack of gears was not the best choice. Later in the week on Porcupine Rim I managed to clip a rock on a climb and go down hard on my right hip bringing out a nasty scrap and deep bruising. It seemed like nothing to think about until a month later.
Finishing out a late fall ride and back at the house, I made a throwing motion and was suddenly dropped to the ground by a white hot pain in my knee. Barely able to walk or pick up my leg it was on the couch for the weekend chewing Percocets like candy. A visit to the knee surgeon and the MRI center showed nothing was wrong (relief) but the pain was moving up my quad and settling deep in the hip. After several weeks of sleepless nights from the pain (it only felt better when I was walking/standing) and countless sessions of physical therapy, I relented and hit the MRI center and the hip surgeon for a prognosis.
Looking me square in the eye the doctors first comment was if you were a runner we would be having a come to Jesus talk right now but since you are a cyclist things are a bit better. Up on the light board came the images of my right hip and the simple analysis from the doctor – osteoarthritis. It turns out that during all of these years I have been racing on a hip that was slowly disintegrating and the quick and dirty is my hip is now a ticking time bomb
with a clock that had no particular time set to go off. Like a pothole strewn road there was only on solution – resurfacing – the Floyd Factor.
When, well that was a question that only I would be able to answer. The down and dirty was when it hurt too much (right now it is a dull pain all the time) to ride or walk or sleep it will be time to go in for the repair.
Where has all this left me? Well it is a bit of a quandary, I still enjoy riding and racing the ultra endurance races but I now have to train and choose carefully when and where I race. Yes the simple solution is to have the resurfacing done and be back in the game, the only problem is the repair is not a one shot deal. The harder I push the sooner it will have to be repaired again as the attachments points loosen up (so nice to think about those screws in your femur elongating the holes so they wobble around)!
I will still be out on the course this season but in a much lower key capacity. The goal is still to do 10 straight 101s so I have to keep it in check and try to tailor the riding and racing so my hip doesn’t just explode one day. There are no regrets, only great memories and friendships but it looks like the time has come to quietly slip into a more relaxed mode and go back to having fun on the bike.
About 5am on race day the Mayor wandered down to his dungeon to unlock the cage and let out the gimp (Mikesquatch), bellowing out "This Sport Is Stoopid" as the heavens continued to unload on Stewart. What had, only 12 hours ago, been pristine, hard and smooth as a cheerleaders ass singletrack was now a slippery mess and after the first lap and 250 riders was assured to be a one wrung above a mud wrestling pit. In fact to get ready for the race the women's class held an unofficial wrestle off for the front row.
Meanwhile Monte was roaming the registration tables and starting area with totally crazed look in his eyes and mumbling "you are going to feel my pain bitch" over and over to anyone brave enough to get close.
Back at the parking area the NECS/MRC contingent were a bit more relaxed about the race, finishing off the last of the Chinese food, topping off the bike flask with some fine Del Maguay and popping a couple of cold frosty PBRs for the prerace carbo loading. So with the rain still falling the troops mounted up and headed to the starting line. 
At the starting line the top 10 from last year were called up to the select starting gate while the rest of us huddled in the pack and jostled for position, (I didn't find it hard to make my way to the back of the pack), with open men & women going off at the same time. When the gun went off Thor proved that he is kinder and gentler then his father Odin and proceeded to let all of the women pass him before the entry into the first of the singletrack. Battling through the mud and slime it wasn't until midway through the first lap Thor finally caught up with Muttonchops just before the umbrella factory. Once inside they were greeted by the Mayor and it was time for the first round of Del Maguay shots.
Thankfully the PBRs quenched the thirst and brought us back to reality - the rest of the climb up Major Mike which is usually hard packed on a good day but by now would be nothing but a trail of greasy mud. To add insult to injury the conditions were even worse then we imagined and the fresh section at the top was now a sea of mud and it was time to dismount and walk the one level section before hiking down the hill rather then face the prospects of a chance meeting with a tree at speed on the descent. Further along we thought we had stumbled into either the emphysema ward of a hospital or the set of a porn movie as the heavy breathing got louder and louder. Before we knew what had hit us Braveheart was by and off into the distance - well that meant only one thing, another shot of Del Maguay.
Entering the closing stages my mischievous ways got the better of me. Having given up on waiting at the stream for Infantile Tom I sized up a deep water hole on the fire road. Right as Muttonchops took the outside line I bolted past and gave him the classic water hole drive by. The subsequent spray emptied the water hole and revealed the rarest of all creatures in Stewart - the Infantile Guppy
It was another Dark Horse mudfest 
and when it was all over and the last of the mud had been washed off Monte had once again smoked the field and the Dark Horse crew in as follows -
