11% Can Seem Flat

After I broke my elbow in April, I was determined to come back and complete the Death Ride. I began training again as soon as I got clearance from my doctor.

My first ride out was fairly short. I felt unsettled and unbalanced on the bike and completely vulnerable to cars, shoddy pavement, unseen road hazards – anything that might make me fall down and hurt myself again. My arm did not fully extend and downhills felt faster than they were; I didn't feel in control at first, but got better acclimated as the ride continued. I was pleased that I could still climb, but knew I'd lost some stamina and endurance in the 7 weeks I was off the bike.

The next week was one of my favorite loops up on King Ridge Road outside Cazadero. I had decided that I wasn't going to let my accident get in the way of my usual descent speed. I wasn't going to give in to fear. I did great up until around mile 60 when I rounded a corner and a fox ran out in front of me. I saw no way to avoid it. Coming to a screeching halt, I skidded and went down. Knocked out, I lay on the pavement until someone came along. I don't know how long that was, but was fortunate that a first responder on his way back from fishing was the first to find me.

I was placed on a backboard and bussed to the hospital to check my brain for concussion or bleeding. All clear, including my elbow, which I had banged pretty well. My biggest injury was from the face plant I did on the pavement, skinning my nose and upper lip. Very attractive. So, sporting a new Hitler mustache style scab, I ventured forth into the world and went shopping for my second helmet in 8 weeks. Hopefully the next one would get more than 120 miles on it.

Not letting a small brain injury (was relieved that the cat scan revealed that there actually is one in there) stand in the way of misery, I joined the team for one of the penultimate sufferfest rides of the season – our Monte Rio ride. I missed this ride last year but heard the horror stories.

It starts out fun and fast. We leave Monte Rio at the crack of the crack and head east on River Road. Turning up Westside Road, we travel the western side of Dry Creek Valley. The vineyards are just leafing out, holding their secret promise of voluptuous zinfandel bunches close to the vest, fruit set but still tiny and green under the canopy. A long way to the glass and anything can go wrong between this ride and then. I love the rollers on West Dry Creek Road, but it's easy to put out too much too early when major climbs and 100 miles still loom. Discipline is key and I'm wondering if I'm doing enough.

Dry Creek Valley is a long foreplay to the base of Stewarts Point-Skaggs Spring Road. It's a long time to anticipate the horror of the never ending exposed climb. The heat – did we leave early enough? We have SAG support so water isn't an issue. But the heat...

Not having done more than 60 miles in over 8 weeks, I'm wondering how my body and mind will do on this 100+ mile ride with 10,000 feet of climbing. I knew it was going to suck but that I could do it as long as I stayed ahead of the bonk. It did and I did.

The climbing sucked, for sure. What surprised me, though, was the nagging fear I had at the summit. I could look way down across the valley and see the road peek in and out of the golden hills. I had to get down there. If the first crash didn't play with my head, the second one surely did. At any moment, a fox/deer/dog/turkey could run out in front of me and take me down. I could miss dodging a hole or gravel patch and go down. The curve could be steeper than I estimated and I could go down. So much treachery! No matter that I've ridden thousands of miles since I started distance cycling and only once did I encounter wildlife. Really. What are the odds?

Finally, after more downs and ups, we reach the SAG in the shade near the road to Annapolis. I fortify myself as best I can because we will be climbing a 2 mile wall called Rancheria Road. It sucks. I knew it would be bad based upon how much I enjoyed descending it the week before. One switchback, if you were to take the inside track, is about 30%.

Another voice in my head tells me I can't climb too closely behind someone. If a car passes, I'm afraid I'll lose it and fall over. I'm behind Tony on a straight patch and I hear a car approaching. Must-be-in-the-clear. Must-have-an-out. So I turn on everything I have and pass Tony. My quads are now on fire and completely spent. A few yards up the road, I stop. This, it turns out, is a bad idea. I can't get back on the bike. The road is too steep for me to balance, spin the pedal and clip in. I trudge to a wider spot in the road to try again. Tony pulls over and we rest for a minute or four. We really hadn't ridden together much, so it was a nice break.

At last, I'm back on the bike for the final push. A small celebration at the top and then a really fun descent to the coast. Of course, Fort Ross Road is still out there.

The only, I mean ONLY, redeeming quality of Fort Ross Road is that it is shaded. It's steep, narrow, strewn with potholes and root humps and about 4 miles of 15% + grades. It sucks. No. It fucking sucks. And then? When you finally pull into the clear and start your descent back to Cazadero Road? Yeah. There's still more climbing there. I do not like Fort Ross Road, Sam I Am. I could whine here for hours about Fort Ross Road. Is it worse than Jamison Creek? Yes. Is it worse than Sierra Road? Toss up.

At last, we return to the cars. Most of the team is waiting to cheer us in, the Lantern Rouge. We commiserate at Stumptown Brewery. It is there that I discover I drove the 4 miles along River Road with my house keys on the roof of my car. Lucky!