By Scotty Mac
“Hey guys, think about getting off the bike for this next
section! A lot of riders have fallen here!” a well-meaning race course
volunteer belted out as I rode by. I watched one of my fellow Ascent Cycling
team mates, Marcus, drop in on his bike and I thought to myself ‘how much worse
could it possibly be than what I’ve gone through already?’ I followed his line…
Hold that thought. Let me spin things back to the
traditional shotgun blast that started the 2015 Original Half-Growler in
Gunnison, Colorado at 9:00 a.m. on May 23rd and- actually, let me
spin it back even further, to about 7 hours before that.
That was about when the rain started to hammer my tent.
Hard. Rachel and I woke up, but blessedly, the kids stayed asleep. The rain
turned to hail, the lightning flashed and the thunder boomed right behind it.
Ma Nature, in all her petulant fury, held that storm over the Gunnison KOA
campground for what felt like an age: Flash-boom, flash-BOOM, with a menacing,
latent rumble that must have crashed and echoed in a boomerang shape from
Crested Butte to Monarch Mountain. Already wound up with pre-race jitters, I
didn’t really sleep much after that.
The jitters were eating me up. I had blown my first race of
the season, DNFing at the Ridgeline Rampage endurance race in Castle Rock a
month before the Growler, and I had put in a massive effort after the race to
mentally rebound and fine tune a couple things with my nutrition and fitness.
Despite assurances from my riding buddies that I was ready, everything was static.
The only thing that mattered was completing the race. I had to roll over that
finish line, head high, to erase the bad taste in my mouth from the April
event.
So that was my mindset, and it’s critical to the rest of
this tale: I had to finish. Everything blurred together from there- prepping my
bike, eating, climbing into my kit, hugs from my family and all of us A.C.ers
pedaling to the race start in downtown Gunnison. I know it happened, but it all
ran together, like a sidewalk chalk painting hit by a hose.
Then the gun went off.
350 racers shuffled out of the chute gate and onto the road
to start the rollout to the dirt, a dozen or so of us wearing the Ascent red
(or purple. Or orange. Or green. Give
it up, Scotty. ~Ed.) white and black. I caught sight of Clay just ahead of
me and caught onto his rear wheel, ensuring I’d take care of Scotty Mac’s
Half-Growler Goal (SMHGG for short. Not to be confused with ‘Shaking My Head
Good God’) #1 of 4: stay in the draft all the way to the dirt and avoid having
to expend a bunch of energy before my test truly began.
The road tilted upward to the Hartman Rocks trail network
and I sat up, letting Clay go. I settled into a pace I knew I could sustain
when I turned right onto the dirt for the run in to Kill Hill. There was a
slight problem with that plan, though; the dirt was gone. Vanished.
Remember that thing about the rain storm? I guess I hadn’t,
or maybe I naively hoped it hadn’t been that
bad. It was that bad. In place of the vanished dirt was slippery, slimy
mud; mud that oozed with an iridescent malevolence, mud that yanked hard on my
drive to see this thing through. I had a split second to panic and then I was
in the slop, pedaling like mad to stay upright, my bike’s rear tire canted
off-center, hunting for grip. The race group dodged this way and that,
searching in vain for a hard-packed line. Tom went by and I saw Lane working
his way back to the left hand side of the fire road in preparation for what
came next.
So, Kill Hill. Kill Hill is a punch in the mouth. It goes up
at such a violent angle that it almost looks like you’re trying to ride up a
wall. Add some mud to the equation and it’s a wonder that nobody turned around
right then and there. I stayed hard-left on the road, Lane right behind and Tom
and Clay a little ways ahead, and grimly set to the task of climbing that muddy
monster. I rapidly clicked up through the gears on my Kona Big Kahuna hardtail,
settling with an inevitable thud on my 1x11 setup’s granny gear. My legs felt
good, but at that point it was all about luck. If anyone stopped in front of
me, there was no way I could adjust my line in that much and I would be forced
to walk the rest of the climb. People were losing momentum around me, hopping
off their bikes and pushing for the top on foot. I watched a rider slipping
back with every step forward and hoped as hard as I could for a clean summit.
The train of riders on the left line held true. I saw the
end of the climb, grey sky replacing mud, and then I was over the top,
spectators cheering us on, cowbells clanging. I allowed myself a moment of
elation, realizing SMHGG #2 of 4: ride all of Kill Hill for the first time ever
without having to get off the bike and walk.
Somehow we’re over 900 words into this story and I’ve only
gotten us to the 5-mile mark of a 40-mile race. Get the feeling that the 2015
Half-Growler has the making of a full-blown, Scotty Mac, multi-part, epic race
report? Thought so. Stay tuned for more!
Mac out.
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