Tour of the Battenkill Race Report – Part 2

Continuing where I left off in Part 1 of my Tour of the Battenkill race report, Joe Bean road kicked my ass and started my left leg cramping up.  My chase companions and I motored our way through the revised center section of the race, including two new (and freshly graded, thus sandy and loose) dirt climbs.  Our wheels spun when we stood to climb and we rolled through traction eating sand but we persevered.  Those few miles really took their toll as Helios's chariot climbed high into the sky and bright sunlight beat down upon us.  We were all feeling the heat, which was leaving our bottles empty, our skin singed and parched and our legs aching and cramping.

Dirt and punishment

Leaving the freshly graded dirt roads behind, but unable to leave the massive cramps in my legs behind, our little group began to fragment as we made our way up to the second feed zone.  Whoever thought putting a feed on a hillside was a good idea was a sadistic man, but I have to say the view was to die for.  Too bad I felt like actually dying for the view; I'm sure if you told any one of us that we could just climb off and catch a comfy SAG van full of electrolytes back to the finish, even if it placed a big fat DNF next to our name, we might have entertained the thought.  The miles and the vertical feet continued to pile up, shattering our group, leaving us each to our own devices and throwing us into our own personal survival hell.  Still I motored on, determined to finish or collapse (or die) trying.

A meeting with destiny

One of the biggest focal points of the Tour of Battenkill are the dirt roads, much like the northern classics of Europe. Consequently some of the most famous images from the Battenkill have come from the rolling climbs on the unpaved, packed dirt of Meeting House road.  As if we hadn't seen enough double digit grades during the first fifty miles of the race, Meeting House road threw a few more at us, this time accompanied by the aforementioned dirt.  By this point in the race, I'd suffered through cramps for twenty-ish miles, which had by now progressed from my calves all the way up into my glutes and my lower back, so this section of the race was an utterly brutal game of mental toughness and survival.

Summiting the final dirt crest of Meeting House road was more of an exercise in mind over matter (or more precisely, brain over body) than it was an athletic feat.  Every pedal stroke, every turn of the cranks was an exercise in agony, and pure grit was about all that managed to push me through the summit.  Every time I glanced down at my Garmin, I expected to see that ten miles had elapsed, but it was not to be.  Usually each glance heralded the passing of a quarter mile, or a half mile at most.  But steadily the distance passed, I ticked off a few more vertical feet with each turn of the cranks, and I slowly closed the gap to my goal.  I knew the route profile though, and I knew there was one final spike on that profile.  One final nail in the coffin, if you will…

One and only one final ascent stood in my way, and the volunteers didn't let me forget it.  "Five miles to go" was cheerfully announced by the volunteers stationed at the covered bridge just north of Buskirk and the road swept off to the left with an ominous sign announcing "dirt road" and "climb."  The final one mile ascent up Stage Road had begun.  Stepped, mostly packed with some gravel in the centerline and in the gutters, it was the final dusty reckoning before the straight shot to the finish line.

Setting the stage

With that one final ascent to tackle, I switched my Garmin elevation detail to 1/8 mile view.  I knew that if I kept looking down to see the climb continuing as steeply as Garmin makes it appear in the mile view, it would be too easy to talk myself into giving up.  I kept powering up each successive pitch, letting the weight of my body push the pedals, trying to rest my screeching legs as much as possible.  I focused on the green elevation profile on my stem, urging myself through each successive rise.  Finally, the top of the climb appeared on the screen, and as I snapped my gaze upwards toward the horizon, I watched the very last pitch of the race unfold before me.  I kicked it into overdrive and hammered for all I was worth, ignoring all the searing pain in my quads, stamping my own little slice of authority on the crest of the climb and setting the stage for the final act of this brutal play.

Finale

From the time I registered for the Battenkill, I told myself that I would be happy just to finish this event, being so difficult and so early in the season.  When I entertained the vague notion of packing it in around mile 40, I consoled myself with the notion that I made a promise:  I HAD to finish.  I hadn't come this far and suffered this much to give up with the end in spitting distance.  I HAD to cross that finish line, HAD to trip the timer with the chip on my helmet, HAD to roll through in front of the crowd, no matter where in the field I finished.  I thought in the back of my mind the hierarchy of race placement:  first>not first>DFL (Dead Fucking Last)>DNF (Did Not Finish)>DNS (Did Not Start).  I'd be damned if I was going to drop below the midline and be a DNF (and since I toed the line earlier that day I'd avoided a DNS, preventing any mocking from club mates.)

Thankfully, the last few miles of the race were flat, smooth pavement with a right quarter tailwind.  The 5K to go sign came and went.  I settled into a groove, tapping out a steady 22 mph rhythm like a metronome, watching the remaining tarmac slip away under my wheels.  4K flew by in what felt like seconds.  I dropped into a time trial position, forearms resting on the bar tops, hands and fingers interlaced in some twisted prayer in front of me.  I put my head down into the wind, gritted my teeth and upped the pace, willing my battered body to go faster.  In my mind I could hear the words of Jens Voigt replaying like a broken record.  "Shut up legs, do what I tell you."

3K…I could taste it.  27mph on the speedometer.  My bottles were empty, my legs were on the edge of detonation, but still I pushed harder, squeezing every last little ounce of power out of my tortured muscles.

2K.  I wanted this.  I needed this.  "Shut up legs!  Do what I fucking tell you!"  This time it wasn't a thought, so much as a seething snarl muttered through clenched teeth.  Time seemed to slow down, even though my legs were churning with angry desperation, begging my brain for mercy.

1K to go.

The banner unfolded in front of me, announcing the last kilometer to the finish line. I vaguely heard the cheers of the state troopers, sheriff deputies and volunteers as they blocked the traffic on Main Street and I powered across.  I leaned into the right hander at 500 meters to go, flogged the pedals and motored on towards the final curve, all seemingly in slow motion.  At 200 meters, I railed the last right hand bend, and jumped on the pedals to stomp out the last 150 meters, sprinting across the line amid a flurry of cheers from the crowd, the stretched rubber band of slowed time suddenly snapping when I heard the PA bark with my arrival.

Epilogue

I tripped the clock at 4:13, about an hour behind the winner of my field.  Unlike 25 percent of my field who either climbed off or had some kind of mechanical, I actually rolled across the line and tripped the stopwatch to finish.  I had at least accomplished my goal of finishing.  I also managed to beat my goal of not being DFL, seeing another rider from my field come crawling across the finish line a few minutes later.  Dazed from the effort, and wandering around the race expo at the finish, I heard plenty of comments about the sun, the heat, cramps, sunburn and how hard the race actually was.  I have to say that I agree wholeheartedly with that sentiment.  After I regained some semblance of my senses, my first post race destination was to the Battenkill Valley Creamery tent for a quart of their finest vintage of chocolate milk to begin my extensive recovery efforts (I should have headed for the nearest CVS for some aloe: I'm now the color of a boiled lobster.)

Post mortem you ask?  Without a doubt, Tour of the Battenkill lives up to its name as "America's toughest one day race" and "America's Queen of the Classics."  With 20/20 hindsight, I would have swallowed a bunch of salt tablets and stuffed my jersey pockets with more water bottles and less tools/tubes (running heavier Rubino Pros and butyl tubes may have been a weight penalty, but made for very puncture resistent running gear.)

Looking at my checklist for this race, I can proudly say I accomplished everything I had set out to do: Finish, don't finish DFL, don't get hurt and challenge myself to step outside my comfort zone and try something far above my ability at the time. Even though I spent the last half of the race in an interminable sufferfest, it was enticing enough that I'll be back next year to better my time and hopefully finish a little higher in my field.  You can count on that.

Anyone have their own Battenkill experience to share?  Leave a comment and let me know.