Tjalling Ypma - 9/9/07

My ambitions for the day were modest: get to the top in time to see Ned Overend crack the 1:20 barrier. In fact I had not intended to sign up at all, balking at the $60 late entry fee, but when I heard that Deadly Nedly was putting in an appearance there was no way I could not be there to see this legendary hard man of the mountains take on our local studs and our test piece: the 4300 foot climb over 24.5 miles from Glacier to Artist’s Point. It wouldn’t even matter if I didn’t make it to the top before Ned; as my friend Steve said, it would be an honor to be passed by the fastest 50-year-old on the face of the planet.

There were four of us in the carpool that chilly morning. Lisa was a first-timer, doing the Summit Ride; Steve and I were in the Rec division, and Ryan was in the Competitive group. If I had strictly adhered to the guidelines I would have raced in the competitive division, since I expected to finish in less than two hours, but that would have defeated the purpose of watching the records fall at the top. I felt only marginally guilty of sand-bagging since I have probably ridden my road bike less than 500 miles this year and my finish times in the last three years, after much more training, have all been around 1:55.

The morning sun was just popping over the ridge when the Summit Riders set off at 7:35. Warm sunshine flooded the road, making it easier to shed clothing in preparation for our own 8 a.m. start. We got the mandatory ‘fun and safe’ speech and were then herded down the road to the actual start line. I pushed my way in about ten rows back, somewhere amongst the first hundred riders, Charlie gave us the countdown, and with the usual clicking of cleats and weaving of bikes the pack of around 370 riders hit the road.

That first mile was quite dangerous, with bright sunshine directly in our eyes making it hard to see anything more than the wheel immediately ahead. I steered clear of trouble by riding in the left lane. Surprisingly few riders exploited that option, though there really was no rapid acceleration off the start line that required anybody to stay in the thick of the pack to avoid being dropped. I used the first moderate climb as a welcome warm-up, spinning easily alongside the pack and watching the police motorbike just ahead take the leaders over the Nooksack bridge. The peloton fractured on the gentle climb beyond the river, where I merged with the pack; when I glanced behind as we topped out I could see that a good gap had developed. I was in the rear of a lead group of about 75, while the absence of the police moto told me that a smaller group had probably gone off the front and was on its way to glory. Though the pace of the group I was in seemed very modest I was in no mood for heroics and strongly disinclined to do any pulling; I was quite happy to patrol the rear, conserve energy and generally stay out of trouble.

While I was too far from the front to see what was going on up there, I got the sense that with the escape artists having gone up the road nobody in my group was in much of a hurry or interested in working very hard; we stayed bunched together. The dangers of this became evident when the loud cry “Slowing !” went up and the riders ahead of me went ducking and weaving all over the road to avoid some disturbance in their midst. Nobody hit the deck, but I could smell burning rubber from hastily applied brakes as we passed the scene. The same thing happened one more time, causing those of us at the back to roll our eyes at one another; clearly some inexperienced riders in this pack would have to be dropped soon. Steve later said that he might have been responsible for one of these near-disasters when he dropped a chain, invoking the ire of the roadies near him who ascribed his resulting instability to the notoriously squirrelly bike handling of triathletes: “ Hold your line, tri guy! ” was the angry call I heard from way back in the pack.

Other than the stress of keeping out of trouble, made a bit more difficult by a few short stretches in which we were riding directly into the blinding sun, the ride to the base of Powerhouse Hill was little more than a gentle cruise. It was here that the granny gears finally came into play and the major selection of the ride took place. I just dropped down through the gears and spun up at my usual unhurried pace, which was enough to get me past a long succession of riders whose heavy breathing mostly told me that they were trying to ride beyond their league and were not going to last at that pace. I didn’t put in any particular effort but as we neared the top I saw that another large gap had opened behind me and we were now down to about two dozen riders in the front. I was a little behind the spread-out line as we crested, and inadvertently allowed a gap to open ahead of me, but a mile or so of low-effort time-trialing while tucked into my aerobars was enough to bring me back into the draft of the pack. I enjoyed several more miles of effortless wheel-sucking as we continued our seemingly leisurely progress towards the base of the real climb, passing a few of the Summit Riders as we cruised along in two or three weaving parallel lines. I have no idea who was doing the work at the front, or how organized that effort was, but I greatly appreciated the free ride I was getting.

You could almost feel the tension in the pack rise as we crossed the Nooksack again, passed the campground, and the road started heading up. “ Here we go ! ” came the call, the gears were shifted down and we commenced the climb, once again headed directly into the sun. Since I could hardly see anything I just made my way around any wheel I happened to find in front of me, and by the time we got back into the shade of the trees I found that yet another selection had been made: we were down to about a dozen riders pulling steadily away from the shattered remnants of the pack. I was still just spinning along with minimal effort, but all the steep climbing on the mountain bike I have been doing this year made the ride up this moderate gradient on a smoothly paved road, with skinny tires on a lightweight bike, seem very easy. I was mildly annoyed by a loud creak which seemed to come from my bottom bracket as I turned the cranks, making progress irritatingly noisy, but fortunately that did not affect the actual performance of the bike.

Once on the serious part of the climb it was mostly every man for himself, and since I had no real ambitions I just motored along at a comfortable pace as the riders spread apart. I passed a couple of guys, had a brief conversation with a fellow wearing a TransRockies jersey, and was pleasantly surprised when the 10km to go sign suddenly appeared. I had a look at my watch and saw that breaking 1:50 seemed very possible. That provided a little incentive and I got into slightly more serious mode, targeting a fellow in yellow who was working quite hard and cutting all the corners ahead of me. I passed him as we hit the 5km to go sign, where another glance at my watch suggested that 1:45 might be on the cards. I used the flat road beside Picture Lake to swallow the last of my gatorade and braced myself to attack those last ever-steepening miles.

Those final miles are undoubtedly scenic, but I had tunnel vision by then and all I could see was the road. I did know that conditions were perfect: no wind, clear blue skies, and pleasantly cool. The kilometer signs slipped by, aided by the few scattered, loudly encouraging spectators, and then the 1km sign and that final long switchback appeared, basking in the sun. The girls with the cowbells made it seem real and it was time to pour it on if you still had it. I gave it what I could, beginning to fade as we hit the 200m to go sign with the finish tantalizingly hidden behind the corner and its snow bank, and then the gradient leveled out and I was across the line with the clock reading just under 1:46.

It was a gorgeous day on the top, and for once I had sent up enough clothing to feel totally comfortable and enjoy that magnificent setting despite the sweat saturating my bike shirt. Having dressed and fed I wandered back down the road to where I could see that last switchback, to witness history being made as the pro’s crushed the time barriers. It was clearly going to be a close thing, but those guys put on an awesome show with an incredible burst of speed up the last climb; in the end four of them went under 1:20 with Ned the Lung surprisingly only taking second place behind (yes) a triathlete. I got double value when I also saw the lead woman coming up with a good chance of breaking 1:30. I recognized the formidably tough Canadian-Israeli Leah Goldstein, formerly world kick-boxing champion and now a road-racing professional, who was totally burying herself as she stormed to the finish and made it with two seconds to spare to collect her $4000 for breaking the barrier. It was a great culmination to a wonderful day to ride the mountain.

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