This is the story I posted to www.crankcollective.com following my race on Sunday (5/30/10).

The final descent to the start/finish area was loose and granular, but familiar enough that, conditions be damned, I was going to let it rip. Internal dialog insisted that I finish strong. Don’t blow it with a stupid mistake, but don’t lily dip, either. And so it was when I broke out of the steep walls and shelter of the namesake Hartman Rocks I found myself at the end of more than 60 miles of toil, sweat, and digging deep. Emotion welled up like oil spilling from a blown shock. Pride, relief, happiness, and the other swirling psychological stew that comes with more than seven hours of riding the bike hard all came to a head.

The cowbell and MC mispronouncing my name, community cheering, and my last all out drive for the line ended a years worth of planning and preparation. Crossing the line is anti-climactic in a lot of ways. It takes an instant after a day of doing battle with yourself, the rest of the field, and the terrain and if you get some cowbell (I hope you do) and have some high-fives, then you are left to consider it all.

So I stood in the dust and drank and ate to recover and tried to recall what it took to get where I was. A year earlier I had finished and been glad that I did all 64 miles of the Full Growler. After reflecting it seemed I was capable of more (I finished in 7:51:24). I re-set my expectations for 2010.

My preparation was nowhere near where I wanted it to be this year, despite all the planning. I have two young sons and have to balance my career and my wife’s with raising our kids and keeping the household running. I had business trips and time with the boys that cut into when I had planned on training. That said, as a married father of two, I got some miles in. I put a lot more thought into making sure my nutrition was dialed. But you can plan all year for anything and you can bet that it doesn’t really matter if fate has something else in store for you. So I went into the 2010 Original Growler with a plan and, what I hoped would be more important for reaching my personal goals, heart.



From the time the gun blasted at 7 AM and the neutral roll out left town, I was mostly just living in the little bubble around me with friends. The hum of knobbies on the pavement as 350 or so riders left town was mesmerizing. Between the excitement of the day in front of me and trying to get some feeling back into my fingers, it was 32 degrees at 6:30 AM, I was really in a world of my own surrounded by strange bike and rider shaped planets in nearby orbit.

As the peleton hit the dirt and started hammering up Kill Hill I was content to pedal with the group. The trails were dry with mixed sand and hardpack throughout the course, sending dust clouds into the crisp morning air. Where I was in the pack meant I was moving at an inchworm’s pace like an accordion through every turn and technical maneuver. While I didn’t mind the time to warm up, it was a little tense.

It took some time for the riders to spread out, but things picked up and I found myself with local legend Dave Scheefer, a 50-something who has a serious motor and loves to race his bike. I felt good riding with him knowing he would have a good pace and wouldn’t be backing down for a latte. So I stuck it out with a good pace, checking off section after section of singletrack and passing a steady stream of competitors.

Hartman’s isn’t like the North Shore of Vancouver, it is a high alpine desert with rolling hills, sage brush, and amazing Zen garden rock formations dotting the landscape. The climbs can have technical sections and steep, punchy, sections, but the topography is not as extreme as neighboring Crested Butte, so there is time to recover and enjoy a little scenery. That said, Hartman’s also does not relent. It is a constant seesaw of up and down and high-speed WFO singletrack into technical sections that will challenge your bike handling skills and force you to work hard to get back up to speed after negotiating through the rock gardens.

Skull Pass is one of two sustained climbs that work to break the riders. It is the halfway point in the course and home to an aid station you pass on the way down and again when climbing back out. The aid station is full of kind individuals who would take your water bottle and refill it while you rode Skull Pass and give it back on your way back out. They served all kinds of fruit, beverages, and even bacon, which I didn’t see, unfortunately. It is an oasis between tough trails and a morale boost when riders need it. And there is a little toy dinosaur that keeps popping up on the road into Skull Pass – this year with a doobie in his funny little arms. Classic.

As a part of my 2010 resolution to be a smarter racer, I filled my hydration reservoir with Gu Brew, an electrolyte replenishment mix. In the limited racing I have done in the last several years, cramping has been an issue, so on the suggestion of a friend I loaded up on the stuff I know my body needs – foregoing straight water for the first time ever. I electrical taped four Gu gels to my top tube as well. This was another great suggestion from friends. As I tore the gels off the tabs stayed on the tube with the tape and I was able to down the gel and stash the packet in my back pocket (yes I wear baggies) without having to worry about the pesky little tab. This set up served me well as my energy stayed consistent and it kept the cramps at bay.

The miles ticked away and I made good headway passing other riders and maintaining good output. Outback, 9-0, Back In, Bamabi’s, and then the second of the formidable climbs – which, if it has a name besides the power line climb, I don’t know – a loose jeep road that is a sandy, steep series of switchbacks that brought the stream of riders to a staggering slog. But I rode it. The whole thing. Which I have never done in my life, but found the right lines and loved riding past all the hikers. Of course I was destroyed at the top of the climb, but I was also proud and had some more mellow jeep road to recover before getting back onto the singletrack. It felt like a little victory within the battle.

At the top of Josho’s I looked at my watch – something else I added to my race kit – and made some mental calculations that told me I thought I’d need to be back at the same spot by 2:00 PM if I want to beat my 2009 time. From that spot there was only one significant climb and a handful of punchy, challenging sections before the final descent to the start/finish area. With numbers swirling around in my noggin, I knocked out the last few miles with a group of riders in close proximity. As I rolled across the line the clock read 3:35 – exactly the same time as 2009. I would have my work cut out for me.

There was a real race going on that took place out of my view. Three-time event winner Travis Brown and Trek/Bontrager rider Kelly Magelky were crushing the course with a couple others out at the front. Melissa Thomas was owning it in the ladies field, but I never saw any of it.

When I hopped off my bike near my cooler - which the volunteers so helpfully brought out and put in the order of our numbers – the neutral support tent was vacant and the mechanics were just chilling. A young mechanic asked what he could do and I asked if he would clean my drivetrain and check my back brake to make sure it wasn’t rubbing. He was on it. The volunteer by the coolers asked if he could help, so I asked him to trade out my reservoirs – I had a second one in the cooler with another flavor Brew. Then my hands were free and I stuffed my face with a banana and salted cashews and I guzzled Gatorade. I am sure it wasn’t pretty.

The mechanic not only buffed my bike out, he re-taped more Gu gels onto my top tube and let me get my gloves on and get ready to rally. These people were so cool and I am grateful and humbled for their efforts.

And then it was on. Lap two. I saw Dave Scheefer take off before me as well as a local team jersey and made a mental note that they were there before starting to pedal up Jack’s. Immediately after leaving the pits I was elated. Five seconds later reality set in that I had 32 miles to go and I needed to ride the course better than I did the first lap or I was going to fail to meet my goals. I felt pretty good.

Usually there is a telltale pain that makes itself known early on in a ride. That pain will be the ache-du-jour and will accompany me for the duration of the ride. My low back would be my partner for this day and it was consistent with its nagging for attention. Throughout the first lap, when the scenario permitted, I would arch my back by straightening up and placing my package dangerously close to the stem. This was sweet relief, but a sketchy situation while zipping down a bumpy stretch of singletrack at race speed.

Lap two moves into the technical singletrack right away. I got stuffed twice on the Ridge Trail, but managed to stay positive and ride through to Top of the World rubber side down. I could see Dave and his bright orange Salsa climbing, and the local jersey not far beyond him. I was closing in on them.

Staying committed to my race plan was an important aspect of the 2010 program and I wasn’t sure if the competitiveness or the pace I was carrying was the reason I was making headway. During the first lap I spent a lot of time thinking about how beautiful it was, how nice the sage smelled, and thinking of my son’s faces to keep me positive and happy to be racing in such a good event. On the second lap I started assessing my position, output, ability to recover, amount of fluids and nutrition and worrying that I was going too hard.

This is all relative, of course, because the really fast riders – and there were a lot of those – were already half way through their second lap hammering at breakneck speeds. I was consistent and moving along, but the big guns were absolutely flying.

As the course unfolded again I caught and passed the once distant riders in front of me and continued to monitor the level of pain in my back versus output from my engine. The legs felt good – no major issues and, though I did feel a couple sneaking attempts, the cramps were at bay. I continued to assault the technical features and climbs like I would any day riding with friends, and made a lot of passes sticking with that program. I ate gels at the same locations I had in the first lap and kept gel blocks stuffed between my cheeks and gum to dissolve as I went about my ride. If I had gauges to watch on a dashboard, everything would have looked good.

On Skull Pass I caught up to a sweat drenched dude pushing his rigid singlespeed up the steep, loose, trail talking to himself. When I caught him he was friendly but clearly fairly well destroyed, The Bonk had caught up with him. I passed him and another rider before ascending back to the aid station where another great volunteer handed me a mini can of Coke. I guzzled what I could and stuffed a couple more gel blocks into my mouth before riding up towards the Outback.

I was feeling good - a little euphoric, even. Then a racer in a sweet lycra racing kit blew by me like I was riding on flats. Then another dude in the same kit smoked me and in a way-too-fresh voice offered some stoke. Damn, what just happened? I was sucking down a gel from the aid station, but I was in mid-ring and cruising along. Was I slowing down? Were there a lot of people that had taken the first lap slowly to conserve energy for a blazing second lap? There was no way I was going to match the speed of the cats that just lit me up. I was confused and all of a sudden a little nervous. I looked over my shoulder to see if there were anymore coming before cresting the hill and dropping in to the Outback. Didn’t see any more of them, but just because your not paranoid doesn’t mean they are not after you. So I kept at it, raging through the sage, dancing through the terrain and sucking down my sugary lifeblood.

In my limited racing past there was always something that brought me down and siphoned my energy and will. Sometimes there were physical limitations and sometimes there were mental roadblocks – sometimes both. But today was different. My belly felt good, energy wasn’t dipping and my aches were all manageable. The climbs were taking a toll, but I had handled Skull Pass and was coming up on the power line climb quickly. The loose sand of 9-0 hurt and I was passed again, but also managed to pick off a couple more riders before hitting the jeep road where I was able to get in big ring and motor to build a gap.



During the second climb up the power line road gravity had a stronger grip on me. The sand was sandier; the steepness was steeper. I walked three times, but always re-mounted when there was firm dirt to get purchase. I passed a handful of riders there and then it was done. Skyline, Brocken Shovel (where I whooped and fist pumped Jefe) and then up to Josho’s.

I checked my watch at the pre-determined spot. Thirty-five minutes ahead of schedule! My back was tight and begging me to back down, but I crested the hill and dropped into the descent riding in the back stretch position. Maybe not the smartest move, but it felt so good to address the pain. Back in the attack position I arched through the turns and pumped the rolls of Josho’s better than I did during the first lap. The climb out was on my mind, but I loved flowing through the trees on the descent.

When you have close to 60 miles under your belt and the race is almost over, it should be a cakewalk, but this race is tough. The climb out of Josho’s starts with a steep climb, then goes into a few technical moves before ending on a steep, soft, straight climb into a saddle. It hurt. My back, legs, lungs, and will were all strained. Troy, last years eighth place finisher was reclined in a camp chair, arm in a sling, cheering everyone on. That was cool.

Rattlesnake, Becks, Notch, Backbone, Finish. The route was something I had done so many times over the past 20 years. It was something that I had raced through with friends in college and with different groups of friends that come and go in life up here in the high country. I could see a couple riders in the distance as I entered Rattlesnake. I resolved to leave it all on the trail. Go as hard as I could to the finish and leave no regrets on the course.

Again, I went after every technical section as if I was being chased by a college roommate hell bent on bragging rights. My body ached and mind called for a rational, more conservative approach, but something deep was at work within me and I pushed as hard as I could. Caught another rider and passed him. Caught two more at the base of a gully where they didn’t seem to have the energy to get off their bikes and walk them through the crux of the move. I pounced from rock to rock and remounted my bike in what was surely a less than graceful series of maneuvers. But I was back on the pedals and attacking. Saw my friend Kurt taking photos and he encouraged me on.

Picked off another rider. Hammer down. Big ring. Go hard. Becks. There is probably no trail in the world I have ridden more than Becks, I blinked once and I was arching left on the big berm. Blinked again and I was launching off the big rock on the right hand corner. Blinked again and I was wagging my ass through the s-turns at the bottom before flying across the road and up into the notch. Another blink and I was through the tech staircase moves and getting a photo taken while I pedaled through the notch and dropped into the downhill.

In the shelter of the Backbone I told myself to finish strong, to keep it going and not let up. I floated over the rocks and through the sand before gunning it under the Cottonwood trees and out into the open and the final short series of trails to the finish.

It was here that it hit me - the emotional welling. So close to being done. So much focus and determination and physical output. I knew that I was not “in the race” but that was not anywhere near on my mind. My wife and kids had supported me through trying to prepare and my friends had been encouraging and humored my ride requests to suit preparation. I’d raced before, but never fully committed and delivered like this. My eyes filled with tears. I banked left onto the last stretch of singletrack and augured into my pedals. I slid through the last significant right-hander and stood up to lever all that I had into the drive train.

I heard the MC call my bib number and read out my name (pronouncing it Korlton – which is what some of my best friends call me – but not the correct pronunciation). I saw Marko shaking the cowbell and heard a lot of shouts of encouragement from voices in the crowd. Then I looked up and saw the time on the clock; 7:08:28.