Transylvania stage 2: Probabilities.

According to Wikipedia, your chances of getting struck by lightning are about 1 in 500,000.

Your chances of getting struck twice by lightning are one over a number with substantially more zeros.

But if you ask Roy Sullivan, numbers dont mean a god-damn thing.

So what are the chances that I would be back to do another Transylvania 10k?

What do you think?



The race started in the campsite, with a mile or so of "neutral" road. The race got underway on a fast, open (and inexplicably dark) descent. I was in the front third or so, trying to move up through the fusillade of rocks, bottles and bad language flying around like ticker tape at the Macys Thanksgiving Parade.

I felt fine until the first real climb. At which point I felt significantly less-than-fine. Selene Yeager beasted her way up the group that dropped my hurting ass, and I continued to move in a negative direction until I was picked up by Mike Festa. Who I was "racing".

I dropped a gear, stood up, and found his wheel-teat. Which I then proceeded to suckle remorselessly.

I wouldnt say that I felt "better" at any point on that climb: I think the heat was really getting to me. Slow, exposed and gasping for air, we formed a small group with the Masters leader, Ben Cruz and a rotating cast of characters that were either paying the ultimate price for trying to hang in the Bishop Group or Sort Of Fast Guys that reeled us in over the course of the (endless, relentless) climb.

Around now we were caught by a singlespeeder. I have mixed feelings about this. It was the current leader of the admittedly stacked SS field, but still. He was turning over an impossibly big gear at like 40rpm and he still caught us. We all filed in behind him. Then Hash Apples caught up. His Predator Hair looked really, really hot (get your minds out of the gutter, jerks. It was like 93 degrees) but he was flying up the hill. Our group of humid, suffering dudes was looking pretty sorry
about now.

Finally, at the top of the climb, the single speed guy yelled something incoherent (probably thanking whatever god he prayed to for not making that hill any higher) and we were off. A suddenly rejuvenated Ben, who was dropped a few minutes before, screamed past us in a sleeveless hail of gravel. I stood up to chase.

DEAR GOD. FINALLY. SINGLETRACK.

I started out sloppy, but was recovering from the heat of the climb. I dropped Ben and Festa, and started catching guys that had been up the road. There was a WTB rider (Im not sure which one) that would occasionally pop into sight. I made that my target. I was feeling pretty good by now. I was almost 20 miles into the race. I hung out with Dicky for a bit. He has the most aeordynamic mountainbike tuck I have ever seen. He looked like Warwick Davis in a wind tunnel.

Then Adam Snyder caught me with some other dude.

This was awesome. Adam is a fantastic bike handler and it could only help me to follow his lines. I let them by and got on the train.



Right about now my bike broke in half.



Not that I realized it right away: I followed them through a turn (a hard, fast left turn without rocks or any sort of obstacle), my bike at about a 45 degree angle under my mostly upright body. I heard a dull "CLOK". Thinking a pebble had smacked my downtube, I stood up to pedal out and WHAM:

Derailleur Salad.

Sigh.



I tried to mess with it, my chain tool wouldnt push the pin all the way out, then some other (really nice, very helpful) racer tossed me a tool, somehow that didnt push the pin out either. At this point, Im starting to believe in God. And not the nice, touchy-feely Jesusy god either.

Finally, Festa showed up. He said he was done: he apparently wrecked his back last week, and the technical bits were too much for him. He had a chaintool that worked, and I was suddenly the proud owner of a 5200 dollar full suspension single speed. For about a mile, anyway.


This is the part where I realize my bike was broken.

After 5 or 6 times dropping the chain, I stopped on the side of the trail. Wiping away some of the mud (and, incidentally, all hope) I caught my finger on some carbon slivers.


There are literally not enough keys on this board to configure a litany of rage that would accurately describe how I felt while staring down at the offending seatstay. Mobs are more reasonable. Suns have exploded with less fury. Nerds were less pissed when they canceled Firefly. Somehow, through my disjointed homicidal fury, I managed to squeak out a conversation with Festa, and later on some other folks. Mike actually commented on how amazingly calm I was.


If I seemed calm, it was only because I was reviewing a mental list of book depositories.

(You cant call "too soon" on a Kennedy assassination reference. You just cant.)


So I had to run. Again.


Because my freaking bike broke at mile 21 (LITERALLY the half-way mark), I had to run something like 8 or 9 miles to the next aid station. It wasnt too bad at first. Jogging alongside my bike, I tried to think of ways to make it to the end. I could coast the downhills, except there WERE no downhills. Racing in this part of Pennsylvania is like riding in an MC Escher painting.

There is no down.

Unfortunately, it was 21 miles to the end, and hiking that in my torn and bloody socks was not terribly appealing. But then, I did sign up to race for a week. So I ran.

After 3 or 4 miles of pretty steady hike-a-biking, I stepped on the stump of a cut sapling.


I screamed so loud it echoed; like someone screaming back at me.


My sock (one of my favorites, by the way), tore over the back of my heel. I felt like my foot had a hole in it you could see through.


The rest of my "run" was much more of a "trudge". I was crushed: An entire season of planning - most days up before dawn, 7 degree rides in February, scheduling my whole spring at work... an enormous chunk of my life was put into this. Im certainly not going to indulge in a play-by-play of my thought process here: this should be somewhat entertaining, right? Certainly not a crabby bike racer pity-party.

I made it to the aid station after about 2 hours of walking. None of them seemed willing to let me to walk to the end. And lets be honest, another 15 miles of bloody-sock jogging wasnt terribly appealing to me either.

The medic wanted to take a look at my feet, but I spared him. No need for further loss of life (they were heinously swampy, as you can imagine).

I hung out with the Festas for a bit, helped move some baskets around, talked to the stragglers... I cant remember exactly. The support folks were outstanding, even in my somewhat grim mood they were able to cheer me up a little. The cookies helped, too.

I was offered bikes, by the way: and thanks to anyone who did. There is, however, a "finish on the same bike you started with" rule - a rule that really does make sense here: I certainly wasnt going to challenge it from the back of the race.


So thats it. Im done.


Ill be riding the rest of the stages (on Caitlins Very Tiny Stumpjumper), maybe helping out Mike and Ray or Colt with some filming: whatever way I can best be useful around here. This race is still a lot of fun, the people are awesome, and Im sure as shit not going to limp home and stare at wall for the rest of the week.



Im going to clean the blood off my feet.

See you tomorrow.