"Stage 2 is the shortest but it sucks," Juanca was telling us at the pre-race team meeting, hosted at his gorgeous casa. "I think it is the hardest one," he says, "basically you are either going up or you are going down." At the mandatory rider's brief the next day, Roman, La Ruta's founder and director, explains that stage 2 will be 64 kilometers in length with some "surprises". BUT the exact route has yet to be finalized. There were actually 10 surprises. Stage 2 ended up being 74 kilometers in length, 10 kilometers more than briefed. And the last three kilometers can only be described as "Wha'?"
The Up, Up, Down.
The flag drops and soon thereafter I am pushing my bike up a wall. Juanca's words kept going through my head the entire day, "you are either going up or your going down." Of the 4 days of the event day 2 made me feel like a moron the most. It was the shortest day distance-wise but it was the second longest day of the event for me. My bike spent more time on top of me than I did on top of it. At times, the grade was so steep, I was convinced that if it shifted, just one more degree upward, I would actually be walking upside down. At one particularly steep section, the road (Why you would pave a road that steep in the first place is beyond me) was lined with spectators cheering on the riders actually riding their bikes. I tried to feed off of their enthusiasm in the hopes of actually riding my bike up the hill too. It took all of 10 seconds before I ran out of legs and had to start pushing again. This hill was the definite low point of the event for me. I let all of these great people, who spent the time and effort to hike or ride up to this point, down. With my head hanging low, I just pushed up the hill, too ashamed to make eye contact with any of them. That hill was painfully steep.
Believe it or not, I am actually passing the guy riding his bike.
I'd Rather Be Pushing Right About Now!
"If I lean back just an inch further", I wondered, "would my lycra shorts catch on fire? Or would they be shorn from my body along with various bits of my anatomy?" Those were the consequences I imagined awaited me, if or when, my ass made contact with the knobby rubber, rotating at nearly 40 miles per hour between my legs. That was just one of the many musings and dilemmas I had to deal with during the many descents that day.
As was mentioned earlier, you were either going up or down on day 2. Pushing the bike up the hills I would be whining to myself, "man this sucks." Plummeting down the hills, however, I would be thinking, "HOLY FUCK! I AM GOING TO DIE!!!" Oh and, "I'd rather pushing right about now."
Guess Who's Driving This Train?
The whole day was relentless for me. There were few sections where I could just relax and have fun. On one of the big descents, the road actually had a corkscrew turn. Yeah, exactly. Now take that f'd up mental picture and imagine riding a bicycle down it at 30 mph. My forearms are aching just thinking about it. On these descents you don't get to decide how fast you go, your brakes take care of that for you. Squeeze those levers all you want. Sure you will slow down, for a bit. But then they will heat up and bye-bye brakey-poo. Luckily for me it happened to just my rear brake at the end of the first big descent. From that point forward I learned the art of brake management. Which means you free fall down the hill and brake at the last possible moment. If I were wearing a heart rate monitor I am sure it would show that my heart rate was far higher during the descents than the climbs.
Stinky German Guy.
At the last check point, Mario, our Tico photographer, informed me that there were about 20 kilometers to go with a "short, technical descent" just before the finish. But my GPS said that I had gone 50-some-odd kilometers already. He obviously meant 10 kilometers to go. Roman even told us at the day zero brief not to trust the locals ability to judge distance.
10 kilometers came and went. At this point, though, was the only real fun I had all day. A stinky German guy and I had been racing back and forth all day. I could "climb" (push my bike up hill) better than he could and I was stronger on the flats. But when it came to the technical, down hill stuff he would make like a Stuka. I had nothin' for Herr Stinkend. About the time when the stage was supposed to be over we were descending through a town on nice, smooth paved roads at about 25 mph or so. Herr Stinkend was ahead of me by about 400 meters and I was content with that. I wasn't "racing" per se. Suddenly, behind me the air explodes with the sound of car horn, cowbells, and obnoxious Spanish! The ball of racket pulls alongside me, "VAYA! VAYA! VAYA!" The folks in the SUV were beside themselves cheering me on. They were hanging out the windows ringing their cowbells inches from my ear, "VAYA! VAYA!!!" I thought, "there is no way I am going to disappoint these crazy ass Ticos this time." After shifting up a couple of gears I jumped out of the saddle. Either I was going to catch Herr Stinkend or I was going to brake some carbon fiber. The faster I turned the pedals the more obnoxious the mobile cheering section became. Suffering from a lack of oxygen to my brain, I can't be certain, but I believe my cheering section ran a couple of oncoming cars off the road. At nearly 40 mph the cheering section and I pass Herr Stinkend. As we fly by he looks over, grinning smugly. That's because he knew, that as soon as we got off the road and back on to a proper trail going down again, he'd be passing my candy-ass. Because I would be carrying my bike.
"Technical Descent"
I guess a bunch of mud covered boulders, on the side of a hill, is the definition of a "technical descent".
A couple of minutes after I pass Herr Stinkend, I see a dude in the middle of the road waving flags around. "Maybe there is a wreck," I thought anticipating seeing some carnage that would affirm all of my fears. Nope. He was directing the racers off the road onto the "technical descent". As soon as I hit the trail it was apparent that I would be doing a lot of carrying of the bicycle. "It just ain't worth it," I kept repeating to myself as I looked down the hill. The trail was nothing but a bunch of baby-head boulders covered in calf deep mud. But the more astounding detail was the fact that there were ruts in the mud from some sort of super machine. It's impossible for me to imagine what kind of car or truck could possibly have been able to drive on that trail. So I shouldered my bike and start stumbling down the "technical descent". After about 10 minutes I hear the distinct sounds of a mountain bike barreling down a muddy, bouldery hill behind me. I step off the trail. Sure enough it was Herr Stinkend. The only thing missing was the sound of Stuka sirens as he dived by me. Grinning. Smugly.
After about a mile of that joy the course turned on to pavement again. In order to continue I have to knock off all of the mud my bike accumulated, just so my tires will spin again. Shortly after I start riding again I see Herr Stinkend. "A HA!" I have caught the sour Kraut again! But then my joy turns to disappointment. Herr Stinkend has a flat. I ask if he needs any help and he just shakes his head nein.
Relief.
At the finish line I wasn't excited or happy. I was just relieved that it was over. However I was curious as to how I finished in front of R2. R2 was the strongest of the American riders in our group. After the start I had taken off a little faster than him. However I fully expected him to pass me on one of the climbs but he never did. When he did finally make the finish line we finally learned why. He had been involved in two wrecks. One of them involved a Tico who walked in front of him as he was going 30 mph down one of the crazy descents. He was battered, bruised and delirious. R2 had actually broke his helmet in 3 places. A lesser man would have died that day. But Randaconda wasn't going to have any of that dying crap get in the way of him finishing La Ruta.
