Altitude Camp

I've never before seen a sign with this large a grade listed on it!

A few weeks have elapsed, with two big events to catalogue. Only I won’t, simply because the first, while epic and huge in its own right, doesn’t hold a candle to the second.

That first ride, a large peninsula adventure taking in Big Basin and the Santa Cruz mountains, was fun and challenging as always. You’ve heard it all before. In summary: Warm-up, climb, climb, descend, rest, leg pain, climb, redwood trees, climb, descend, coast headwinds, leg pain, climb, leg pain, leg pain, butt pain, climb, descend. I’ll include the Strava link at the end of this blog entry for the curious.

Rather than dwell on the detailed, myriad ways that time blurred into a dull fog of generalized pain on that first ride, I’ll cut straight to the real treat of the last few weeks: Altitude Camp!

Altitude camp prep. I travel light!

Altitude Camp was a weekend spent camping and riding in the Sierras. It was presented as a “fun” time: the goal being to ride the entirety of the Death Ride route, over the course of three days. In between there would be camping, relaxing and general camaraderie. We were told “You will learn a few things”. Personally, I was expecting an education covering the course itself, riding at altitude, and strategies for surviving insect swarms by day and bear attacks by night.

The names of the passes we would ride have haunted my mind for months: Monitor, Ebbetts, Carson. I was eager and scared to see the reality.

Evidence of nearby Liquid Courage(tm)

I arrived at camp on Friday, just missing the first day of riding on Monitor Pass. This was somewhat intentional, as I wasn’t really in a rush to throw myself at the mountain. I knew I could use the extra time to adapt to the altitude, check my bike, and learn from my teammates what conditions were like. It was a palatable excuse, taking a few critical extra hours in which to conserve my strength and gather my courage. Plus I knew that I could find the universal salve at camp: booze. Enough liquid courage and I wouldn’t need to know about the challenges I faced on that first pass!

As we drove the last miles we cruised slowly past teammates that had actually had the courage to get there early and ride Monitor Pass. We passed them on their way back to camp, at first just a few stragglers, then small, shaking clusters, huddled for courage. All shared haunted, wild eyes, frothing mouths, ashen skin: the shell-shocked refugees of some unseen apocalypse. My mind numbly took in the scene. I had to do something to help! I shifted my iced lemonade from one hand to the other, rolled down the window and took an awful inferno-blast of heated air straight to the face as I shouted, “Keep going! You’re looking great!” I even gave them a smile.

Bugs! Why did it have to be Bugs?!?

Slowly, mechanically, heads swiveled to glare. Emotions flickered and lit across faces. I recognized bewilderment. Anguish. Disbelief. Wait, was that anger on her face? Hatred on his? Then, like a wildfire, that seething emotion lit and spread through the group as they found a target for their misery. Quickly, I rolled up the window. “Get us out of here!” I urgently hissed, "They've got bikes!"

The driver gunned it. Liquid Courage couldn’t arrive soon enough.

Camp was quickly raised, a tent city of cars, canvas and bicycles. Large bear lockers were present in every campsite. I’d never seen bear lockers before. They’re strong metal boxes cemented to the ground that bears cannot open. They’re big enough to store all your food. Also, I noticed, they’re big enough to store one person in a pinch.

That night I tossed and turned in my tent, spooked by every strange sound. Was a branch going to fall out of the trees and crash into my tent? What was that shuffling sound? A snore? No, perhaps it was one of the bears! I mentally rehearsed plans. I could dive for the bear locker, get myself inside, that would be safe. Then I remembered – I only had to be faster than the other people in camp. Which way would the bears come from? Would they try for my tent first? What if I heard them somewhere else? Augh! What was that crack of wood? Was somebody out there? What was that rattle on the bear locker? Is one trying to open it? There are crazy people in the hills, right? What if they come into the camps? Do bears travel in herds? Maybe one of the crazy people trained the bears and was bringing a whole herd to our camp? On and on my mind spun through the night.

I approach the Ebbetts climb...

The next morning, having skipped Monitor and carefully avoiding personal interactions with anyone I might’ve passed in the car, I took my first ride on Ebbetts pass. It’s an incredibly scenic mountain pass, climbing up a road that quickly shrinks to be slightly more than a lane wide. There’s a fine section with a sheer cliff rising on one side and plummeting down the other. It was quite a challenge and really pretty fundamentally unsafe given my state of mind. Honestly, the whole day probably would’ve gone better if I’d gotten any real sleep the night before. Thinking about the wild man of the woods and his trained attack bears isn’t really a good way to prep for a big ride!

Nonetheless, the day went better than I had expected after a season of whispered legends. The altitude was hard, but after twenty miles I rapidly learned to scale back my effort to account for the thinner air. The most difficult issue was that nearly all of the ride involved climbing or descending. These are two activities that separate out riders – and that’s exactly what happened. Our group fragmented by ability, and I ended up riding most of the return route alone. That’s more challenging and honestly not as much fun as riding with the group as we’ve done the rest of the season.

Dinnertime at Camp

Back at camp in the evening, there was a huge open bar, a campfire, and a long strategy session. Our Head Coach went over how to handle ourselves at each rest stop, how to shave minutes, and very importantly when to leave people behind to insure that we could finish the route in time. This is the big challenge. All of us there could ride the hills, given enough time. But we have to do it in one day. There is so little time for error in actually completing the course that every strategy of conserving effort or helping teammates must be weighed against the movement of the Sun.

That night, I laid in my tent, too tired to worry about the bears, too wound up with strategy discussions to sleep. So I pulled out the earplugs, swallowed my emergency Tylenol PM, and plunged into a deep, dreamless void.

There's lots of scenery like this on the ride!

The next morning we broke camp, packed the cars and then rode the last pass: Carson. This is also the last pass done during the Death Ride event. It’s a long, slow grind to the top, about 15 miles of slow climbing with a real bit of elevation at the end. There’s nothing remarkable about it except for the ongoing psychological trauma of it simply not ending. On the descent back down, I exceeded 50 mph, but of course my bike sensor gave out at about 47 mph. I had one of the scariest experiences of my life when a large tractor/trailer rig passed me doing just about 3 mph faster than me – about a foot off my shoulder. There was no place for me to go, no way to get further off the road – and the draft of the trailer did its best to pull me off the bike and under the wheels. The seconds it crawled past me were some of the longest of my life! Fortunately, I made it down the hill safely back to the cars, and feeling absolutely sick I headed home directly thereafter.

Post-Ride Recovery food. The only meal that could save me.

I learned quite a bit from Altitude Camp, and not just about bears and tractor-trailers. First, physical exertion at altitude is harder. That’s a no-brainer, right? Well, maybe so, but it was dramatic to see what it did to my heart rate and perceived exertion. Normally I know that I can keep my heart rate at about 150 bpm and maximize my effort over time. At 6000’, I had the same perceived level of exertion at 140 bpm, any faster and I was quickly tiring out. I could actually feel that reduce further as I climbed, by the time I was crossing the 8000’ mark, it was in the low 130’s. Anything above that would just make me wind out and it was difficult to recover.

In net, I had to go slower.

Top of Ebbetts!

My second piece of learning was all about dehydration. I became very dehydrated, especially on the last day when I rode Carson. Altitude sucks the water out of you during days two through five of adapting to it, because your body thickens the blood in order to carry more oxygen. It does this quickly by eliminating water. So on your first day up, you’re still reasonably hydrated. After that, you have to make a special effort to drink extra, just to stay even! Also, add to this physical exertion. Because you’re breathing more to get the oxygen you need, you’re pushing more water out of your body on every breath.

And the top of Carson!

This combination can be deadly. Normally when I get dehydrated the first thing I notice is a headache coming on. However, while on these big rides I’m usually on some type of painkiller, plus I’ve got so many other things on which to focus my attention that a headache is lost in the noise. It’s all too easy for dehydration to become really bad before I even notice it. Altitude, heat, exertion – it’s a recipe for quickly becoming lightheaded, disoriented and incapacitated.

Third, we rode big chunks of the actual Death Ride course. This was extremely important because we saw exactly what we’re up against. We saw the areas of the course that are dangerous. We discussed strategy for rest stops, for maximizing our time on the bike and minimizing down time. Knowing where to spend energy, where to conserve, when to get in a pace-line, when to let others fall back, where to regroup – these are the strategies that spell the difference between success and failure.

The final piece of learning? Three days is entirely enough to summit all the Death Ride passes and still be able to walk, form coherent sentences, and take care of personal bodily functions without assistance.

Doing all the passes in a single day? Madness.

The earlier in the day, the more pictures I took.

But there is hope! Altitude Camp provided a huge psychological edge, and I need every psychological advantage I can muster to finish the Death Ride successfully. We have fought fire with fire in the method of the intense training I’ve done. Training has built my strength and taught me how to manage my energy throughout a long endurance event. The hills on which I’ve trained have been steeper, granting an important mental edge to those I face on event day. The rides have grown nearly as long, the total climbing nearly as great. And finally, by riding the actual passes at altitude, I’ve discovered that not only are they surmountable but I’ve discovered a dangerous new threat from dehydration. A known threat can be managed.

And now? Now it’s nearly time. All these months of intense training have come to their penultimate moment: the single largest ride of my life is this Saturday in Marin County. After that, a two week taper, then the main event. 16 days to go! Hang on to your hats all, we’re nearly there!

The TNT Death Ride Team. GO TEAM!