Santa Cruz Hellride 4 - Congrat's Sauce!!!

[ShinKen]

great shots K-man!! that bike is one sweet machine!! are those acids she's wearing?

[Keith B]

They are indeed Acid's.

[OMR]

Keith,

Some really outstanding shots not only of the riders but the bustling town as well. Almost felt like being there... almost! That bear comment brought it home!

OMR

[shudder]

Keith B -- All the pics are great to see -- what a great story told! The triumphant return pic is the best of the lot: Sarah rubbing her muddy eyes tells the whole story in a nutshell.

[Thebluedan]

Truly inspiring!

[andy aka rut]

Way cool! Hey, what were your thoughts about Rachael?
Last year she won the All Mountain at D-ville. She passed me on the XC with 10 or so miles left. She seemed to be a rockstar! Not only that she was a madwoman in the mosh pit with the Saddletramps. Total animal!!!

[Neccros]

Was there any talk of Santa Cruz sponsoring Sarah as a rider?? That would be cool!!!

[Sprockethead]

Hey Sarah, Congratulations on completinig the ride. I knew you could do it. You are one bad ass competitor.

Thanks for the photo Keith!

[Schecky]

Originally Posted by Neccros

Was there any talk of Santa Cruz sponsoring Sarah as a rider?? That would be cool!!!

I think it's a lock. The ride seems to have changed Sauce somehow.

[Keith B]

The ride report is up on the Santa Cruz web site.

Sounds like Weir got his revenge on me........"As for Sarah, I couldn’t tell anything about her because her boyfriend was sitting on her the whole time"

He made a comment to Sarah about it not being NASCAR after SC said they'd carry one of her drinks bottles, 2 minutes later I catch him packing his stuff into a rucksack so of course I tell him its not NASCAR - his response: *Stiff glare* "I dont know you but if we get to talk later we're going to discuss this"

[Keith B]

My Kung-Fu legs could take out the Weir no problemo!

Funny thing was that we were jsut sat on the Sofa with Rich and Scott all night because they were both tired. Man I get a bad rap sometimes

[CalEpic]

Photo caption of the year: I've been on this damn bike for 10 hours and you're asking me to smile? eat a d!ck, superman...?

[soul rider]

so Sauce is the toughest one here. Great job.
you have inspired me to push harder and further. thank you
cheers

[Kid A]

Originally Posted by Keith B

his response: *Stiff glare* "I dont know you but if we get to talk later we're going to discuss this"

ouch - nothing like being called out by a pro mtn bike legend. suggest you stay away from chances of meeting him again on tight exposed ST swithbacks (unless u pack a parachute in your camelback)good luck hiding under rocks (j/k) and congrats again to sauce

[sauce]

[SIZE=3][FONT=Times New Roman]My ride report ... [/FONT][/SIZE]
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[SIZE=3][FONT=Times New Roman]I. In Hell[/FONT][/SIZE]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Mile 50. Blackness. Something cold and jagged. A sharp sting. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I hoist myself up off my private patch of ridge-trail hell. I open my eyes. The canyon sways below me. The skinny, serpentine ridge rocks forward, then backward. Side to side. I sway with it, feeling out the circumference of my pain. My knees and face scream. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I stare down, struggling to focus my gaze on the pitchfork-style rocks upon which I crashed. The rocks are bathed in an intense, orange glow – sunlight feverish in the approach to sunset. The effect is apocalyptic. Buoyant, shinny drops of ruby-red blood crown the dull-gray boulders. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I can’t help but think the ridge has exacted its penance. And I’m okay with that. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[SIZE=3][FONT=Times New Roman]I straddle my Nomad. I can hear my choked, weak cries filter through my body. Tears struggle down the dirt trails on my face. Catharsis. Surrender. “Something big is happening, something epic.” Rich Dillan’s words stay with me. [/FONT][/SIZE]

[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I keep moving. Faster. Then faster. Allied to that apocalyptic glow, I race toward sunset. [/SIZE][/FONT]

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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]II. A prologue to Hell[/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Utterly exhausted, I arrive in Downieville – a place male Hellride contestant Rich Dillan insists (repeatedly) is Disney World. Granted, the town is tiny. And border-line cartoony. But the happiest place on earth? Right now it is my hell. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Behind me is a solid week of UCLA finals, full-time work at The Path Bicycle shop and apartment moving. Sleep-deprivation fogs over me. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]In front of me is the Santa Cruz Hellride – an all-day trek through the Sierra Nevada mountains onboard a Santa Cruz Nomad. The Nomad is a 6” travel bike, weighing in at about 30 lbs (the small). Light and aggressive, I aspire to win it for downhill racing. However, I have to complete the Hellride first – all 65 miles and 1,3000 upward feet of it. The riding is rumored to be exceedingly technical – exposure, boulders and creek-crossings are the norm. Picture sickeningly demented grades incarnated in gnarly single-track, and you are seeing the devil at work. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I have requested to do the ride with a single, 34 ring. In previous years the women have used three rings. Being a single-speeder myself, I am worthless in low gear. Moreover, I entertain the hope of slowing down cyclocross champion/downhill stud Rachel Lloyd – the pro assigned to “guide me” and “ride with me” (i.e. – Santa Cruz euphemisms for “the pro assigned to ride way ahead of you and scare you into speeding up, else you get lost in the wilderness and meet your fate as bear food”).

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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]All the main characters convene at Yuba Expeditions (a bike shop with an underground bar – the anachronistic town of Downieville has forgotten that the time of prohibition is past). [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Rich Dillan has big, blue incredulous eyes and ears that stick out. He is small, and his demeanor is boyish. His streams of fast, intelligent chatter are endearing. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[SIZE=3][FONT=Times New Roman]Santa Cruz big wig/ex Bike Magazine editor Mike Ferrentino is a cross between Samuel L. Jackson and Yoda. His soft, strong New Zealand (?) accent gives his speech that “epic factor.” The way he talks – head upturned, a gleam in his bespectacled eyes – gives his words gravity. You get the feeling he’s always ruminating. I can’t help but like Mike and Rich. [/FONT][/SIZE]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Male mountain bike pro Mark Weir looks rather jovial; the black, horn-like spikes of beard protruding from his chin exaggerate, rather than diminish, that joviality. Maybe it’s his eyes – orbs of laughter. Having found out I plan to have a bottle or two handed off to me during the ride, Weir remarks, “What is this, Nascar?” I am giggling inside. His ostensible grumpiness is likeable in a way. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[SIZE=3][FONT=Times New Roman]Scott (title?) is nice, and Rachel isn’t (but then, neither am I, really). “We’re going to ride with the men,” Rachel states at dinner. “I’d like to actually finish,” I reply, curtly. A slew of “when I was your age” stories ensues. And truth be told, my resume at 23 is comprised of a ton of nerdy, academic stuff; athletic endeavors are few and far between. I cannot match Rachel, and I do not try to. Instead, like a cantankerous tot, I complain about being tired. Bad idea. “Be careful about making excuses for yourself around others,” Rachel warns. That in mind, I drink my mandatory tequila shot instead of going to bed early, fully sober. [/FONT][/SIZE]

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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]III. The Hellride [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I am cutting through the wilderness, adeptly slicing up corners at high speed. Left, right, left … faster and faster. The trees fly at me. The wind is cool. Heaven! [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Then I wake up. To an alarm clock. At 7:00 am. Time for hell. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]At Yuba I eat a breakfast of oatmeal, banana and strawberries, all the while nervously watching the coffee pot. When will it stop brewing?! When will it stop brewing??!! I need my hit. I can’t ride without my hit. Panicked thoughts contort my thinking. Finally, I grab the pot (mid-brew) and guiltily pour myself a mug of coffee. The coffee machine spits out black liquid onto the kitchen counter-top. I must look like a reclusive junkie of sorts, but I can’t help it. My focus is on the coffee. Relieved, I drink it down. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Next thing I know, I am on the Nomad. It is 8:00 am, and we are off! There are four of us – Rachel, me, Aaron and Josh. Rachel starts fast, expertly cleaning technical sections of steep single-track. Aaron and I gape in awe. We keep our slower pace, chit-chatting about female bicycle racing. I tell Aaron the story of when I crashed and tore a hole through the back of my lycra, thereby flashing my bare bum to everybody. Josh trails behind. “Who is this guy?” I think. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I am breathing hard. But the Nomad feels light and nimble on the climbs. I ride it like a single-speed – slow on the flats and fast on the rollers. Finally, I have found a good saddle – the WTB Deva. Excited, I continue on, listening to my heavy breathing punctuated by the click-click-click of the gear changes. What a foreign sound! The beauty of the rich, green forest is overwhelming. I am feeling amazingly positive. At the junctions I meet Rachel with a big, goofy smile. A Frenchmen, Olivier (sp?), soon joins us. Rachel rattles off French to him. “Je ne parle pas fracais,” I say sheepishly. My five years of French fail me. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]The rest is a blur. The uphill single-track ends (15+ miles and 4,000+ feet of climbing), and the downhill begins. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Oliver rides ahead with Rachel. Aaron and her little, cross-country bike quit as things get ridiculously technical (picture: riding down extended sections of baby-head sized boulders). And for the last two-thirds of the ride it’s just Josh and I. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I bomb down the downhill, always riding a tad faster than my skill level permits. Even so, I cannot hang with Rachel and copy her lines as I had hoped. Her technical skills astound me. With Josh behind me, I create my own line. ‘Why is this guy riding behind me?’ I think. He is local to the area and knows these trails! I get the odd feeling he is sweeping, especially when I break my promise to Mike and crash (I had promised to keep my blood inside me, but I knew I was lying when I said it.) A small, unseen rock snags my front tire and I go over the bars, off the side of the trail and into a pile of branches. At high speed. “Owe! Owe! Owe!” I am screaming repeatedly. While in the air, my back had snapped backward, unnaturally. ‘Did I break it?!’ The thought flashes dangerously in my mind. Josh helps me up. While he surveys my bike, I stretch my back. It seems to work. I hop back on the Nomad. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]“Uhhhh … you know that time you flashed everybody, because you tore your lycra?” says Josh. “Yeah?” I say. “Well, it’s happened again.” And sure enough, I had torn a huge hole out of the backside of my lycra! Even more anxious to get back to town (the halfway point and lunch stop), I press on. Mortified. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]We soon hit town at 2:30, having completed 35 miles and God knows how much climbing. I still feel fresh. I drink down a Rockstar and a Sustained Energy drink. I am anxious to go, but my group is eating. So I concern myself with fixing silver packing tape over my lycra hole. In the restroom, I glance at the mirror. The image staring back at me is monstrous! – a quasi-human face completely submerged in layers of thick dirt. The chin is bleeding. Realizing I must have crashed on my butt AND face, I manically scrub my face. Before I have time to think, I rush out to my group and hop back on the Nomad, but not before I am told Rachel is tired. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Following the news of Rachel’s supposed fatigue; she immediately drops me on the hellaciousy steep fire road that ensues. The fire road just keeps going. And going. And the sun just keeps shining. And shinning. For the first time I am regretting requesting the single ring, as I can barely turn my cranks! I want to give up. I want to die. I am picturing the dead toe and requisite toe tag photo Santa Cruz used to advertise its Hellride. “That is going to be me,” I think. How clairvoyant of Santa Cruz! My thoughts are mumbled and jumbled, like rusted out bearings. Scott and Mike must know how horrible this section is, as they breeze by repeatedly on motos. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I fix my ailing mind on Josh, who is now coughing and promising to barf before the ride’s end – a spectacle to be much-anticipated. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]‘Who is this Josh guy? Why does he keep riding with me?’ Paranoia sets in. I turn to Josh, “So are you a spy hired by Santa Cruz?” I hedge my words with a smile. Surprised, he laughs. “No, I am your HELPER hired by Santa Cruz.” Sweet Jesus! I have a guardian angel! I revel in this thought. What’s more, I am exceedingly delighted in by brilliant detective work! I have managed to recognize the obvious at the 40 mile mark! Not bad. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]I find some renewed strength in these childish thoughts. And on I push. Soon the fire road levels out. Mike and Scott proffer good tidings: we are only three minutes behind Rachel and Frenchman Olivier. But I no longer care. I have a guardian angel! And an endorphin high. Wo-hoo! I am suddenly sure I will complete the ride. Every last bit before dark. Mike and Scott reassure me. And as the reality of it sinks in, I am so happy I have to choke back tears. I am surrendering to the ride. Pushing on. The euphoria is palpable. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Then we hit the ridge – where my story “begins.” Only here do I seal my surrender to this ride, to this mountain and to my fate as Hellride finisher. Mile 50. My mind is gone. And I am marching. This place feels more like a Staircase to heaven than a trail in hell. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Only one worry impedes my nirvana. Will I make it back before dark?! At the mountain top, we pose for photos. I ask the time. 6 pm? “You can always take fire road down,” Mike offers. I panic – all this and I may not complete the official Hellride course?! No way. Determination and focus stab through my gooey, emotional thoughts. For the next two hours I play a dangerous game – going as fast as I can downhill without falling. Given the state of my brain (fatigue is a vast understatement), I could not go too fast. At the same time, I was fighting the sun to sunset. When Mike and Scott gave me the “okay” to go down that last 3-mile stretch of single-track (lower first divide), fireworks went off in my heart. I was ecstatic. The bike no longer mattered – just finishing the ride. That feeling was priceless. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman][SIZE=3]Thanks to Santa Cruz. And special thanks to Scott, Mike, Josh and Keith – my “guardian angels” in hell. Thanks to socaltrailriders.org – my good friends and riding companions – for your support. [/SIZE][/FONT]
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[PacMan]

RR or Novella?

Congrats on finishing and the new ride.

[Schecky]

I just read it last night on the SC site.
Way to go Sauce!

[Von-Skipp]

Incredible ride report. Congratulations again!!

[Pain Freak]

Both very well done.What else can I say....Very, very impressed!!!