By our very own Mark Murphy 
      The real truth of 24 Hour Mountain Bike Racing

                    Racing Thoughts

	Excited, nervous, exuberant, frightened… all feelings and moments.  Four months of anticipation and weak preparation culminates here.  Standing and hopping around in wet grass sometime after midnight on the side of a West Virginia mountain, anticipating what is ahead, has a way of playing tricks on the mind and the body.  It has a way of making the mind race.  That and the 2 bowls of pasta, an energy bar, the fruit smoothie (what was I thinking?), the hits of Albuteral, and the Amp I just slugged.  So I start hopping.  A boxer’s hop, back and forth, where the heels elevate and the toes occasionally leave the ground.  It looks pretty damn stupid, but at this point I truly do not care.  I look pretty damn stupid… tights and this crazy Italian roadie jacket I picked up in the mid-90s.  I’m a little warmer now, and that coupled with the distraction of hopping is providing some mental relief.  I have been waiting for too long.

	“What time is it”  
        “Where the hell is he?”
	
I glance over at the real endurance hero of the bunch.  The one who drives anticipation, excitement, and anxiety to the start.  The one who drags blood, sweat, mud, relief, and stories back.  She says nothing.  Instead of hopping, she stands like a statue without a neck.  The type of stand that aims to cover all exposed skin.  She stares ahead.  The racers pass, but she does not flinch.  The dog paces, and the leash is loose, then tight, and still no flinch.  She is weary.  Listening to our anxiety manifest itself through questions and impatient thoughts has become monotonous.  She is asleep.   
	
“Damn, was that thunder?” 
	
Her stare is broken as we look out over the black horizon.  The rumble rolls and snakes across the valley and slowly dies as it makes its way up the mountainside.  A faint light in the distance flickers in and out.  Anxiety increases and hopping continues.
	“I can’t believe I have to piss again!”
	
Yeah, that just came out of my mouth.  Things are far more acceptable here…even when standing next to a beautiful woman you barely know.  Nearly total disregard for socially acceptable behavior is the norm.  Blowing your nose on the ground.  Wiping the excess on your tights.  Berps and farts.  All acceptable.

It will consume at least a couple of minutes to run to the rotten plastic cage.  What if he comes barreling in?  No, I am not going to be late for another hand-off ever again.  There are some trees to my right.  They’re in the shadows.  What the hell, there are only 15 or 20 people standing around and I don’t know any of them.  It’s ok to let loose 10 feet away from them… right?  I really don’t care.
	
Trying to piss in the cold with two layers of lycra and various layers tucked into various layers is interesting, and most often results in the inevitable.  You never get it all out, especially when you are nervous and standing in the middle of a midnight party.  The worst is when you actually get riding and the piss on one of your inner thighs exacerbates the chill of the wind.

The lightning, the thunder, the fog… all intensifying at this point.  Lightning and a chill in the air is contrary to logic.
	I think I see him through the maze fencing.  No, just another Trek and I go through the butterfly feeling yet again, each time becoming more restless.  Twenty-five minutes, and still no sign.  The thoughts turn ugly.  Why didn’t we use the radios?  We brought the things.  Two years in a row, and we still don’t use them.  Why didn’t I wait to take my inhaler?  Hell, he could be out there with broken body, bike, and spirit.  Didn’t Jamie’s lights give out?  That’s a stupid thought.  No one else is coming in without lights.  Maybe it’s not so stupid after all… here he comes.  Flying through the fencing and dodging the posts… No lights!
	
“See ya”
	
She stays behind as I push through the crowd under the tent.  “Take your time,” I calmly say.  But Darrin is frantically looking for the baton and card.  A stew-like mix of blood, sweat, and mud covers his body and clothes.  His pants are torn, and reveal an oozing substance.  His lights are off, and he is yelling about that sorry fact as I eye his wounds.
Baton, card swipe, card swipe, baton.  Somehow in this frenzy you always remember that order.  Results depend on it.
	
“So how’s the course.”  I don’t know why I ask.  I’ll find out soon enough, and the news is rarely encouraging during the night when the mountain decides the spit and sweat.  Drops are heard on the tent overhead and the crowd immediately becomes thicker.  
The baton is shoved deep, along with the card, and the zippers closed.  A pat on the back.  Thoughts continue to race… how could Darrin have possibly lost the baton last year?  Racing thoughts… really any thoughts are a rider’s friend, easing the pressure and pain.
	
Leaving the tent, everyone jogs or runs.  Really, there is no point to this unless you are in the dwindling expert or pro classes.  What am I going to gain on time in this ridiculous jog to my bike in what seems like full army gear with the lights, tools, backpack sloshing, and pockets of gel energy?  A few seconds?  Nothing?  But everyone does it.  Maybe it’s the image thing.  Run to your bike so no one thinks you are a wimp, or tired.  Maybe it’s the lone cheer from the miniature crowd.  You’ll be in the woods soon enough and then you can slack off for the squirrels and raccoons to see.
	
So I start to jog.  Wow! Not a good idea.  Immediately, there are shooting pains in my groin.  Thoughts of the first lap crash come flooding in.  Now I am the fool walking.  What a ridiculous crash it was, and I hated myself for it.  There was no excuse for such a crash.
	Walking is better, and it’s only 50 yards to the bike.  
	
Crashing is part of the experience.  But it becomes less of a valued and prized experience after age 25.  Who the hell wants to fly through the air to land on god knows what?  But it will happen, and in a place like this it will happen a lot.  I can accept that, but I want it to be for a good reason, like trying to pass on a difficult section or pushing on an I-can’t-believe-I-am-doing-this downhill.  Not in my case though.  A bit before the finishing line, the trail opens.  A straight, short, slightly bumpy downhill fire road starts, and campsites line the edge.  People always chill out at their sites, and watch the riders scream by at 20+ on their way to freedom.  

The mud from earlier flies, and it must be quite a sight.  I love this section.  I did love this section.  A couple of airborne hops, a skidding turn to complete the run, high speeds…what’s not to love?  Well, at some absurd speed I hit the ground and I hit the ground in a hurry.  Not one of those flying crashes where you go through the air, see where you will land, and semi-prepare.  No, one of those crashes where your wheel instantly turns, sending you downward, and the bike tumbling end over end.  These crashes result in blood, and usually broken components and bent wheels.  For me, any left side crash is a date with shoulder-dislocation destiny.  

“Don’t get up.  I’m a medic.”  That’s the next thing I heard.  “Is my shoulder dislocated?”  To me, this is the only thing that matters.  It puts an instant end to my fun and it is down-right embarrassing.  Not to mention it is usually the last thing my wife reminds me of before leaving for a ride and the only real injury I ever return with.  It would be a hell of a thing on the first lap.  I think this is the first time my body has required asking this question.  It is usually readily apparent through pain and a complete lack of movement.  But my entire left side was in excruciating pain.  The type of pain where you just don’t know what to do and you really can’t tell what has gone wrong.  Damn it, I am 100 yards from the finish line… where is my bike?  How many of these overtaken people are passing me?  Get me out of here.  The bike rolls and through the trees freedom is unveiled.
	
The real consequences are now blatantly apparent.  There will be no running!  	The one leg swing over is significantly altered.  The bike is leaned straight over toward me, lift the knee straight up, and flick my toe over the top tube.  I love groin injuries.  I love pedaling.  Truly!  I hate running.  The pedals start to turn over, and I flip on my bar light.  Leave the helmet off for now.  No, turn the bar off too.  Climb in the dark.  I should have asked Darrin what the hell happened to his lights since I have the same brand and will be out here just as long, probably longer.
	
The hill at the start is grueling.  I turn the granny gear.  Second cog down… I think.  The Trek pro rolls past.  Heart rate quickly above 180.  It’s like pledging.  You immediately get slammed, then you ease into things.  Climb this ridiculous hill.  It’s short.  Then go straight down it through the woods.  Then you can lighten up on a flat fire road before the fun begins.  Just take your medicine now.
	
As the hill kicks in, I hear Laird’s voice.  He is attempting to broadcast the coming weather and only key words come through the pedal strokes and the pounding heart, “rain, lightning.”  These aren’t really the things one likes to hear prior to a two and half hour ride through the dark over what is arguably the most humbling terrain on the east coast.  What happens in the middle of the lap if the sky breaks loose in a fit of fury?  Well, it doesn’t much matter I guess.  They are not going to cancel the race 12 hours in.  Just another racing thought.
	
I reach the fire road without incident.  Hell, it has only been a couple of minutes.  I quickly find my groove and the pounding subsides.  Not as much as I would like, but I only have myself to blame for that.
	Unlike many others, this is a time that I need to spin the big ring in a hurry.  Technical riding is not my forte, so the climbs and flats are where I can make up time on these full suspension guys.  
	
I am feeling quite good making the right and rolling into Lower Beaver Dam.  This must be the end of the infamous 5 minutes of hell: that period of time where your body attempts to adjust and find a steady state for oxygen circulation.  My first lap through I dismounted only a couple times.  Quite a feat for me, given my lack of confidence and skill in the rough stuff.  My mind wanders yet again.  What is the relationship between confidence and skill?  When you push, when you make yourself go through what looks to be unridable, you often come through the other side with feet glued to the pistons.  You just have to believe.  Of course, the flip side is falling.  Here in lies the quandry.  How bad will the fall be, and is the risk worth the reward?  On a Saturday afternoon, toward the end of the trail, with two friends right behind you, it’s a no-brainer.  Go for glory.  In a 24-hour race with teammates depending on you, the question is one of endurance and dependability.  Hurting myself hurts the team.  Thus, for me, erring on the side of caution most often prevails.  
	
Here’s the rub… my groin has turned the act of getting on and off the bike into an adventure, and one that can not be accomplished while maintaining forward motion.  The result is a real slowing.  So I ride more, and take more chances.
	
Since my first lap, this place has seen nearly 8 hours of knobby tires.  Coupled with the sweat of the mountain, and now the rain, it is a damn soup bowl.  It is the type of mess that sucks the life out of you at every turn and every straight.  Thousands of roots scattered like dropped paperclips.  They angle out.  They angle in.  Just when you think you have navigated a small section successfully, the final root drops you to the ground.  A wet root is treacherous.  Here, there are thousands, and they have seen thousands of tires.  The tires slowly wear them down, like whittling a stick.  The roots flash their wet insides, and take the role of oil.  Success is only found with momentum, substantial speed, and a willingness to endure the loss of control as bouncing and sliding takes over.  Throw the darkness in as a wild card.  
	
As we parallel the stream, the path is absurd, and everyone walks.  Well, most try to jog.  Not me.  The shirt, you know, the novelty prize for all the slow teams, was orange this year.  Laird, what is the deal with orange?  Why did he do that?  Makes no sense.  Would I really wear a bright orange shirt around?  But the words – “We’re all here because we’re not all there.”  Now that is cool!  Think about it.  This part of the trail is disgusting.  Wet socks for all.  
	
Finally, my proclaimed roller coaster.  The crushed stone sets the course.  Minimally challenging at normal pace.  More challenging at race pace.  Very sweet.  Only comparison is the NY mushroom trail.  Both produce the zen type feeling of flying without much effort.  The feeling results from a fast, not super challenging, semi-smooth trail with many twists and turns.  I love it!
	
This course, this race, nothing but a bunch of physical, emotional, and mental highs and lows.  The highs and lows vary for each individual, and you can see it on the faces of the racers.  Where are they?  It’s written plain as day.  My highs are lows for most others in my class.  I truly love the climbs.  I love them for what they are.  I love them for what they do to us freaks.  I love them because others do not.
	
Nearing the end of Beaver Dam, I can just make out a thick racer.  I think I am gaining, then I think I’m not.  Around the next bend I catch a glimpse.  Then no glimpse.  Motivation almost always results.  The rider ahead might know you are coming.  He might not.  But you know, and you know that he is just out of reach.  This is when we ride our best.  Just slightly above our comfort level.  
	
Beaver Dam ends and I see him start the climb.  I quickly close.  He immediately kicks it up to my pace and we ride side by side, only single file to pass.  I have found that few racers like to talk.  Nothing more than simple pleasantries.  For me, I need the distraction.  I start a conversation and he engages.  Solo rider, new full suspension bike out this year.  Just bullshit conversation, but these are the memories that stick.  Turns out he is a lap ahead of my team of 4.  Think about it.
	
Half way up Cub Run a woman is waiting and he peels off for a bite to eat. The music is now in earshot.  It has been raining, quite hard, but it matters not.  Hell with the lightning, thunder and rain.  I am warm, sweating profusely in fact, and unzip slightly.  Happy at the moment.  The music gets stronger, louder.  It motivates.  Songs are often my inspiration when riding.  I sing on the bike.  I may be an anomaly in this regard, or maybe I am the only one who doesn’t care about airing pathetic notes in the company of others.  Usually it is more like mumbling, unless I really get into it.  I never hear anyone else.  Bill Withers pipes through the speakers… Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone.

Powerlines quickly approaches, and with it comes many emotions.  A fall is a real possibility.  Crowds at midnight are always present.  Drinking and yelling are the norm.  Spectators who have been boozing for hours lurk here for some carnage.  Free entertainment.  Another memory that sticks.  
	
I am coming into powerlines way too fast, … I know, I know, I know, I know… through my head and out of my mumbling mouth.  Around the big boulder dual lights spot a large crowd on both sides of the drop.  “What’s that,” I mutter too soft to be heard.  Someone yells, “Smash ‘em man, smash ‘em!!”  The crowd yells, but it is a blur as the bumping, jarring rocks roll below.  The glasses, sitting on a rather hefty rock, are eaten alive by my front, and then back, wheels.  Screaming immediately commences, giving me a smile and a boost of confidence.
	
I am completely absorbed in the moment, and the moment continues.  Me, Withers, and the sunglasses roll on.  A mile goes by in a breath.  
	
The decision to stuff food down while on the bike is a tricky one.  Most of us rarely eat on training rides, yet in a race, and one with some distance, it becomes a necessity and at the same time, a potential impediment.  The body may reject it.  The body may welcome it.  It may boost output.  It may sink you.  Just before Airport wrappers abound.  They have been blown side to side earlier in the day.  They have been soaked recently.  This is really the only place to eat.  Another quandary.  The trail is flat, and 3 riders are in front of me eating, and only creeping along.  I can get by them quickly and get a jump on the climb.  Skipping an opportunity for added energy is not advised though, and I decide to catch them climbing.  Knowing the second lap is ahead seals the decision.  
	
Reaching into my jersey is difficult, and the Camelback is blocking.  With the Gu out, ripping it open and sucking out the goodness poses another challenge.  Memories of tearing open the corner of my mouth paper cut fashion are always with me in these moments.  I glance down to a sea of wrappers.  Wrappers that have been ripped, sucked, bit, and chewed.  Saliva and smooth energy cover the outside.  Who will lift these from the ground?  How will they do it?  It’s disgusting.  I shove the wrapper back into my jersey and coat my fingers with the oozing honey type substance in the process.  The pocket is coated as well.  The paper sharp wrappers, the now sticky jersey, and the fingers that stick to the grips are small prices to pay for creamy energy.  Anything is better than the days in 1994, when a dry, tough, never easily digested energy bar was the only packaged energy option mid race.        
	
The Airport climb is my favorite, and I meet yet another conversationalist on the way up.  A Speedgoat clad solo rider who talks.  He too is a lap ahead of us, and dueling for second, I think.  He spoke and told his story, sparking a new line of racing thoughts.  
	
Some are born to race, and some are not.  I fall into the “not” category.  In college, Dustin would go out hard, sleep 3 hours, then hand my ass to me on every hill.  Over and over.  He was a freak of nature.  But there are a bunch of freaks out there.  With a little real training these guys would easily be winning expert level races.  Some are winning without the training.  Those of us who bust it, trying to keep up with the freaks, riding and training harder and smarter, will almost never compete at the same level.  Accept it, and just have fun.  If you have a couple of fast laps, if you finish in the top ten once in a while, if you pass more than you get passed, you have accomplished real goals.  Winning will elude us.  This argument came to me as I was listening to Speedgoat and his training.   The streets of Pittsburgh and a full time job as a lawyer.  Yeah, that prepares you for a solo 24 hour event.  This guy is one of the freaks.
	
The hill turns, kicks up, and I kick it up.  The 3 riders and two more, are overtaken.  
	The woods are getting closer.  There is no view atop the mountain this lap.  It is dark.  It is warm.  It is wet.  I meet immediate hell in the woods.  The combination of elements has produced a wall of fog that’s laughable.  No high beams, and the headlamp goes off.  I can’t even see to ride.  Just a walk in the woods.  At this point, I finally succumb to the never-ending battle of the glasses… they come off.  I need the damn things to protect my eyes and my unforgiving contacts.  But I can’t use the things if I can’t see.  One day there will be a solution I can live with.  Thoughts of alternatives cover this walk in the woods.
Rolling into the start area and passing the crash site, my actions are deliberate.  What the hell caused that crash?  The rain has stopped, but the real pain has started.
	No relief at the check-in table.  No warm face.  No one to take the baton.  No blanket.  No pretty girl to chauffeur me to a fire and a shower.  Nothing.
Swipe, 1:27, swipe again.  This time I have bike in hand and ride out of the tent.  Need more speed.  Whose idea was it to double up on laps?  Was it mine?
	
Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone… the music fills the air, fills my head, fills my legs.  A new lap of racing thoughts.