by Joseph C. (Joe) Shami
Saturday, July 10th, 2004
In Northern California, the most
prestigious event for cyclists is the "Death Ride," officially known
as the "Tour of the California Alps." This is to cyclists what the
Boston Marathon is to runners and joggers -- the "must do" challenge.
In all, there are five mountain passes in the rugged Sierra Nevadas to be
conquered in a total distance of 129 miles with total climbing of 16,000 feet.
This year there was an additional, optional sixth pass on Blue Lakes Rd. All of
this must be done between 5:30 a.m. and 8 p.m. on a specific day.
But one doesn't have to be able to complete all five or six mountain passes to participate in the Death Ride. Any smaller number of passes can be attempted – even one -- provided the strict cutoff times are met at various points along the way.
On this, my first Death Ride, I completed four passes in 90 miles, with a total climb of 11,000 feet, according to my own altimeter. It was the most grueling cycling I've ever done and the most climbing in a single day. (I'm a senior who will be 70 in a few weeks.)
Markleeville, CA (elev. 5,501'), where the Death Ride begins and ends is southeast of South Lake Tahoe, CA. It sits at the bottom of (at least) three different mountain passes. The fact that it is so central makes it possible for riders to bail out after one, two, three, or four passes and still return conveniently to the starting point. To the east is Monitor Pass (elev 8,314'), over which Hwy 89 goes to U.S. Hwy 395 at Topaz, CA. To the south is Ebbets Pass (elev. 8,730'), over which Hwy 4 goes to Bear Valley, CA, and to the west is Carson Pass (elev. 8,580'), over which Hwy 88 goes to Kirkwood and Pioneer, CA. (There may be other passes too, but they're not involved in the Death Ride.)
I had three personal experiences that were unusual for me: (1) Starting
early in the dark, (2) Altitude "sickness," and (3) Racing down from
the top of Ebbets Pass minutes before it was to be re-opened to auto traffic.
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Starting Early in the Dark
The official instructions are
clear that the Death Ride begins at 5:30 a.m., not before. I had heard
informally (but incorrectly) that the California Highway Patrol (CHP) would send
back anyone who started earlier. There are two reasons for strict control of
the start time: (a) Monitor and Ebbets Passes are not closed to autos before
5:30 a.m., and (b) The race organizers want to confirm that all participants
are carrying the three mandatory items: 1) Assigned rider number fastened on
one's back, 2) The same number attached to the bicycle frame and filled out with
very detailed (and sensitive) personal information on the back that could serve
for hospital admission in emergency, and 3) the free Death Ride water bottle, to
ensure that the cyclist has water-carrying ability.
My goal was to complete four passes, but given the cutoff times, it seemed that I would be restricted to three. I really needed more time. In other events, I would solve that problem by starting a few minutes early. But here, I was resigned to the fact that it was prohibited, perhaps even illegal.
The day before the event, I stopped at a café in the area, wearing my recently earned Giro di Peninsula T-shirt. While I was waiting for a table, a seated couple called out that they had ridden the Giro di Peninsula century too and invited me to join them. During a very pleasant breakfast with Lou K. (age 62) and wife Peggy from Mill Valley, CA, I expressed concern about the Death Ride cutoff times and my frustration at not being able to begin early. Having done the Death Ride several times himself, Lou said that he often started it early, as did lots of others, and that he intended to start at 3:45 a.m. tomorrow, so that he could ride not only all five prescribed passes, but possibly even the sixth optional pass. Wouldn't the CHP send him back?, I asked. Not if you have a headlamp and taillight, was the reply. If you have those, you're legal on the roads. How about early departure from Turtle Rock Park, Markleeville, where the ride would begin? Was that going to be a problem?, I asked. No, you simply park on the side of the highway near the park entrance, making sure that the car is completely off the road and shoulder, Lou said.
So Lou convinced me that it was feasible to start early and not be illegal with the CHP. I was used to riding in the dark a few times each winter, and I had brought along a fully charged headlamp for possible use as a flashlight. I was able to purchase a tail-lamp for $5 at the Death Ride Expo at the registration site that afternoon. I set my alarm for a very early wake-up, but on opening my eyes on Saturday morning, I heard gale-force winds outside my hotel at the Kirkwood Ski Area and concluded that riding in the dark was one thing, but riding in the dark in a gale was quite another, so I went back to sleep for another half hour, deciding that Lou would have to start without me at 3:45 a.m.
Later, I drove leisurely from Kirkwood to Turtle Rock Park (about 26 miles), allowing the several cars carrying bicycles to pass me safely. It was an interesting experience driving down Carson Pass (Hwy 88) at night. Along both sides of the highway, there were eight-feet-high metal rods, placed every few yards to mark the road for the benefit of snow plows in winter. Each rod had a "Scotchlite" reflector at the top and in the middle, facing me. So in the glare of my car headlights, it seemed like I was driving on an illuminated airplane runway instead of down a steep, narrow, twisting mountain-pass road. It was the easiest night driving I'd ever experienced.
I had assumed that all the cars passing me were rushing to get to the 4 a.m. breakfast that would be offered at Turtle Rock Park and campground, and I'm sure that some were. But when I approached the park entrance at 4:10 a.m., I was amazed at the bustle of activity on both sides of Hwy 89, before and after the park entrance. There were at least 50 cars parked perpendicular to the road, with more arriving every minute. People were getting their bikes out, and many were already beginning to ride with headlamp and blinking taillight. It took me almost a half hour to assemble and prepare my bike in the dim lights from my automobile's trunk and open door, and to don my shoes, helmet, gloves, and other clothing. (We couldn't use our car headlights for illumination, because we had all driven straight in, up to a "wall," so as to be completely off the road and shoulder.) The weather was surprisingly mild at Turtle Rock – no noticeable wind. So I settled for just a jacket and elbow pads (in place of arm warmers), but no long pants or leg warmers.
Then, with excitement, in the darkness, at 4:43 a.m., I clipped into my pedals and followed a long string of single, flashing red taillights downhill toward Markleeville. The red lamps were of all varieties, sizes and brightness, blinking in all different patterns. It was an interesting sight I had never seen.
Already people were passing me. There was one threesome that I thought was foolish, because only the leader had a light. Yet they were passing me. The two followers were riding side by side behind the leader, who was in the center, like in a fighter-airplane formation, but the outside rider was very vulnerable to being struck by a car that wouldn't know he was there. Cars were approaching from the opposite direction, occasionally blinding me, causing me to lose my night vision momentarily. But there was minimal traffic in our direction.
In 2.5 miles we were approaching downtown Markleeville (population 165), the Alpine County seat, having already descended 500 ft. In 2.6 miles, we had passed through downtown. (From experience on Thursday and Friday, I can tell you that there's a deli there that makes good sandwiches and has Dreyer's ice cream, a gas station, a food market, a tourist information center, and a court house, all of which services I used, except for the court, as well as some other businesses.)
A bit later, in the next five miles to the base of Monitor Pass, dawn broke,
and minute by minute, the sky got lighter. We arrived at the checkpoint just
before the left turn onto Monitor, but they were still setting up, and no-one
stopped us. I didn't feel guilty, because I had all three mandatory items. In
spite of the risk of cycling in the dark, I thought it was safer than trying to
start with a mob of 3,100 other cyclists. My judgment was confirmed when I
arrived home after the trip and reviewed one of the Tour de France tapes in
which two professional cyclists collided in the first few minutes of the fifth
or sixth day, and there were only 183 of them.
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Altitude "Sickness"
As I began the gradual ascent
of Monitor Pass in the scenic Toiyabe National Forest, something didn't feel
right. I had no energy, despite a week of rest after training hard. When I
tried to stand on the pedals, I had to sit right down again. My lightweight
Trek bike seemed like it was made of lead instead of carbon. I was breathing
much harder than usual. Only a few of the passing cyclists were breathing that
hard. I became aware of the elastic waistbands of my cycling shorts and Death
Ride jersey that seemed to be restricting my heavy breathing and wished I was
wearing bib shorts instead. In addition, my body was sweating all over. I
removed my jacket, then my elbow pads to try to cool down. Even so, my
heart-rate monitor said that my heart was working significantly harder than
usual for a gradual climb of this moderate magnitude. I had projected that I
would need to average 7 mph on this particular ascent, but I was having trouble
at 4 mph, and I was having to use the lowest of my 30 gears, a 30/29. Could the
brakes be rubbing against a wheel? I stopped to check. No problem there. The
only unusual thing was the additional weight of my headlamp. I began to suspect
that I was feeling the effects of the altitude. I had begun my day at Kirkwood
(elev. 7,800') and descended to Turtle Rock (elev. 6,000'). Then it was 5,501'
at Markleeville, and we would now be ascending to 8,314 ft at the top of
Monitor. I had assumed that I had allowed enough time to acclimatize myself to
the altitude by driving up on Thursday morning and sleeping at Kirkwood on
Thursday and Friday nights beforehand. Apparently, I wasn't yet acclimatized.
In my discouraged state, I saw a cyclist ahead dismount and spin each of his
wheels as I had done. Evidently, I wasn't the only one thinking that the brake
was on. I was not enjoying my climb up Monitor, despite its beauty. Something
was wrong. I even passed up the portable toilets at the first water stop,
something one never does at my age.
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Top of Monitor Pass Down to Hwy 395
When I got to the first
rest stop at mile 17 (at the top of Monitor), a volunteer slapped a sticker on
the number on my back, indicating that I had completed one pass. There was a
mob scene around the food tables and the toilets, and with upset stomach and no
appetite, and being aware of the time pressure, I skipped the rest stop
completely (even the toilet) and proceeded to the downhill. It was such a
relief not to be pedaling uphill. I had confidence in the quality of the road
ahead, because I had scouted it in my car on Thursday, on arriving from the San
Francisco Bay Area. Also, I had observed with approval a street-sweeping
machine cleaning the downhill surface then.
Shortly after the rest stop was a monument. I couldn't take the time to look at it or to note what the inscription was, but it was a sobering reminder that an oral surgeon named Scott Lambert from Sacramento had sustained severe injuries on the backside of Monitor Pass in the Death Ride of 2002 and later died. Until then, there had never been a fatality in the 20-plus year history of the event. (Source: Felix Wong, see below.)
My speedometer was indicating 40.7 mph at one point in this 9.5-mile descent, so I put the brakes on, because I only had to average 22 mph on this stretch to meet my objective. I wasn't looking at the scenery now, but when driving the route, I had noticed how barren the landscape was on the Nevada-facing side. As I descended on my bike, it got colder and colder, and I shivered violently. Also, my neck was sore from looking up. I was afraid to stop because of the fast bicycle traffic passing and behind me – just as on a freeway. But it became so cold as we entered a canyon hidden from the sun, that I just had to scream out "STOPPING!" and pull off the road quickly to put on my jacket. (I was so grateful for my rearview mirror at that time, despite its unsettling aerodynamic resistance.)
Getting back on the road was far more dangerous than trying to get back onto a high-speed freeway, with hundreds of cyclists roaring down that mountain at speeds of 30-50 mph. And you had to clip into your pedals too in that awkward few seconds of getting started. I simply waited and waited and waited till finally there was an opening, but at least I'd stopped shivering.
I felt a sense of elation on making it safely to the bottom and to the rest stop near Hwy 395 in Topaz, CA, (elev. 5,040') at 25 miles. From above, while I was descending, that rest stop looked like an ant colony with perhaps a thousand cyclists contending for food and toilets. Bicycles littered the ground all over. A helicopter was taking off from the area – I don't know why -- stirring up huge clouds of dust.
I'm always turned off by crowds, and I was turned off and intimidated by the thought of having to fight my way through all those people. There was a long line in front of the bank of toilets. The only spot I could find to lean my bike was far from everything else. Nearby, there were half a dozen male cyclists descending a few feet into a barren gulch, hidden from view, that they were using as a bathroom. "How gross!," I harrumphed to myself. Then I looked at the length of the toilet line in the distance and joined them.
I left the rest stop immediately afterward, eating only a Clif energy bar
that I'd brought with me. I was being driven by the time pressure and not
handling myself properly. To add to my woes, my bicycle computer decided to
clear memory. The only data I had taken down from it was that 2 hrs and 22
minutes had elapsed since the start, so it was 7:05 a.m.
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Hwy 395 Up to Top of Monitor Pass
As I struggled back up
Monitor Pass, several pleasant things happened. Someone said "Hi, Joe."
It was Dr. Mark M. of our Montclair cycling group, a strong cyclist who often
participates in road races, such as the Sea Otter Classic, and other tough
cycling events without tooting his own horn. Although we belong to the same
cycling group, I wasn't aware that he was coming to the Death Ride. (Days
later, Mark told me that he completed all five passes, finishing at 5:45 p.m.;
he said he hadn't done the ride since 1999, which then ended seven straight
years of Death Riding. Congratulations, Mark!)
Shortly, thereafter, Don I. of Eagle Cycling Club, Napa, said "Hi, Joe." I was surprised to see him. He had told me that he couldn't get into this year's Death Ride because he had waited too long, but there was a last-minute cancellation. Today he was on his own bicycle, not on the tandem with JoAnn. He said that this ride was too difficult for the tandem. He told me to look for his adult son Curtis who was behind Dad somewhere, but I never saw him. (Later, Don reported that both he and Curtis finished all five passes together; it was the sixth time for Don and the first for Curtis, making his father very proud.)
And still in this same stretch, I was passed by a cyclist wearing a Benicia Bicycle Club jersey. I asked if his clubmates Mick W. or Mike D. were here, and he said that Mick was, as well as six other club members, making eight. He introduced himself as Ed, and I was flattered that he recognized my name from my write-up of the Tour of the Unknown Valley last March, a century which he and his club had also ridden. So when Mick passed me shortly thereafter, I was able to tell him that Ed was ahead. But the unusual thing was that the members of this closely knit club, who usually cycle as a group, were cycling as individuals today. That was true throughout the Death Ride. It was clearly more of an individual challenge. But the cycling jerseys were from far and wide, including Utah, Nevada, and Southern California.
Another thing took my mind off the climb. There was a gentleman on a tandem, and he had rigged up a cycling skeleton, a true likeness of the symbol of the Death Ride, as his partner in the back seat. I was too tired to laugh or say anything, but I did chuckle at the idea that even a cycling skeleton was passing me. (That really rubbed it in.) If cycling a tandem was too hard for my friend Don, helped by a good cyclist like his wife JoAnn, I wondered how far this joker was going to get, cycling that heavy bike alone. But when I drove back up Carson Pass at 6:30 p.m. on my way back to Kirkwood, looking at the last 60 riders who were completing the final climb to the top of that fifth pass, the skeleton was still plugging away, having done 107 miles, and was definitely going to make it. I drove past in awe. (Later, Don told me that the skeleton would say something to you if you passed it.)
A second oddity was a fellow attempting the Death Ride on a folding bike with tiny 16" wheels. In fact, there were two such people. But the one I saw most passed me on the Monitor climb from Hwy 395 to the top and passed me again on the following downhill.
Having all those people to speak to, even though only momentarily, as well as the distractions, buoyed my spirits, and I was feeling much better when we returned to the rest stop at the top of Monitor. Also, the sun was out and it was now pleasantly warm. My average speed for the climb was only 4.4 mph versus a goal of 5 mph, and it had taken two hours and six minutes for the 9.35 miles.
This time, I did go get some food at the rest stop – a piece of
honeydew melon, a chunk of banana, and an entire "new" potato. I
swallowed a packet of Gu energy gel that I had brought with me, refilled my
water bottle, and found a vacant toilet. Also, our registration package had
contained a sample of an electrolyte-replacement pill called "Endurolytes"
that promised not to upset my stomach, so I tried one. There was no bad
after-effect, and I tried another later in the ride.
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Top of Monitor Pass Down to Centerville Flat
I enjoyed the
following descent of Monitor, back to where the checkpoint was at the
intersection of Hwy 89 and Hwy 4. At the bottom, someone affixed another
sticker to my back, denoting that I had completed two passes (i.e., Monitor both
ways). My maximum speed was 38 mph, and the average for the 7.71 miles of
descent was 21 mph, slightly under my goal, due to my caution. But I was no
longer feeling ill; I simply had no energy. On the way down, I had noticed two
police officers tending to a cyclist lying down by the side of the road. But
there was no ambulance or helicopter. I had reached the bottom of Monitor long
before the pass would be re-opened to auto traffic at noon.
Now we turned left onto Hwy 4 for Ebbets Pass, which would be closed to auto
traffic until 3 p.m. There was a beautiful 2.5-mile stretch paralleling the
East Fork of the Carson River and then Silver Creek, that climbed less steeply,
and I was able to get out of my lowest gear for a short time, till we reached
Centerville Flat for the real ascent of Ebbets. But for the greatest part of
the ride, I needed only two gears: lowest (30/29) and highest (53/12).
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Centerville Flat Up to Top of Ebbets Pass
I had scouted the
climb of Ebbets Pass in my car on Friday (the day before), all the way to the
top and down into Hermit Valley and back. I had been fascinated by the beauty
of the scenery – the ruggedness and size of the unusual rock formations,
the assortment of trees on the river and creek banks; the tall Jeffrey pines
that took over in dense clusters as the narrow, twisting road climbed higher.
Up further, the road would be barely two lanes wide, with no shoulder and a
frightening drop on the right side. (I found it much scarier ascending in my
car than on my bike, especially with the opposing auto traffic then.) But I was
also intimidated during that drive by the magnitude of the task I would be
undertaking on my bike.
I left Centerville Flat at 10:35 a.m. on my bike, well before the 1 p.m. cutoff. My friend Pam H. said that it had taken her two hours to climb Ebbets last year, and she's faster. So I wasn't surprised when it took me 14 minutes more than Pam, averaging 4.8 mph, which exceeded my goal of 4 mph. But I never got out of my lowest gear. And always when it seemed that I had reached the top, the climb went on around the next bend. It was hot on this climb -- up into the eighties. As we were struggling up, there was an endless stream of high-speed cyclists descending on the other side of the narrow road – some seeming quite reckless as they passed in the middle of the road, even coming slightly into our side. For that reason, Pam had warned me always to keep looking up while climbing Ebbets. I worried about an out-of-control downhill cyclist missing a hairpin turn and knocking an uphill cyclist (namely me) over the cliff edge. But happily, my fears were groundless.
Near the summit (elev. 8,730', the high point of the Death Ride), there was a young fellow with megaphone encouraging us. When he saw how hard I was struggling, he asked if I wanted a push. I said, "No, that would be cheating." "It's not cheating," he replied, as he took it upon himself to give me a most welcome assist for a few yards up that final hill. They were handing out Red Vine candy as a reward at the top – I couldn't get enough of them -- as well as a pat on the back that included another sticker. I had done three passes and 56 miles. It was 12:56 p.m. when I joined the absolutely exhausted people sitting in the woods at the rest stop, all looking like Zombies. What I didn't realize then was that most had just finished the return climb back up from Hermit Valley, that was still ahead of me.
As I was stretching briefly, the fire dept. ambulance was called from our
rest stop down to Hermit Valley. Someone must have fallen, but it may not have
been too serious, because I saw the same ambulance later. So long as I left
this rest stop before 1:30 p.m., I would be allowed to descend the 4.8 miles on
the other side of Ebbets, so I didn't stay long, despite my total exhaustion,
leaving at 1:12 p.m. But if I hadn't started the Death Ride 47 minutes early, I
would have been cut off here, not permitted to descend to Hermit Valley.
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Top of Ebbets Pass Down to Hermit Valley and Back
On
leaving the top of Ebbets, I was specifically warned that the descent ahead to
Hermit Valley was bumpy. I have to admit that even with the warning, I was
shaken by three or four of the bumps. (Perhaps, some less-fortunate, exhausted
rider had fallen because of a surprising bump, and that's why the ambulance had
been called?) There were lots of people approaching the summit from the
backside as I descended, but fewer and fewer were climbing when I reached the
bottom. I arrived there in 15 minutes, averaging 19.7 mph, with a maximum of 33
mph. It was 1:27 p.m. I dallied at the historic marker there that gave a brief
history of Ebbets Pass. (I wish I could remember some of it, but not much blood
was going to my brain.) Of course, Hwy 4 continued down to Bear Valley from
there, but this was as far down as we would descend. The people at this rest
stop and at the few others where I had interacted with any of the volunteers
were extremely nice, filling my water bottle for me.
I left Hermit Valley at 1:32 p.m., ahead of the 2 p.m. cutoff, cycling very slowly in my lowest gear but in a very good frame of mind. Would they really have cut me off at 2 p.m?, I wondered. If so, they would have to give me a lift back up to the top. My question was answered at about 2:05 p.m. The SAG motorcycle passed me with a cyclist on the back seat, holding his bicycle under his right arm and hanging on with his left, as he was transported the five miles uphill at about 10 mph. I'm sure that I wouldn't have had the strength to hang on to the motorbike or my bicycle in my exhausted state, so I was actually grateful to be climbing on my bike instead of being transported that way. But I saw no other cyclists being ferried to the top, so I wondered whether the cyclist had actually asked for a ride instead of it being forced on him.
Whereas the final climb up to the summit from the other side had been
continually steep, with the steepest part at the top (like Mt. Diablo), this
side was more like a set of steep "stairs" that gave momentary
respites before the next step up. There were about ten of us left, struggling.
All were passing me, but several would stop for a break and pass again later.
Even though we hardly spoke, I felt a sense of camaraderie with these people.
One lady was walking up in her cycling shoes, but I just couldn't catch her for
the longest time. I had to tell her that, and when she laughed, it picked up
both of our spirits. I would see her and her husband several times thereafter.
I was counting down the mileage remaining to the top and became the authority of
our little band as to how much remained. I made a lame joke when one fellow
passed me – I can't remember about what – but when we later reached
the lunch stop at the bottom, I was genuinely surprised when he came over and
told me that it was nice cycling with me. So apparently, I wasn't the only one
who felt a sense of camaraderie with the others who had struggled up Hermit
Valley together. (He was wearing a jersey that said he was from Irvine in
Southern California.)
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Racing Down Ebbets Before Road Re-Opening
When I finally
reached the Ebbets Pass summit for the second time (at 68 miles), it was almost
2:50 p.m., and the pass would be re-opening to auto traffic at 3 p.m. I was
very concerned about that, but I simply couldn't get to the top any faster.
There were clear signs that the rest stop was closing up. I spent only a couple
of minutes there, grabbing a handful of Red Vines from the candy jar. It was
2:52 p.m. when I began my 12-mile descent with Red Vines still protruding from
my mouth.
For me, this descent was the high point of the whole trip. I had the road almost entirely to myself, with only about five people passing me, and for once, I was actually passing a few who were taking it slower. I felt fully in control, as though I were descending Mt. Diablo on a weekday, with only the mountain to worry about and not my fellow riders or the cars. I was very happy with my technique as I negotiated the sharp turns. I only wish I could have skied so well in my prime. But I had the same feeling of satisfaction that I got from a long, well-executed ski run. When I reached the series of sharp S-turns, the ambulance was there, along with one or two other cars, and a volunteer was cautioning me to slow down. But they were there now only as a precaution, because this was a dangerous spot. Nothing bad was actually happening. (I had heard that every year, someone had to be airlifted out from this side of Ebbets.)
I raced down the remainder of the mountain with a feeling of euphoria, bypassing the rest stop at Scossa's Cow Camp that I had bypassed on the way up. The only thing that stopped me was that I had left something behind a tree on the way up that I wanted to retrieve on the way down. But when I stopped near the tree that I thought it was, I was wrong. To paraphrase President Reagan, "You've seen one tree, you've seen them all."
I continued downhill, but now there was a steady stream of cars coming uphill, and eventually I heard cars behind. I was safely passed from behind by two cars with bicycles on top, and then a third car showed up in my rearview mirror, but he kept his distance and stayed behind. I was grateful for his consideration as he left me alone all the way down to the bottom, blocking anyone else from reaching me. I finally pulled over when I recognized the tree I was looking for and retrieved my padded seat cover, made from old gel shorts, that was helpful for the first few miles, but I was better off without it later on, and I certainly didn't want to carry it to the top. (The tree had an insect trap on the front, and I had forgotten that's why I had picked it.) The considerate driver waved to me through his sunroof as he passed.
With elation and great satisfaction, I pulled into the lunch stop at
Centerville Flat at 3:20 p.m., completing my fourth pass at 80 miles. All that
suffering was worth it! They were closing up the lunch stop, and there were
only about ten people still eating. Gratefully, I accepted a sandwich of
turkey, cheese, and mayonnaise and a Coke. Though all the roast beef was gone,
I didn't care! Nothing tasted good, but it wasn't the food; it was me. A
sandstorm was kicking up dust, but I didn't care! I was extremely serene. I
had averaged 22.9 mph for the descent, including my two stops, reaching a
maximum of 35.6 mph on that very curvy road.
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Back to Turtle Rock Park and Supper
Though the final leg to
Markleeville was all uphill, putting me back in my lowest gear again, and there
was traffic passing me now, I didn't care! But I got a very welcome surprise.
A car pulled over to the side of the road ahead, and my friend Pam H. popped out
and greeted me. I was so joyous to see her and tell her of my accomplishment.
And her son Teren came out of the car to greet me too. They had driven up that
day to serve as volunteers, but they had been assigned to the checkpoint at
Hwy's 89 and 4 after I had passed there, so we hadn't seen each other. Pam said
they had been looking for me just now, so it wasn't by chance that they found
me. We agreed to have dinner together at Turtle Rock Park. So I was very
motivated to complete that last hill. I dropped off everything I could at my
car, grabbed my bicycle lock, and cycled into the same area where I had picked
up my registration on Friday afternoon and had purchased several items at the
Death Ride Expo. The place was teeming with cyclists; a "live" jazz
band was playing; the Expo booths were open; and the five-pass and six-pass
riders were checking in, so as to receive their coveted (and deserved!)
five-pass pin. (As a lowly four-pass rider, I wasn't privileged to check in or
to sign the Death Ride poster, but I didn't care! I had achieved my personal
goal, even though it had taken 12 hours elapsed time.)
Pam and Teren quickly spotted me despite all the people and activity, and we grabbed some food together that we were all entitled to. All the tables and chairs were full, but resourceful as always, Pam somehow borrowed three folding chairs from somewhere, and we had a very pleasant supper together (without table), although I still had no appetite.
When we parted company, Pam and Teren commenced their trip home, with Teren
driving. I returned to my car and stuffed my bike into the trunk. (I was so
happy to remove my cycling shoes.)
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Carson Pass
It was about 5:45 p.m. when I commenced my
drive back to Kirkwood, thinking that everything was all over (and for me it
was). But the shoulder on the opposite side of the road was full of cyclists
streaming back to Turtle Rock Park from the fifth and sixth passes. For the
next 45 minutes, I would be driving on their route up Carson Pass, and there was
never a break of more than a few seconds between returning cyclists on the
opposite side of the road for the entire time. I admired them, but I didn't
envy them. There was traffic in both directions; the road was bumpy with lots
of patches. In most spots, there was no shoulder – just occasional passing
lanes. The climb up to Carson summit was very steep. But the traffic was
mostly related to the Death Ride and was being slow and considerate. Also, the
organizers had placed warning signs all over the busy roads that a Special Event
was in progress and to look out for bicycles.
I passed by the intersection with Blue Lakes Rd, which was on my left, as I proceeded to Kirkwood up Carson Pass. Those who had completed the climb up Carson and wished to add the optional sixth pass would begin the descent from the Carson summit and turn right onto Blue Lakes Rd, Markleeville, for an out-and-back trip of 23 extra miles (11.5 miles each way), making a grand total of 152 miles and I don't know how much extra altitude. The previous morning, Friday, I had attempted to buy breakfast at 7 a.m. at the Kirkwood Inn, but to my dismay, none of the restaurants opened till 8 a.m. So I used the time to explore the entire length of Blue Lakes Rd in my car. It was gorgeous in its scenic beauty! The road was a brand-new, absolutely smooth ribbon of asphalt all the way, and there was no traffic (at that time), since the road dead-ended at the lakes and the campgrounds next to them. There were some relatively steep hills, though. The cutoff time for entering that road was 5:15 p.m.
As I neared the summit of Carson Pass in my car around 6:20 p.m., I began to see the last of the riders who had made the cutoff at Pickett's Junction (elev. 7,000') at 5:15 p.m. at 99 miles and who were still on my side of the road, still climbing. How I identified with those struggling at the very end of the pack! I counted 60 who had still not reached the summit, including the cyclist on the tandem (but not his skeleton partner).
The rest area at the top at 108 miles was full of cyclists. I would drive
on to the beauty of Caples Lake, which they wouldn't get to see. But I was
surprised to admit to myself how interesting that last 45 minutes had been just
observing the other cyclists as I drove.
Return to top
The Entry Selection Process
The Death Ride is so popular
that various schemes have been employed over the years to decide who will fill
the 2,500 available positions (raised to 3,100 this year?). This year, it was a
combination of lottery and high price. The entry fee this year was an
astronomical $86.20, including a processing fee of $6.20. If you were willing
to pay the price and had ridden last year, you were able to apply first in
February. If you had not ridden last year, you could apply on March 15th, and
your name was entered in a lottery, and your credit card was charged. But you
wouldn't learn until April 9th, whether or not you had been selected. If you
were not, your entry fee would be refunded. Having made my entry at the
earliest possible time via the Internet at 12:01 a.m. on March 15th, I learned
on April 9th that I'd been selected. Cynically, I thought that anyone willing
to pay the high price won the lottery, but I later learned that a friend had not
made it.
My only complaint is that I've been deluged with unwanted SPAM e-mail after having been required to use Active.com for my on-line registration. The same thing happened after I used Active.com for a previous on-line registration. I can't prove my suspicion, but if enough cyclists compare notes and Active.com is really the source of annoyance, perhaps the word will get around.
Additional References
For those wanting to read additional
stories about the Death Ride, I have two references that I found interesting:
1.
"Places of the mind: The Death Ride," by Bo Crane, Cycle California
Magazine, July, 2004, p10 (a free handout at many bicycle shops). Contact:
www.CycleCalifornia.com (but article is not yet available on-line at this
writing).
2. "2002 Markleeville Death Ride," by Felix Wong,
www.felixwong.com/openroad/death_ride02.html
Note: There's an underscore
(_) between "death" and "ride" above.
Death Ride Planner and Cutoff Calculator (Spreadsheet)
A
couple of weeks before the ride, I (and I'm sure all others) received a very
helpful tool by e-mail from the Death Ride Coordinator Sandra Baenen. It was an
Excel spreadsheet into which I could enter my own estimates as to how fast I was
going to do each phase of the route and how long I was going to take at rest
stops. The spreadsheet would then compute whether I was in danger of missing a
cutoff time and would forecast what my departure and arrival times would be at
each step. It was easy to change the numbers to ponder "what if."
That's how I came up with the goals I mentioned for the various passes above.
My thanks to the spreadsheet-creating company, Suunto Oy of Finland, whose
watch/altimeter I own.
Summary
In retrospect, the Death Ride experience was more
than worth the high entry fee, as well as all related expenses for lodging,
driving, etc. As Dr. Mark M. said, "We did have the benefit of great
weather this year -- no rain and a nice cooling breeze."
My thanks to the organizers and all the volunteers!
Joseph
C. (Joe) Shami