From: ehouse@Apple.COM (Eric House)
Newsgroups: rec.bicycles.rides,rec.bicycles.racing
Subject: Furnace Creek 508/RAAM Open West race report (long)
Keywords: RAAM, Furnace Creek
Date: 13 Nov 92 21:49:25 GMT
Followup-To: rec.bicycles.rides
Distribution: na
Organization: Apple Computer Inc., Cupertino, CA


Here, with apologies for tardiness, is a report on the Furnace 
Creek 508/RAAM Open West qualifier/race/ride I did on October 17-
18 this year.  The course runs from Valencia to 29 Palms (both in 
Calif.), and climbs 35,000 vertical feet over its 508 mile length.  
Most of the riding is on lonely roads in the Mojave desert and in 
Death Valley -- which is probably why the race is held in October 
rather than July.

The bulk of this report is structured around entries taken from 
the crew log, which records the time and mileage whenever 
something significant, such as a water bottle handoff, happens.  
I've replaced descriptions of what the crew gave me with comments 
about what I was doing or thinking at the time.  And of course, I 
haven't included every entry, and in fact had to make up a few 
where the crew hadn't seen fit to feed or water me at the bottom 
of some major climb.

At the end are short sections on my training, equipment, on the 
crew, and a rough estimate and breakdown of expenses for the race.  
These address questions people have asked.  I'll try to answer 
other questions people have, but ask you to remember that I don't 
do this for a living.  The crew, BTW, were Beth, Donald and Thane; 
you'll need to know that well before you get to their bios.

And, since it took me 12 hours to write this thing, I might as 
well:

***Copyright 1992, by Eric House.  All rights reserved.***
Permission to copy granted provided this notice is retained.

*** 7:00 pm Friday	0 miles	conference room at Ranch House Inn
Pre-race meeting, which I don't attend having been instructed to 
eat and get to bed by crew chief Beth.  I'm told that general 
instructions about rules for riders and follow vehicles were 
discussed, and that watches were synchronized to agree with the 
race director's.  Donald, who never sets his watch, found that his 
agreed perfectly without adjustment.  He decided that this was a 
good omen.

***	8:00 pm to maybe midnight	0	Ranch House Inn
The crew gets the bikes (mine and a backup Thane loaned me) and 
vehicle ready for the race.  "Ultra-marathon Cycling Association" 
(UMCA) rules require rear-facing flashers on top of the vehicle, 
as well as signs warning passing motorists of the rider ahead.  
Besides, my drivetrain was filthy.

I eat dinner with my wife and daughters, who've come down to watch 
the start and finish, then go to bed.  There isn't room in the van 
for them to watch the whole race -- in fact I doubt any vehicle is 
large enough to hold four-year- and six-month-old children for 30 
hours.  They'll drive to the finish in another vehicle.

***	5:30 am	0	Parking lot behind the Ranch House Inn in 
Valencia
I eat one banana and one Cliff Bar and take two water bottles.  We 
attach our lights, listen to instructions from the Race Director 
(whose content entirely escapes my memory) and, at precisely 6:00, 
depart.  We bicycles take one route, and our crews drive another: 
we won't see each other until about 14 miles into the race.

We are under yellow flag conditions for the first several miles, 
which means that we ain't racing yet.  So we poke along and chat.  
Two of my neighbors think they've spotted Tom Winstrom (last 
year's winner, and owner of the Masters' course record) in the 
pack and predict another win for him.  Another has noticed that 
Seana Hogan (winner of last year's RAAM women's division) is back, 
and wonder if she won't "walk away with the whole thing."

One rider notices that I have two rear lights.  His has just 
broken, which could get him tossed out of the race, so he wants to 
borrow one of mine.  Not an easy request to refuse, particularly 
from someone with a strong German accent who probably flew over 
for the event.  We stop and he straps on my extra light (leaving 
me with a VistaLight, in which I have absolute confidence.)  He 
mentions that he's at the end of an internship in Oakland and 
decided to do the race at the last minute, with no time to train.  
Good luck, dude!

We catch up with the pack, and shortly one of the officials drives 
up to tell us we've made a wrong turn.  "Doesn't any of you have a 
route sheet?" she asks, referring to a magazine-sized booklet we 
are of course trusting our crews to deal with.  We make a U-turn, 
get back on course, and soon are at the landmark where I thought 
the race began.  A group of riders with a better sense of 
direction is waiting there for us, and on seeing us approach is 
sent on up the road.  We too are waved on as we pass, and told not 
to double up on the hill we are about to climb.  The time is now 
6:30; the race is now on.  Or is it?  No one seems to be 
increasing his pace, so I ask my neighbors if we're racing yet.  
They don't know.  I increase my speed a bit, though not to a level 
that's taking anything out of me (just in case), and as I pass 
people ask them the same question.  Still no one knows.  Finally I 
pass the front riders, on a tandem, and ask them.  They answer 
"yes."  I hear the captain, Tom Davies, explain to his son that 
"that's the guy who won the Terrible Two."  Tom finished second in 
the T2, and went on to an Official Finish at RAAM this summer.  In 
his late forties, he's done Furnace Creek at least half a dozen 
times.

We're climbing now, and as will be apparent by the time this 
narrative ends, climbing is my schtick.  I fall into a rhythm, and 
now, at least, no one chooses to keep up.

***	7:00 am	?	Still climbing on San Francisquito Canyon Rd.
My first contact with my crew, who are parked and out on the road 
with stuff for me -- and happy to see me ahead.  I hand off one of 
my lights (both have been turned off for a while, but I'm new to 
this handoff stuff and don't want to try two).

***	7:06 am	9.9	still climbing
I drop an empty water bottle and accept a PowerBar

***	7:25 am	15.3
I take on a water bottle.  The crew waits a bit after I've passed, 
but the second rider isn't in sight.

***	7:30 am	16.5	Left onto Spunky Canyon
I stop at the stop sign before turning.  I've heard that the race 
officials are serious about assigning penalties to the most subtle 
of scofflaws (hi David), and here's a guy with a clipboard looking 
carefully at my spokes.  They don't move.  The crew waits two 
minutes before #2 passes them.  He's Ken Eichstaedt.  Same age as 
me (30), and also in this race for the first time.

***	7:45 am	18.75	Top of Elizabeth Lake
I stop to remove my leg and ear warmers, and to apply sunscreen to 
the now-uncovered areas.  Ken overtakes me shortly before I start 
again, with a Cliff Bar and fresh water.  The course does a bit 
more rolling before a screaming downhill takes us out onto the 
floor of the high desert west of Edwards Air Force Base.  The road 
is straight and flat off into the horizon, and Ken is just ahead.  
Soon I'm a dozen yards back, and settle into the aero bars to 
munch my food.  (The log says I took a Cliff Bar, but I distinctly 
remember opening a powerbar.  Oh well.)  Ken is going more slowly 
than I want, so I give up the idea of shadowing him and ride up 
along slowly.  He doesn't have aero bars, and I feel a bit guilty 
about my advantage.  He also has a stem I've never seen before, so 
I ask about it.  He doesn't know what kind it is: the bike is 
borrowed!  I wish him luck, and move on.  (I rode a borrowed bike 
for a few weeks this summer and the subtle differences from what I 
was used to killed me.)

***	8:01 am	26.2	Straight on Avenue A
Ken is 5-6 minutes back.  (He must have stopped, perhaps to change 
to his TT bike.)

***	8:17 am	32
Ken is 30 seconds back.

***	8:36 am	39.2
Changed my glasses for perscription sunglasses.  Ken is 1:30 back.

***	8:57	46.3
Off the bike for one minute losing weight.  I told the crew I 
needed to stop, and they drove ahead until they reached a suitable 
bush and then waited with toilet paper.  They use the break to 
remove my valve stem lights.  We've just begun the climb up Hwy 
114/Backus Rd.

***	9:04 am	48	Still on the hill
The crew times Ken 42 seconds back.

***	?:??	53.4	Right turn onto Oak
I now have a 2 minute lead.

***	9:30	60.7
I now head downhill; the crew notes that I'm pedaling as soon as 
my speed drops to the point where I don't spin out, and think it a 
good sign.

***	9:45	63
I stop at the left turn onto Holt.  And, since I'm stopping 
anyway, linger to pee.  Now we enter the town of Mojave, and my 
crew explains that they'll get me through the light and then need 
to stop for gas and groceries.  I'm to go about 5 miles on Hwy 14, 
then turn right toward California City.  I can't miss the sign, 
and they'll catch me before I get to Cal. City.  Fine.  I do the 
five miles without trouble -- it's almost nice to be riding alone 
-- and make the turn.  But then I start to get close to the town, 
and no van.  I pass a few possible turns, but have no clue what 
the next turn is or even if there is one.  As I scoot through 
another intersection Ken's van makes the left turn.  Aha!  I merge 
left, jump the island and complete my U-turn, then turn right.  
The van has pulled over just after the turn, and there is someone 
else official-looking there too.  It's the first time station.  
"Is this the turn?" I ask.  Yes, and what's my number, please.  I 
don't have a clue -- but, fortunately, they'll settle for my name.  
I push on, and my crew is back maybe five minutes later.  I lost 
less than a minute to the missed turn.

As they drove over the twelve or so miles between Mojave and where 
they caught up with me, my crew recorded the location of each 
rider they passed.  I had the idea that I was all alone out there, 
with Ken a bit back; but the van passed thirteen riders over that 
short distance.  We were still pretty close together; and with 425 
miles to go it was a wide open race.  Two of the thirteen were 
blatantly drafting -- perhaps they were trying to rob a previous 
year's rider of the distinction of being the only person ever 
DQ'd.  (There is a team division, where drafting, within a team, 
is permitted.  There were no teams in this race, however.)

I'd reached the first time station two minutes ahead of Ken.

***	10:38 am	83.5
With the van back, I need a powerbar and water.

***	10:51 am	88
I stop to pee, and get water.  The stop costs me most of my lead.

***	10:57 am	90.2
Ken is 30 seconds back.

***	11:13	96.3
Ken and I are virtually together.  My crew notes in the log, 
perhaps as consolation, that I'm spinning well and look smooth and 
together.  Ken is on a TT "funny" bike: tiny front wheel, rear 
disk, sloping top tube, and of course aero bars clipped onto 
cowhorns.  And he's really mashing the gears.  Perhaps it's just 
his style, but my crew thinks it bodes well.  I'm not looking over 
my shoulder, so I don't know where Ken is; but his van is now 
stopping in front of me to give him stuff, and it's clear from the 
posture of his crew members when I pass that he's right there.

***	11:33 am	103.3
I turn right at a "Y" and begin the climb to Randsburg.

I wasn't very happy on this climb, and it's clear in retrospect 
that it was the low point of the race.  Ken was right on my wheel: 
I didn't want to let him pass but feared that at any moment he 
would.  I began to feel wobbly, and speculated that it would be 
more honorable to fall off the bike and have to withdraw while 
still in the lead rather than let myself get passed.  Not very 
clear-headed thinking, I thought, and at some point it occurred to 
me to empty part of a water bottle into one of the holes in my 
helmet.  The effect was pleasant enough that I went through a 
number of additional bottles this way over the next few miles, and 
soon I stopped wanting to fall off the bike.  Soon too my 
resourceful crew started soaking towels in ice water and draping 
them over my neck as I rode by.  (This trick is a bit harder than 
handing off a water bottle: you have to sprint up to very near the 
rider's speed to be confident of landing the towel in the right 
place.)  This was the first brush with heat exhaustion I've ever 
had; I hope it's my last.

At some point on the climb Ken must have abandoned the funny bike, 
because as we neared the top I passed his van and noted that his 
crew was getting it ready for him again.  It cost him a bit of 
time to make the switch, but some miles later we have the entry:

***	12:47 pm	122.1
One water bottle.  Ken pulls in front.

This was the first time I'd seen Ken on that bike, and I didn't 
like it.  It felt at the time as if it represented a significant 
advantage I'd have trouble overcoming.  But I noticed too that his 
cadence was well below the lowest I can maintain without trashing 
my knees in short order.  He didn't look right on the bike, and I 
took some encouragement from that.  (I  found out later that this 
bike too was borrowed.)

The next 20 miles took us to the second time station in Trona 
(which we reached at 2:40 pm with the van's odometer reading 
156.1).  I went through six water bottles, most of which went onto 
my head or back, and two powerbars in that time.  As we approached 
Trona I told my crew I had to, er...um, "shit" again.  (In truth, 
I don't remember what word I used, but that one seems ok for now.)  
In typical fashion they drove ahead, commandeered a gas station 
bathroom and chased out anyone who might have been wanting to use 
it, then waved me over and into the open door.  A model of 
efficiency and careful planning.  We reached the time station 
shortly after this stop, and were now 6 minutes back of Ken.  Not 
that they told me, of course; I just got more of the same old 
"you're looking good."

We continued our routine out of Trona, picking up a slight 
tailwind at mile 175.  At mile 177 I took a cliff bar, and the 
crew noted that from the top of a climb they could look back 
across the desert and see two riders a ways back.

***	3:40 pm	182
I refuse food: my stomach feels full and a bit bloated.

***	4:00 pm	187	Panamint Valley Road
The pavement is very rough here, and I ask how much longer it will 
last.  Beth, who knows it goes on for a very long time, changes 
the subject.  I complain that my back and feet hurt, but refuse 
the offer of Ibuprofin (sp?).

***	4:10 pm	190.5
I stop to change my racing shoes for touring shoes and new socks.  
At the same time my crew swaps my rear wheel for the spare.  I 
started the race with a 13-21 freewheel, but had used my lowest 
gear before the race was an hour long and feared I'd need more on 
Towne Pass.  We were now approaching the pass, and I wanted the 
13-24.

***	4:32 pm	199.4	Right turn onto Hwy 190
This is the turn toward Towne Pass.  We've been traveling up a 
valley with towering mountains on either side.  Now we face one 
ridge directly and begin a run at it.   The turn is at 1580', and 
the pass at 4856', with grades mostly 6%-10% and a bit at 13%, 
over the space of ten miles.  There is little room for vehicles to 
turn off on the climb, and our crews would much rather spend time 
below and behind us than above and ahead ('cause guess which way 
it's easier to travel for help if you break a chain.)  Thus, I 
pass Ken's van at the start of the climb.  He must be nearby, and 
I'm entering my element again.  I think that if I can't catch him 
here I'll be in trouble.

***	5:19 pm	206.9	near the 4000' sign
Here, as the steepest section of the climb is ending, I catch and 
pass Ken.  My crew was waiting at a turnout just below, and 
described what they saw this way: The road went around a 
switchback to the left, and just beyond the turn there was an 
embankment on the left side of the road such that they couldn't 
see several hundred yards of the road.  First Ken, and then I, 
passed from their sight behind the embankment.  A few moments 
later I emerged -- but no Ken.  My crew were ecstatic, and of 
course I was pretty pleased with what had happened while we were 
out of their sight.  Ken was delayed because he had stopped beside 
his van moments after I passed him.  He'd done much of the climb 
on the funny bike, perhaps because he didn't want to lose any time 
changing, but was finally moving to something better suited for 
climbing.

***	6:00 pm	210.1	top of Towne Pass (entrance to Death Valley)
I stop for 5-7 minutes to put on warm clothes for the 5000' 
descent ahead.  I also eat a banana and three fig bars and drink 
some water.  Ken arrives after I've been there for three minutes.  
He's still working with his crew when I depart.

***	6:48 pm	232
I stop to pee.

It is now fully dark, and so different rules governing interaction 
between rider and crew are in effect.  The van is now required to 
follow me at all times.  Handoffs from the moving van are now 
legal, as the van is not allowed to pull ahead of me to set up a 
pedestrian handoff.  If I stop the van must stop; and if the van 
stops, so must I.

The first thing they pass me is my clip-on lights.

***	7:00 pm	235.5	at the turnoff to Scotty's castle
I complain of sleepiness.

***	7:19 pm	240.7
I stop to pee -- again.  I guess I'm drinking enough water.  I 
tell my crew I'm feeling fine, and not too sleepy.

***	7:52 pm	250.9
I don't stop to pee.

Several months before the race I took Beth and Donald to lunch to 
introduce the two of them and so we could plan the race.  Beth 
talked a lot about preparation, and suggested that if I wanted to 
be competitive with other men in races like this I ought to start 
practicing peeing from a moving bike.  I wanted no part of it -- 
even after she pointed out that 30 seconds every hour would cost 
me 15 minutes over the course of a 30 hour race -- so I never 
found an opportunity to practice.  But now I was in the race, and 
I knew there was someone close behind me, and I had to pee again.  
So I stood up, turned to the side, and made history.  I also made 
my leg warmers very wet, but things dry quickly in the desert air.  
For the remainder of the ride I only stopped when it became 
apparent that a hill was going to last longer than I could.  And I 
quickly learned to avoid my leg.

My action elicited some sort of favorable noise from the van.  I 
guess they were tired of watching the following lights get closer 
every time I stopped.

***	7:56 pm	252	Furnace Creek in Death Valley
Time station three is here at the half-way point of the race.  We 
stop for two minutes, though I can't imagine why.  Ken pulls in 
just as we're leaving.

As it turns out, this is the last time we see him.  He was 
apparently having stomach trouble and checked into a hotel in 
Furnace Creek, only to withdraw from the race when he hadn't 
recovered by morning.  While I was glad to be rid of the pressure 
his presence behind us created, I'm genuinely sorry he dropped 
out.  He struck all of us as someone who deserved to win (each 
time he passed not only me but my crew he had some encouraging 
words for us), and I think he might have if he hadn't been riding 
borrowed bikes or developed stomach problems.  I was even 
fantasizing about a sprint finish, with me winning, of course;  
but it wasn't to be.  I hope he does well next year.

A mile or so after the time station we turn right toward Badwater.  
We are now at sea level, and will drop several hundred feet before 
we do any significant climbing.  But more importantly, we are now 
outside of the "no external sound" zone that surrounds the 
populated areas of the Valley.  If you look at photos of RAAM 
support vehicles, you'll inevitably see loudspeakers mounted so as 
to face the area in front of the vehicle, where the rider is at 
night; if you think they are there primarily for communication, 
you're wrong.

***	8:42 pm	263.9	On the road to Badwater
Led Zep's Kashmir.  More Zep, Nirvana, and other illustrations of 
why we aren't supposed to use the speakers near campgrounds.  The 
crew notes my "good response," which probably means that if I've 
enough balance to manage air guitar after 14 hours of riding I 
have a chance of finishing the race.  (Good thing they didn't play 
any Who :-).  Our music system is just a boom box with its 
detachable speakers sitting on the van roof, and sounds like it -- 
but in the middle of the night, and of the desert, riding in a 
small room whose dimensions are defined by the reach of the van's 
headlights, music is a godsend.  We go on like this for miles, one 
broken lane stripe at a time.

***	9:41 pm	280.3	Just beyond the lowest point in the U.S.
I don't stop to pee again.  But I think I'll stop bragging about 
it.

***	11:00 pm	300.7	Turning left toward Shoshone
We're at sea level again, and are shortly to begin the climb to 
Jubilee Pass.  I pass back a PowerBar half eaten: I'm sick of 
them, and refuse fig bars as well.  My stomach is feeling bloated, 
and it needs a rest.  Soon my crew offers a bottle of carbonated 
water.  It helps.

We climb first Jubilee (1285 feet) and then, after dropping 200 
feet, must drag ourselves to the top of Salsberry at 3315.  This 
climb, which spans fifteen miles and takes 1:45(!), is the hardest 
of the ride for me.  I'm tired, and in the dark find it hard to 
motivate myself to climb at speed.  The little space defined by 
the headlights moves slowly upward, and the occasional glimpse I 
get of the road ahead, perhaps as the lights are returned by 
reflectors along the road, only confirms that we are not there 
yet.

There is one magical moment from somewhere on the climb that 
sticks in my mind.  The van stops so that a new driver can take 
over for someone who needs a nap, and for a minute or so I escape 
from the brightest part of the van's lights.  Now I can see a bit 
of what surrounds us.  The road is as if scraped into the surface 
of the land: on either side the sandy earth is thrown up in ridges 
like those left by snowplows -- and the light of the van makes 
them bright, almost like snow.  Beyond those ridges the 
silhouettes of unfamiliar plant species stand out, almost ominous, 
except that the effect is too surreal to be threatening.  Now too 
I can seen the shapes of the mountains that surround us at a 
distance -- until the van catches and swallows me again.

***	12:44 am	313	Top of Salsberry Pass
I don a windbreaker as the crew removes an unnecessary valve stem 
light from the bike.

The descent was nearly as hard as the climb: cold, but the kind of 
cold that, given my state, made me sleepy rather than awakening 
me.  I'm not often glad to see the bottom of a hill, even on long 
rides, but was delighted by it here.

***	1:16 am	325	Time station #4 at Shoshone
The crew has to awaken the race official stationed here.  They've 
given up on finding my head warmer (which I could have used on the 
descent) and rig something with a tee-shirt knotted in back.

While the crew log dutifully records everything I ate and drank, 
with the inevitably results, the truth is that there was nothing 
much to note during the stretch that followed, which Beth calls 
the most boring, and hence the hardest, of the course.  At some 
point we crested Ibex Pass, at 2090 feet, but the climb was so 
gradual that I hardly noticed.  (I did notice the downhill, 
though, and didn't much mind it.)  There was more music as we 
slowly rocked ourselves toward Baker, and the dawn.

Oddly, there is nothing in the log about those bits of drama I 
learned of only after the fact.  Somewhere along this stretch the 
crew noticed vehicle lights behind us -- lights that didn't pass.  
There was another rider, but how far back he was was impossible to 
judge over the long stretches of desert road.  But clearly, he was 
gaining, as he hadn't been visible before even on the long climbs.  
The crew wrestled with whether to tell me, wondering if the 
knowledge would motivate me or cause me to despair.

Their concerns about those lights led to another quandary.  They 
knew that Baker was the only place before the finish where they 
were certain to be able to buy gas; and they didn't know if they 
had enough to make it all the way without a stop.  Yet if they 
stopped I would be required to stop as well, and would be 
overtaken.  So they argued.  The van was getting excellent mileage 
putting along at 15 mph, but it was a rental and so its gauge 
couldn't be trusted.  There was a chance they could get gas at 
Amboy, though the gas station there had been boarded up last time 
Beth was through.  If they could get me within fifty miles or so 
of the finish before running out, I could probably make it in on 
my own (as it would be light by then); or maybe they could get a 
message to my wife at the finish line so that she'd drive out and 
escort me over the final miles.  Perhaps it was a good thing that 
I had an uneven number of crew members: they voted, and two-to-one 
decided to press on without stopping.

A few miles before Baker they finally told me about the lights -- 
and about the plan to roll through without stopping.  (Nothing was 
said about gas: we'd simply be trying to minimize the time spent 
at the time station.)  I'd been looking back for a while -- I knew 
I was crawling -- but couldn't see anything because of the 
brightness of our own lights.  I was crushed nevertheless, and 
though I speeded up I expected to be passed at any moment by some 
guy chugging along effortlessly at 20 mph.  We'd been told that 
the second rider was the German guy who'd borrowed one of my 
lights, and so I amused myself with the notion that when he passed 
I'd demand that the light be returned, forcing him to retire until 
dawn.  But in spite of the fantasy I felt that being overtaken 
would sap much of my remaining strength and will.

***	5:00 am	380	Time station #5 at Baker
Somehow I held on to the lead into Baker.  There we rolled past 
the time station with only a shout of my name and rider number -- 
much to the disappointment of a race official who'd been looking 
forward for hours to talking to someone.  A minute later he was 
disappointed again, as the following rider wasn't going to lose 
any time to either gas or conversation.

Holding on that far had done the trick for me.  There was some 
excitement to our escape from the time station and its lonely 
guard, and now there was an overpass to charge over, out of the 
saddle after too many miles in.  There was light from streetside 
stanchions to mingle with ours, and then a swooping down from the 
overpass to a stop sign, and a road that led somewhere different: 
up.

A hill!  Those lights behind had caught us on the flats, but now 
they were going to have to contend with me on my own turf.  (I'm 
serious: I really felt that way at the time.)  It was beginning to 
get light now, and for the first time in hours I could see my 
speedometer.  The hill, which would climb 2700 feet over the next 
21 miles, settled down to a steady grade of less than 3%.  I 
settled into the aero bars, which I hadn't used much in the 
darkness, and to a steady pace of 14.5 mph.  This I maintained for 
perhaps ten miles before dropping closer to ten when the road 
began to dip and rise more unsteadily; but by that time the lights 
were gone from sight.  We later learned that we gained half an 
hour on that single climb.

***	7:00 am	407	Top of the climb toward Kelso
We didn't stop for this one at all.  It isn't even noted in the 
log -- I'm estimating the time from other entries.

Now we have a nice long descent into Kelso.  We've been told that 
those lights gained on us on flat and downhill sections (by Cindy 
Steiger, race official and, should I mention, past winner of 
RAAM), but this is one downhill where I'm not going to lose any 
ground.  I have little leg speed left, and so spin out my 52x13 at 
about 35 mph, but it's a lot faster than the coasting I'd do if 
left alone at this point.

(We've also learned that the lights belonged to Muffy Ritz, winner 
of the women's division of RAAM Open Midwest earlier in the year.  
There's now another reason I don't want to get passed.  Cindy also 
mentions that Seana Hogan [the woman who won her division in this 
race last year, and RAAM this summer] has dropped out, but that 
we're not to tell Muffy if we see her.  Fat chance! -- of our 
seeing her, that is.)

Kelso is a place where steam trains used to stop for coal and 
water: multiple tracks run through the center of town across our 
path.  It is also the place where one could say that Laura Stern, 
holder until this year of the women's course record, lost the 
battle for second place overall the year she set the record.  
Laura was a few minutes behind the eventual second place finisher, 
but he had a 15 minute penalty that he was going to be required to 
serve at the penalty box time station eight miles from the finish.  
Yet when Laura reached Kelso she found a stationary train blocking 
her way.  She waited ten minutes or so, confident that the 
officials would credit her for the lost time, before it moved.  
She was wrong: I'm told, in fact, that the rule book specifically 
calls out trains as something for which the clock is not to be 
adjusted.

The proper move for Laura to have made, Beth suggested several 
times during the months before the race, would have involved 
having her crew help her and her bike between two cars of that 
train so that she could continue on alone.  This kind of thinking 
didn't impress my wife, and I had been made to promise to wait 
patiently for any trains to move out of my way.  So -- after all 
this lead on -- what should we see waiting for us as we dropped 
out of the hills above Kelso, but a train.  From the moment my 
crew announced the train to the time they admitted it had turned 
into a row of hedges I pondered what to do (or perhaps: how to do 
it), but in fact we'll never know what I would have done.  We do 
know what kind of race hazards I'll keep mum about in the future 
:-).

From Kelso we climbed again, at speeds more appropriate for 
someone in the latter stages of a long race who, looking back over 
several miles of the course, can't see anyone to run from.  That 
the road appeared not to have been paved since being used for WW 
II bombing practice didn't help.  What little encouragement there 
was was the knowledge that at the top of the hill I'd be required 
to get off of the bike for 20 minutes while we drove over a 
stretch of dirt road.  I'd been dreaming for hours about how I'd 
spend those minutes -- little fantasies revolving around wash 
cloths, fresh socks and clean shorts.  Hey, it works!

***	8:21 am	429	Time station #6 at the start of the dirt road
The 20 minute requirement is to prevent crews making driving on 
dirt part of the race: 12 minutes is sufficient to make the 
distance safely.  I spend the time in the van acting out the 
little fantasies mentioned above, though nothing is nearly as 
effective as I'd hoped.  In addition to fresh clothes and 
sunscreen I put my racing shoes back on -- in case there's a 
sprint finish.

***	8:41 am	432	Time station #7 at the end of the dirt road

The next 20 miles are all downhill, and pass quickly under the 
combined influence of clean clothes and the knowledge that someone 
back there will be pushing it down this hill soon enough.  No 
brief rest has cured my spinning out at 35, however, though I do 
manage to hop cattle guards when they appear.  At the bottom of 
this hill is Amboy.  The gas station is open for business, and so 
my crew escorts me out of town (such as it is) and then returns 
for gas.  I've seen the "$1.88" on their sign, but try not to 
think about it.

Just outside of Amboy I turn left onto 29 Palms/Yucca Valley Rd.  
Something about finally being on a road that bears the name of our 
destination, coupled with more pavement that isn't, slows me to a 
crawl again.  The road is across a dry lakebed for a while and 
then, after the van catches up, begins a gentle climb.  Now we 
have company: the race director makes an appearance and chats with 
my crew.  Soon the van is beside me, and Donald tells me "If we 
can average 17 mph for the rest of the course you'll have a new 
record."

"Oh, sh*t," I reply.  Or words to that effect.

Donald assures me that I can do it, and I assure him that I'm 
aware of that, and that's precisely why I'm not happy.  It won't 
be fun.  I'm climbing at 12 mph when I hear the good news, and 
raise it to 16 so as not to lose any time while thinking it over.

Though I hadn't felt I was making the kind of time that would give 
me a shot at the record, I had asked my crew about it perhaps an 
hour before Amboy.  They calculated that I'd need to average close 
to 20 to pull it off, which pretty effectively ended the 
discussion (I was happy to settle for the win).  Now I repeated 
the same calculation, cycling through the functions on my 
cyclometer.  When the van came alongside again I announced the 
results, choosing one of the more polite ways of expressing my 
opinion of the race director's mathematical ability in saying that 
it couldn't be done.  The race director, who I now found seated on 
the floor of the van, corrected me: the clock had started half an 
hour later than I though because of adjustments to the course (the 
finish line was 4 miles farther from the start than it had been in 
previous years, and so the first 4 miles didn't count), and I was 
forgetting to subtract the 20 minutes I'd been required to sit 
out.  Damn; they were right.

That's really about all there was to it.  I had in front of me 
maybe 1000' of climbing, nearly the same to descend, and then a 
final 25 mile run during which I'd gain a couple of hundred feet -
- level ground, for all intensive purposes.  If I didn't get 
caught at lights in 29 Palms it would depend on the quality of the 
pavement on that level stretch.

The climb went fine -- on the steepest sections, of maybe 8%, I 
dropped as low as 11 -- and the descent, better, though I still 
spun out at 35.  But once we hit the level stretch, by which time 
the slow and fast had canceled each other such that we still had 
to average 17 mph, the pavement fell apart.  It stayed apart for 
maybe 15 miles, over which, somehow, I managed to maintain about 
the required 17.  But it was probably the most physically trying 
thing I've ever done: though my arms and hands were protected by 
the kinda-suspension on my aero bars, every single bump was 
transmitted directly to my butt and feet.  Putting the racing 
shoes back on had definitely been a mistake, and one that dumping 
ice water into them didn't fix.  (I was pinching a nerve, it turns 
out, and four weeks later still have some numbness in three toes 
of my right foot.  I haven't had my racing shoes on since.)

It was a good thing that my crew had kept me well watered and fed 
up to this point, as I wasn't interested in food at all (too much 
effort to eat) or in water except as something to dump in my shoes 
or to have someone dump on my back as I rode and bounced along.  
They stopped trying to push food on me, and instead discussed 
measures to be taken after the finish to correct for the wasted 
state I was likely to be in by then.

Some few miles before we entered 29 Palms the pavement changed to 
something more likely to get a city council member reelected, and 
I managed to move my pace into the low 20s, and to keep it there 
except when interrupted by stop signs and other such 
inconveniences.  The race director was happy at the prospect of 
getting a new record out of this, but wasn't about to let me run 
any stop signs; and now that he was back in his own car trying to 
stop traffic for me it was going to be hard for him to overlook 
any infractions.  So I did my little trackstand dances -- until, a 
couple of miles from the finish, I blew one and teetered over on 
my side.  In an instant two of the crew were helping me back on 
the bike, and assuring me that we had enough leeway that I hadn't 
just lost the record.

A few minutes more, after two little hills I could definitely have 
done without, I sprinted (?) through a toilet paper ribbon drawn 
across the entrance of the Best Western motel in 29 Palms.  Done.  
Finished.  And off the bike, but only with help.  We had the 
record by five minutes and change, which was good enough for me 
(and will remain so until someone breaks it by a margin I can 
convince myself we could have attained with the benefit of 
hindsight, as if these things aren't almost entirely dependent on 
wind speed and direction anyway.)

The finish at races like this isn't much of an affair, as you 
can't exactly attract a crowd when all you can promise them is 
riders spaced every hour or two with the first arriving somewhere 
within a six-hour window.  My crew and family were about half of 
the spectators; the others were the race director, a couple of 
officials, and a few others who had either dropped out and decided 
to watch the finish or just come down because they're interested 
in the event.  (Tom Winstrom and his wife were in this latter 
group: the guy in the starting pack had been wrong about who he 
saw.)  After getting my shoes off I chatted as best I could for a 
few minutes, between fielding things my crew wanted me to put into 
my stomach, and then hobbled, with help, into a room whose owner 
had offered to let me shower.  I didn't come out until an hour 
after I'd finished -- which meant that I was just in time to hear 
the second rider come in and people start to wonder aloud where I 
was so that they could get pictures of the two winners.  In the 
pictures I've seen I look, for all the signs of freshly-
showeredness, as if I'm about to drop, while Muffy looks ready to 
do the whole thing over again.  *I* would never be so stupid....I 
think.

If anyone cares.....

EQUIPMENT: Only the most basic, but some of the best.  While my 
frame is a cheap Taiwanese steel thing Univega replaced my beloved 
Specialissima with after it broke during the summer, only the 
front derailleur (Suntour Cyclone) remains from the original bike.  
As things have died I've replaced them with parts that wouldn't be 
out of place on a better frame, though my insistence that 
expensive things justify their cost by lasting a long time has led 
me to choose stuff that will work with anything at any time (read: 
"no Shimano"): Phil Wood and Bullseye hubs with Mavic steel QRs 
(130mm axles, as required by my frame, but the wheels are spaced 
and dished for 7- and 6-speed freewheels, respectively); MA-2 rims 
with 23c Michelin HiLite Comps; Ritchey FD stem with Cinelli 66 
bars and Superbe Pro aero levers; Campy SR brakes: Suntour Winner 
Pro and Dura-ace freewheels (13-21 and 13-24), Sedisport chain and 
Suntour XC-Pro short-cage rear derailleur with Campy NR downtube 
shifters; Sugino Mighty Tour 34-42-52 triple with a Sugino NR-
clone BB and Suntour Superbe Pro pedals; Suntour XCD seatpost with 
Avocet Racing 1 saddle; some Tange headset that came with the 
frame.  And a pair of AirStrike aero bars, one of thirty built by 
John Tobin specifically for ultramarathon bicycling.  The design 
was good enough to be "borrowed" by Profile for their AirStryke 
bars (though they missed the point), but Tobin decided he'd better 
things to do than contend with Scott's lawyers, and so isn't 
making any more.  These are the same bars Pamela Blalock raves 
about, so I won't add my voice to her chorus.  It doesn't matter 
anyway, as they're all sold out.

I wore Vittoria Jr. (?) shoes at the beginning and end of the 
ride, and Specialized touring shoes in the middle.  I'm still 
wearing out the first shorts I ever owned -- some Performance 
brand things that refuse to die (and I won't buy new ones till 
they do), and my jerseys were my trademarked long-sleeved white 
cotton dress shirts (which cost less than $5 each even at today's 
inflated thrift shop prices, and beat the hell out of anything 
else for desert riding.)  All official finishers of the race are 
supposed to get a jersey for their trouble, so one of these days 
I'll have to go try one on so I can tell the race director what 
size I wear.

The equipment listed above has never given me cause to complain 
before, but some parts were inadequate for 500 mile events over 
third-world-class roads, and something will have to be done to 
increase my comfort before I attempt RAAM.  (It isn't the kind of 
event where you can be competitive if you have to be helped off 
the bike after the first 500 miles.)  Determining what to do isn't 
easy, of course, as the problems don't reveal themselves until 
I've been on the bike for several hundred miles -- and I don't 
know of roads around here that are as bad as those down south.  
I'll start with the cheap 'n' easy stuff first: larger tires at 
lower pressure, and bring in the big guns (the Alsop beams and 
rear-suspended titanium frames) as a last resort if all else fails 
(unless I give in to titano-lust before all the results are in :-
).

TRAINING: I really wish I could say, as I did after the Terrible 
Two, that my commute made up the bulk of my training for this 
race.  However, as my wife and daughters can attest, it didn't.  
The weekends leading up to the race saw me taking the following 
long rides (and remember that I was already averaging 1000 
miles/month going into this final stretch): Sept 12: Palo Alto to 
Auburn, CA, about 160 miles with very little climbing.  The point 
here was to get used to long hours on the aero bars (as well as 
saying "hello" to my folks).  Sept 18-19: Palo Alto to Yosemite 
Valley and back, or 395 miles with endless flat stretches and a 
fair bit of climbing over two days.  (I posted a report on this 
trip a while back)  The point here was to be stupid and hurt 
myself on Old Priest Grade.  It worked.  Sept 27: Palo Alto to 
Watsonville and back, about 135 miles with a fair bit of climbing.  
I'd never been over Eureka Canyon Rd., and this seemed like a good 
excuse.  (I wasn't particularly impressed, and am glad Tunitas and 
West Alpine are closer at hand.)  Oct. 3: Apple Cycling Club's Old 
La Honda time trial.  Not exactly a training ride, but a good 
chance to see if I could climb with aero bars after several months 
not emphasizing climbing.  I turned a 16:50 (3 seconds off my PR, 
and a pretty good Cat 2 time, I'm told), which suggested I could 
count on some advantage in the hills on the race.  Beth's cliche, 
"train your weaknesses, race your strengths" appeared to have been 
decent advice.  Oct. 4: Palo Alto to Petaluma and back, for a 
total of 195 miles.  Last long ride before the race, with some 
decent hills on Hwy 1 but no time to check out Bruce Gordon's 
shop.  Oct. 11: A local Alto Velo club ride of maybe 75 miles, and 
a chance to take it relatively easy six days out.

Of course I kept commuting, which is good for at least 125 
miles/week and provides a chance to get some interval training in 
on the rare occasion when I feel like working that hard.  I don't, 
BTW, use a heart rate monitor.

FOOD/NUTRITION: I'm not going to go back through the log and count 
the number of things I ate, but here are my rough estimates: 15 
Powerbars, 10 Cliff Bars, 10 large fig bars (the bulk natural 
foods kind), 15 Fig Newtons, 15 bananas.  I drank nothing but 
water.  The crew log notes my calories/hour rate dropping from the 
low 400s at the beginning of the race to the low 300s nearer the 
end (though that has to be adjusted upward, as their estimate of 
the caloric content of fig newtons was too low), and of course I 
ate nothing during the last two hours.  I learned a couple of 
things.  First, even someone who has a reputation for being able 
to eat anything can and will get sick of Powerbars -- and as long 
as I have a van along there's little advantage to sticking with 
foods like energy bars whose main selling point is, IMHO, that 
they're packaged for easy transfer from jersey pocket to mouth.  
Bread has a pretty good ratio of complex carbos too.  And second, 
I probably ought to start experimenting with those grossly 
overpriced liquid nutrition products.  Maybe their margins are 
high enough that a few nice "please sponsor me" letters would bear 
fruit.

CREW STUFF: My crew were: 1) Beth Dawson.  Competitor in this 
year's RAAM and former holder of two UMCA records, she's ridden 
this race two or three times and crewed it at least once.  Beth 
knows everyone who does this kind of stuff, and knows more about 
it than I'll ever want to try to absorb.  She knew exactly what a 
crew had to do; and, as another Apple person, she was conveniently 
close at hand.  Were it not for her I'd probably never have heard 
of this race.  2) Donald Olson.  Donald works with me on 
AppleScript, but in addition did a fair number of USCF races, 
triathalons, and marathons during his years in Hawaii.  He'd also 
been involved in enough support efforts to know what he and I were 
getting into.  3) Thane House.  My little brother has been riding 
with me since he was ten, and is one of those people you can 
confidently lock in a small moving room with two total strangers 
and know he'll make them all fast friends.  He works for MCI in 
Walnut Creek, CA.

There's no way to appreciate how much of a part the crew plays in 
winning this kind of race until you win -- or lose -- one.  If 
they're on the ball you save bits of time at every interaction -- 
and you interact maybe every five miles.  Their more important 
role is psychological, however.  Their mood is contagious, and 
their efficient, well-coordinated actions remind the rider that 
he's in a race where efficiency and thought are critical.  It's 
easy to get lazy halfway through a 500 mile race, for both rider 
and crew, especially when you haven't seen any of your competition 
for several hours.  My crew never did, and I tried to follow their 
example.  Thanks, and kudos, to all three of them.  I hope I do 
half as well for RAAM.

COST: the main reason I probably won't do this race again.  In 
addition to the following, lots of incidentals brought the total 
up above what I'd hoped for -- and Beth saved me quite a bit 
because she already owns the special lights and signs that UMCA 
rules require support vehicles to display.
   $250     Van (I could have rented something cheaper, but 
decided that the crew would really appreciate having a bit more 
space for the 30+ hours they'd have to spend there.  Given that 
crew morale has a direct impact on how well the rider performs, I 
think this was the right move on purely selfish grounds.  I could 
also have borrowed a van, but decided that driving at 15 mph 
nonstop through the desert would probably not be too easy on the 
vehicle and so turned the offer down.  As it turned out, there are 
other reasons, into which I cannot go, why renting is the best 
option -- and why you should avoid renting something that's been 
used for UMCA support for your next family vacation :-).      
   $160     Hotels 
   $150     Crew cash   (I gave it to them, and they spent it on 
gas, on food for themselves, and on water for me.)
   $170     Entry fee   (I'm sure most of this goes to paying 
expenses for the officials who spend two full days driving about 
the course making sure no one cheats, breaks down, etc.  If the 
race director makes any money it's on the order of pennies per 
hour.)
   $100     Meals and gas between the Bay Area and the race.
   $75      Stuff of Beth's I broke and had to replace, or that 
Thane lost.
-- 
****************************************************************************
Eric House			"My employer doesn't share its opinions with
RAAM in '93?		   	 me, so I can share only mine with you"