Epic: TransRockies Day 6

Matt (between gasps):  “Rumon, you hear that?”

Rumon (equally outta breath):  “Uh-huh.  What do you think it’s doing?”

Matt (solemnly): “It’s probably medivac-ing someone else down in the valley.”

The ‘thwack-thwack’ of the helicopter overhead punctuated the fact that things had gone seriously bad during Stage 6 of the TransRockies Challenge, and we were only two hours into what turned out to be six of the most dangerous hours I’ve ever spent on a bike.

The storms that poured through at the end of Stage 5 left new snow on the high peaks above camp, and we all went to bed with an uneasy feeling about what lay ahead for Stage 6, knowing full well that the ride would take us up high, into the alpine and cold.  Our fears were realized when we woke to cold and drizzle reminiscent of Vancouver in February.  The hot topic of the morning was what to wear;  do we continue with our ‘light and fast’ philosophy or do we gear up, putting on extra layers that would not only weigh us down, but also risk overheating on the 7400 ft of climbing we would do this day.  We all decided that a compromise was the best bet, but in hindsight, I’d have taken every damn stitch of clothing I could get my hands on.

Stage 6: The 'Queen Stage.' 72 km long, 2300m of climbing, and very, very exposed.

Stage 6 was supposed to be the ‘Queen Stage’ of the TRC, showcasing some of the most beautiful, exposed singletrack in the Canadian Rockies.  What it ended up being for some was a very real fight for survival.  By the time we had reached Check Point 1, 20 km into the ride, I was already cold and soaked to the bone.  The constant rain, winds, and single-digit temperatures had dropped my core temperature to the point that I was actually looking forward to the big climb to the top of Jumping Pound Ridge.  Thoughts of bailing at CP1 had certainly crossed my mind, but in finding a spare garbage bag cum rain poncho, I rationalized that I could warm up on the climb, speed across the exposed ridge, and get back to the relative warmth (5 degrees C) of the valley bottom.  Rumon had the brains to bring a rain shell, so he was marginally warmer, but we both shared that we had not felt our fingers in the last hour.  Better get warm – up we went.

Little did we know that the race officials closed the ascent soon after we started going up, shuttling riders in vehicles to CP2, thus avoiding the dangerous section that we were now climbing into.  Struggling up the trail in our smallest gear, we climbed in silence, unable to speak save for grunts of effort to ride up this trail-turned-streambed and shouted expletives as we repeatedly slipped and crashed on the slick boulders.  Emerging from the forest after an hour and a half of climbing, we were exposed to the full force of the storm, no longer shielded by the thick stand of pine.  It was two degrees, the rain was now sleet, whipped by 50 km/h winds, and the visibility was down to about 40m.  I’ve been climbing mountains all over the world for the past 25 years and every instinct in me was saying ‘Go down.  Now.’  Yet, up, over and along we went, driven by what I guess must have been will.  All I could hear was the snapping of my garbage bag as the howling wind repeatedly tried to snatch it off my body and carry it into British Columbia.  We were no longer racing the TransRockies, we were riding for our lives, truly and metaphorically.  In the 30+ minutes we spent riding across the storm-raked ridge, Rumon and I traded comments only twice.  Once when I implored him “We’ve gotta pick it up” (not wanting to tell him that I was shaking uncontrollably – the first sign of hypothermia) and then later, when my partner rode up beside me, looked me squarely in the eyes, and told me “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, brother.

Two degrees, 50 km/h winds, and blowing sleet. Less than optimal conditions.

A few weeks ago, during a training ride, Rumon asked me to recall some of the most memorable experiences I’ve had climbing mountains.  I remember telling him that, although not enjoyable by any stretch, the most salient memories I’ve had have been when things have gone wrong and I’ve been thrust into a situation where my very survival depends on my choices and actions.  In climbing vernacular, we call these ‘Epics.’  What we did on Stage 6 certainly fits that bill.  We may not have been connected by a rope, but our reliance on the skill and judgement of each other was paramount to our getting back to the valley safely, let alone finishing the stage.  I’ve always said that you never feel more alive than when risk thrusts you to the ‘edge’ and allows you to peer into the darkness.  Both Rumon and I felt very, very alive up there.

Our descent from the ridge would normally have been filled with whoops of excitement and fun, but with hands that had long since stopped functioning properly, we bombed the steep, slick 700m drop like two out-of-control kamikazes, repeatedly pushing the limits of both ourselves and the bikes in a desperate run to get down and get warm.  To spice up our hereto mundane Sunday ride, Betty (my steed) decided to blow her front brake seal, seize up my left shifter, and pop a rear brake pad, giving me the pleasure of finishing the stage with only a metal-on-metal rear brake, no front brake, and about 4 of my 27 gears.  Suffice to say, that Betty and I were no longer on speaking terms.

Once back on the valley floor, things changed dramatically.  Although only a couple of thousand feet lower, the relative protection of the forested trail brought renewed energy and a sense of determination bolstered by what we had just survived up high.  Despite the lingering cold and revolting bikes, we rolled into CP2 with none of the uncertainty felt at the previous Check Point.  Intending to simply ‘gas and go,’ we got off the bikes to begin the standard routine, but became quickly aware that others were not of the same state of mind.  A large sheltered tent had been hastily erected and a portable gas furnace, resembling a mini jet turbine, had been turned on and was blasting hot air into the tent.  Never ones to turn down an excuse to get out of the rain, Hurricane and I ducked into the tent for a quick warm and chat with the lads, but once inside, we witnessed the toll of the ridge climb on some of the other riders.

I’ve often complained how I’m too big to be an effective climber, but today I was very happy to be carrying that extra weight.  Small, lithe climbers who we often saw only at the start of each stage as they climbed out of view, were sitting and standing in the tent with ashen faces and blank stares reminiscent of ‘survivor’ photos.  Some were fully undressed and wrapped in dry blankets in an attempt to warm their cores while waiting to be loaded into a vehicle and transported to shelter, while others stood shivering in their soaked, muddy clothing.  These poor bastards were either done, or were mustering the will to finish the final 20km of what was obviously going to be their own personal hell.  Needless to say, we didn’t linger long.  Slogging along in the rain, eating the mud from Hurricane’s rear tire was far more appealing than staying here.

About 30 minutes into the final stretch, the Coke, chips, and gummy bears that Rumon forced down my gullet at CP2 finally kicked in and for the first time that day, I felt strength in my legs.  I had shamelessly let the Hurricane drag me along for the previous 7km, so when I pulled alongside him on some high-speed doubletrack, the simple glance we exchanged spoke volumes – “Let’s crank it up,” and for the first time that day we started to have fun. Almost too much.  The double track began winding down the mountainside, allowing us to hit speeds approaching 60km/h, and when I lost control around a greasy, sweeping corner, Betty’s rear end cut loose, whipping back and forth like the tail of a 3 yr old Retriever.  Feet off pedals, legs fully splayed, I held on for dear life and looked for the softest place off-trail where Rumon would stabilize my soon-to-be fractured pelvis.  For the second time this day, my fat-boy status may have saved my ass.  Two hundred and thirty pounds of meat and metal hurtling down a fall line at high speed have a fortunate physical property – momentum.  By keeping Betty’s front wheel pointed where I wanted to go, I was somehow able to keep the rubber side down and with a few more windmilling legs, I was able to straighten Betty out and clip my feet back in.  Once back in control, I hastily glanced back at Rumon with one of those giddy “Did you just see that?!?!?!” looks.  All I saw was his toothy grin busting out of a mud-caked face and a head shaking side to side in disbelief.

Adrenaline has a wonderful effect of increasing performance, so after this last pant-filling near-crash, the reigns were off and we both wound things up.  Rumon, who had been battling some sort of stomach bug all morning (repeated warnings to not ride too close behind him illustrated the severity of his malady) seemed to have kicked the bug, so between the two of us, we were able to effectively time-trial the final 15km like we had been training to do for the last 4 months, scaring the hell out of a few teams who didn’t hear us coming, and for those who tried to hold on, it was immensely satisfying to watch them fall off the back of the Purple Train.

Crossing the finish line felt like popping the valve on a pressure cooker.  The relief of finishing safely and shedding our shared burden was overwhelming.  Bikes were dropped into the soggy grass as Rumon and I wept in embrace, awash in the wave of relief that crashed over both of us.  I have only felt that emotional overload one other time in my life, after spending 18 storm-bound days climbing to the summit of Mt Logan, Canada’s highest peak.  If there was any chance that it wasn’t already so, the TransRockies was no longer a race for me.  Standing there, surrounded by many yet completely alone, I felt the will and strength of all those who have helped me get there.  As my partner had reminded me three days earlier, when I went to my dark place, we were there riding for all those that couldn’t be.  Today we finished on their backs.