For several years, friends from
Lincoln and
Omaha have been telling me that I had to race the Dakota 50. Finally, this year, I made the trip. As Scott, Sam, Brandon and I arrived in Spearfish mid-afternoon, I could easily see why so many people loved the trip. An incredibly nice campsite so near the race start was just the beginning for an almost ideal race weekend experience.
EnduroSnob, come to the 5oh, sir.
MOD and the Omaha crew arrived not too long afterward and along with the usual antics, we talked about the race and specifically, the course itself. Mark in particular lit up when the conversation turned to the "50 miles of a little bit of everything" that makes up the Dakota 50. I was ready to pre-ride then and there, but we waited for the next day.
"Men is what we are."
The race opens with a three mile gravel climb that dumps into single track that, save for a couple of quick rollers, continued upwards for roughly another mile. The consideration was clear, you can peg it and try to beat as many people as you can to the single track. The problem with that is that it would be very very easy to blow up. The other option is to stay within yourself and risk getting caught up in traffic.
I went with B, going to the point of wearing a heart-rate monitor to keep my ego in check, and handed myself the predicted result. As the single-track kicked up, I could hear derailleurs dropping through gears and started to feel the frustration of being trapped in the pack. Getting caught in a near track stand and trying to muscle through climbs isn't the smart way to ride, but there I was struggling to roll over what was likely an overly ambitious gear for the course and giving away a lot of ground to riders by hoping off but letting them go by instead of running behind them.
Preride chat session.
Sam caught up to me around mile 7 or 8, as things were just beginning to start to clear and, no matter how much base he has, that guy can handle a bike. Without riders in front, we made quick work of the single track in front of us. Unfortunately, that would always lead us to another log jam and more 30 revolution per minute riding. Just before the last checkpoint, we were behind one guy in a heavy spin and I started growing impatient, but there was really no place to pass as we had a creek on one side and a dewy slope on the other.
When it did open up, Sam punched it and I spun out on a steep slope as I went to follow. I run up the hill and tried to remount but Sam's momentum was gathered and I was stuck at a standstill. It was just before the first aid station an the last I would see Sam until post race.
Tourist Mode
Either on that climb or the long descent that followed, I managed to cut my sidewall. I suspect the downhill is the more likely culprit though as the gash seemed too large to have come from a slow leak. Either way, I let momentum do what it could then, like some pie-in-the-sky optimist, toyed with my tired thinking I could somehow get it to seal so I could add more air and continue. I pumped it up, waited, squeezed, massaged, begged, pleaded and who knows what else (voodoo seemed out of the question due to the pins) but it was really just me wasting my own time. Finally, just before another climb, I accepted my fate and released my skewer to put a tube in. Time to become a fucking tourist.
As luck would have it, Brandon came rolling by just as I was putting my tire back on the rim. He was hurting a little bit and was going to ride ahead, but spun back and decided to wait for me. At the time, I remember thinking I'd at least ride with him to the second aid station and just take it from there. However, Brandon arrived at the aid station in a bit of a mess. Cold chills, stopped sweating, the classic signs. It was then that he was stuck with me. He recovered and we took off for a ride. B rode his ass off. He wasn't the fastest guy on the course, but he dug incredibly deep to finish that damn ride and I was proud to ride it with him.
Balls Deep
Of course, he also had to suffer through my nonsense out on course. And, those that have ridden a long race with me know that such nonsense is considerable. At one point, Brandon paused after pushing up a hill, looked at me and said something with a voice of gravel.
"Whoa," I said, "Don't start going Godfather on me..." And then I proceeded to do a
Marlon Brando impersonation revolving around the don saying he had a job for me, and that job was to ride downhill really fast. Ridiculous? Absolutely.
Brandon also got the classic "Death! You are my bitch lover!!" But, Wedding Crashers may not be in Brandon repertoire. That, or he was silently begging me to shut the hell up.
So close to bacon and beer
I even tried the classic Friends gimmick of asking him to name five famous women he would sleep with if it were cleared by his wife. He started off with guns blazing, giving me
Rachel Welch as his first answer. He even backed it with a bit of added commentary. "Awesome! Who else?" I tried to let it go, but couldn't. A few miles would pass and I would ask again. "B? I need another lady." It never happened. (Damn it, B. You still owe me four more.)
PBR street gang
In the end, it took Brandon and I just under eight hours to cross the line. We rode into an empty camp, recovered then went to join the Nebraska crew at the awards ceremony. The good times continued when I learned that MOD, Lucas and Roxy all rocked podium spots, Showen set a personal best and Sam felt good for what he'd done with little training. I also got to finally meet several people who I'd know only from blogdom and through mutual friends.
MOD and I also managed to act the fools with a carton of cigarettes found at the Common Grounds coffee shop. If someone has pictures of that, either send them to me, or burn them.
