In the course of seven-plus hours, covering 63 miles in the woods of western North Carolina on Sunday July 25 during the Off-Road Assault on Mount Mitchell, I experienced:
1. The feeling I was making a prison escape as I left the last trail in the 60th mile.
2. Butterflies mocking me as they danced uphill, dropping me like an express elevator headed to the basement.
3. Hugging a tree in the middle of a narrow ridge line in Heartbreak Ridge to keep from tumbling down the mountain.
4. Actually finishing ORAMM.
5. A naked cowgirl dancing across a mountain peak.
Eight days after this epic adventure in self-mutilation -- I hesitate to call it a race -- I'm now certain only No. 5 was a figment of my imagination.
Yes, ORAMM was all that and a helluva lot more. It was 400 cyclists dumped into the woods with only 276 coming out the other end.
The other 124?
Maybe the bears got some of 'em. Maybe the heat. And a few are at the bottom of Heartbreak Ridge, which I thought should've been named Heartattack Ridge. Never been so happy to get out of an area since I left the local DMV last year after getting my license renewed.
I didn't ride any of these trails beforehand. Had I, I would've questioned my sanity for doing them at "race pace.'' My only off-road experience in western North Carolina was Bent Creek, which is like a stroll on a beach cruiser to Starbucks compared to this ORAMM course bathed in mid-90s heat.
Or as someone smartly summed up: When you're climbing, you wish you were descending; when you're descending, you wish you were climbing.
So true.
Crossing the line in officially 7 hours, 39 minutes and 11 seconds for 13th out of 73 finishers in the 40-49 class (75th overall) was an achievement for me, an ORAMM rookie, that I won't soon forget. This was as much a mental test as a physical one. And while I can measure the physical strain with calories burned (nearly 5,000), average speed (a pedestrian 8.8 mph), average heart rate (146 bpm) and one cramp in my left leg that felt like a stiletto being plunged repeatedly, what was going on in my head was harder to analyze.
For example, the 9-mile climb up Curtis Creek Road.
This broke a lot of riders. It nearly broke me. I was warned about this beast. Still, I began the climb in my big ring, feeling great, mimicking the numerous butterflies about. That lasted about 4 miles.
Twice I got off my bike and said, basically, "This place has beaten me. I'm cooked. Mommy?! Mommy?!''
Twice I somehow got back on my bike -- barely steadying myself to get going again -- and promising I'd surrender at the rest stop at the top of the climb. Meanwhile, I saw a few riders simply turn around and ride down the climb, succumbing to the torture.
At the time, I was so envious. How nice that looked to glide downhill, to no longer suffer. After all, misery certainly loves company.
Oh, how I couldn't wait to pull the plug.
And then I reached the rest stop. I was thirsty as hell and mixed a bottle of half water, half cola. Just like that, I was jolted out of my malaise. At that point, quitting wasn't an option; it was a cop out. What the hell, I'll keep going, I thought. Only about 30 more miles of jagged trails, endless climbs and numerous switchbacks to navigate.
Whoever said cola is poison hasn't attempted ORAMM. A miracle drug poured into a can and wrapped in global marketing campaign designed to hook us at a young age on high fructose corn syrup. And something to completely avoid the other 364 days of the year.
Then it was on to Black Mountain, Heartattack Ridge, Mill Creek Road, a nearly 4-mile gravel climb that felt like the sun was just above me -- taunting me -- Kitsuma Part II, where on the first time through I went over the bars trying to clear a large downed tree that had no place in the middle of singletrack.
That kicked you out to more gravel roads and finally a hilly paved road that we took at the beginning of the race. This was the final 3 miles. When my knobbies began to buzz like angry bees, the sting of ORAMM began to fade, as did my disappointment of not meeting my goal of breaking seven hours. I was free. It was basically over, and I survived with barely a scratch on my body. I felt like a combination of Billy Hayes running out of that prison in Midnight Express and Andy Dufresne emerging from the prison sewer pipe in Shawshank Redemption. And like Hayes walking fast and then sprinting down the road, I shifted up to my big ring and blasted down another road, never looking back to consider how close I came to turning around on Curtis Creek.
A few twists and turns and I neared the finish line to enthusiastic applause from well-wishers lining the last 50 feet to the line, including my wife Charmain, whom I'm sure was just thankful I found my way back to civilization with all four limbs apparently functioning at least well enough to ride a bike. Honey, I can't express how happy I was to see you and how understanding you've been with my crazy training for this undertaking.
I would be remiss not to give a debt of gratitude to all the volunteers at the rest stops. These people were great and invaluable, especially at one when I realized I lost the top of my empty bottle from my jersey pocket. A volunteer found another. At one of the last rest stops, I was briefly complaining to one as I refilled my bottles, lamenting how slow I was riding and how bad I was suffering. He smiled and said, "Yeah, but no more than a quarter of the field has come by this rest stop.'' I can't tell you how much better that made me feel. He could've been fibbing to make me feel better, but looking over the results, I think he was 100 percent accurate.
So, was finishing ORAMM like escaping from a Turkish prison or crawling through 500 yards of prison sewage to reach freedom?
No. Of course not.
But I swear, at the time, it sure felt like it was.
1. The feeling I was making a prison escape as I left the last trail in the 60th mile.
2. Butterflies mocking me as they danced uphill, dropping me like an express elevator headed to the basement.
3. Hugging a tree in the middle of a narrow ridge line in Heartbreak Ridge to keep from tumbling down the mountain.
4. Actually finishing ORAMM.
5. A naked cowgirl dancing across a mountain peak.
Eight days after this epic adventure in self-mutilation -- I hesitate to call it a race -- I'm now certain only No. 5 was a figment of my imagination.
Yes, ORAMM was all that and a helluva lot more. It was 400 cyclists dumped into the woods with only 276 coming out the other end.
The other 124?
Maybe the bears got some of 'em. Maybe the heat. And a few are at the bottom of Heartbreak Ridge, which I thought should've been named Heartattack Ridge. Never been so happy to get out of an area since I left the local DMV last year after getting my license renewed.
I didn't ride any of these trails beforehand. Had I, I would've questioned my sanity for doing them at "race pace.'' My only off-road experience in western North Carolina was Bent Creek, which is like a stroll on a beach cruiser to Starbucks compared to this ORAMM course bathed in mid-90s heat.
Or as someone smartly summed up: When you're climbing, you wish you were descending; when you're descending, you wish you were climbing.
So true.
Crossing the line in officially 7 hours, 39 minutes and 11 seconds for 13th out of 73 finishers in the 40-49 class (75th overall) was an achievement for me, an ORAMM rookie, that I won't soon forget. This was as much a mental test as a physical one. And while I can measure the physical strain with calories burned (nearly 5,000), average speed (a pedestrian 8.8 mph), average heart rate (146 bpm) and one cramp in my left leg that felt like a stiletto being plunged repeatedly, what was going on in my head was harder to analyze.
For example, the 9-mile climb up Curtis Creek Road.
This broke a lot of riders. It nearly broke me. I was warned about this beast. Still, I began the climb in my big ring, feeling great, mimicking the numerous butterflies about. That lasted about 4 miles.
Twice I got off my bike and said, basically, "This place has beaten me. I'm cooked. Mommy?! Mommy?!''
Twice I somehow got back on my bike -- barely steadying myself to get going again -- and promising I'd surrender at the rest stop at the top of the climb. Meanwhile, I saw a few riders simply turn around and ride down the climb, succumbing to the torture.
At the time, I was so envious. How nice that looked to glide downhill, to no longer suffer. After all, misery certainly loves company.
Oh, how I couldn't wait to pull the plug.
And then I reached the rest stop. I was thirsty as hell and mixed a bottle of half water, half cola. Just like that, I was jolted out of my malaise. At that point, quitting wasn't an option; it was a cop out. What the hell, I'll keep going, I thought. Only about 30 more miles of jagged trails, endless climbs and numerous switchbacks to navigate.
Whoever said cola is poison hasn't attempted ORAMM. A miracle drug poured into a can and wrapped in global marketing campaign designed to hook us at a young age on high fructose corn syrup. And something to completely avoid the other 364 days of the year.
Then it was on to Black Mountain, Heartattack Ridge, Mill Creek Road, a nearly 4-mile gravel climb that felt like the sun was just above me -- taunting me -- Kitsuma Part II, where on the first time through I went over the bars trying to clear a large downed tree that had no place in the middle of singletrack.
That kicked you out to more gravel roads and finally a hilly paved road that we took at the beginning of the race. This was the final 3 miles. When my knobbies began to buzz like angry bees, the sting of ORAMM began to fade, as did my disappointment of not meeting my goal of breaking seven hours. I was free. It was basically over, and I survived with barely a scratch on my body. I felt like a combination of Billy Hayes running out of that prison in Midnight Express and Andy Dufresne emerging from the prison sewer pipe in Shawshank Redemption. And like Hayes walking fast and then sprinting down the road, I shifted up to my big ring and blasted down another road, never looking back to consider how close I came to turning around on Curtis Creek.
A few twists and turns and I neared the finish line to enthusiastic applause from well-wishers lining the last 50 feet to the line, including my wife Charmain, whom I'm sure was just thankful I found my way back to civilization with all four limbs apparently functioning at least well enough to ride a bike. Honey, I can't express how happy I was to see you and how understanding you've been with my crazy training for this undertaking.
I would be remiss not to give a debt of gratitude to all the volunteers at the rest stops. These people were great and invaluable, especially at one when I realized I lost the top of my empty bottle from my jersey pocket. A volunteer found another. At one of the last rest stops, I was briefly complaining to one as I refilled my bottles, lamenting how slow I was riding and how bad I was suffering. He smiled and said, "Yeah, but no more than a quarter of the field has come by this rest stop.'' I can't tell you how much better that made me feel. He could've been fibbing to make me feel better, but looking over the results, I think he was 100 percent accurate.
So, was finishing ORAMM like escaping from a Turkish prison or crawling through 500 yards of prison sewage to reach freedom?
No. Of course not.
But I swear, at the time, it sure felt like it was.
