Sorry for the delay, no long plane flights over the past week to get this done – until today. From seat 12D, here’s the skinny on Leadville 2010…
The goal: 104 miles, 12,700 feet of climbing, all above 10,000 feet. Do it in less than 12 hours and you’ve got yourself a silver buckle.
This Leadville was almost perfect. Almost. The travel out was perfect, the biked arrived, we arrived, met my dad at the airport, and we got to Leadville without a hitch. The weather was perfect – sunny skies and temps in the 70s during the day, 30s at night (we’re sleeping at 10,500 feet – about the height of Everest base camp).
The number of entrants has tripled since my first Leadville four years ago, so that means an early morning on race day to get a slot as close to the front as possible. If not, the price may be walking the first climb if you get stuck behind a crowd.
Not a problem for Kent as he’s a top finisher and guaranteed a slot in the first row. It’s a star-studded event up there with a who’s-who of pros as the race gains in popularity.
However, the rest of the Omaha gang (with a Boston adoptee) got up about 430a to hit the start line about 515a. The guys were genius – they parked our van at the corner of the start so we could stay warm while the temps hovered in the mid-30s.
The start went great – we picked a line up the side, and passed A TON of people. Hands felt numb as we descended to the base of the first climb. Looked down and temp gauge said 27 degrees. Haven’t felt that since January!
Made great time over the first two climbs and started descending the 2nd climb and was right behind a huge crash. Over a dozen riders and one injured badly (turns out several surgeons were in his group and saved his life -- he's recovering in a Denver hospital and will be fine thanks to the immediate care he received on the trail from fellow racers). That sobered all of us up.
A guy who I'd get to know as "Denver Mike" came up behind me, asked me how many kids I had and if I wanted to see them again (hmm, where is this going?). If so, follow his wheel and he’d get us down the most treacherous part of the descent in one piece.
Sign me up!
Someone caught this pic at the bottom of the descent -- treacherous part done. Denver Mike and I traded life stories over the next 15 miles.
Hit the first aid station (Kerri runs a great show) and hit the split for 10.5 hours total time right on the nose. Psyched.
Sag-chief extraordinaire Connor was quarterbacking the second rest stop at the base of the big climb – up to 12,700 feet at the Columbine Mine. Connor had everybody’s splits and my food ready to go. Kent was hanging at the front, Lebo just ahead of
me.
No sign of Jim yet.
Knowing he’d catch me on the way up, I hit the climb.
On the flanks of the climb, the leaders where coming at me after their turnaround. First Levi Leipheimer (holy small human) and then JHK, Todd Wells, Wiens, Tinker, etc. The climb went well – I get woozy at the same spot each year just below the tree line. Just in time for Jim to come up behind me doing his Forrest Gump routine. I was in no mood. ;)
Just above the tree line, the trail gets steep and rough – softball sized strewn rocks rough. With racers descending, there are no rideable lines, so the hike-a-bike starts 3 miles from the top. To add to the mental challenge, you can see a long string of riders hiking to a long-ways-away peak.
Whether it’s road or mountain, there’s a random experience in nearly all of these races.
Somehow two yahoos manage to get a beat up old station wagon, a grill and a sound system up there. Blaring 70s rock echos out behind a sign that reads, “Free PBRs and Hot Dogs”. Huh?
All of the sudden a guy in a tux appears with a tray of hot dogs and beer. “Come on, you want one!”
“Buddy, I’ll hurl if I have a hot dog up here. I’m dying.” But I’m laughing out loud.
This is when the hordes of people in the race this year begin to make a difference. Folks are hiking slowly and there’s no room to pass.
The top eventually comes and Jim coming right at me as I’m coming into the turnaround. There’s a ½ mile climb out of the turnaround before the descent starts. I bark out something - this time, he’s in no mood for my humor.
The descent goes great, Denver Mike and I ride it down together and I’m back for Connor’s feed tracking an hour ahead of last year’s time. Feeling really great.
Got to shout out to Lisa Lebovitz out supporting Steve – it’s a LONG day for all of these volunteers. She'd already been out there for 6 hours when I passed on the return.
Took off, got to the feed at mile 72, still way ahead of last year’s buckle time and feeling strong. I took on a fresh Camelbak and headed towards the soul-breaker of the day -- the 25% plus ramps of the Powerlines.
Up to the base of the Powerlines, feeling great, ride the bottom until it’s too steep to ride and join the hikers.
All of the sudden, my race comes apart. A pain shoots through my gut and I’m doing what I told the hot dog vendor I wouldn’t do: I’m hurling uncontrollably. It came on like a lightening bolt. Every few steps. “What is happening? Why now? All of this training. Argh.”
I can’t ride, all I can do is hike and lean over the edge of the trail. I can’t keep any liquid down. That’s not good in these conditions – it’s hot out and we’re on an exposed face.
It’s never happened before, but my legs cramp while WALKING. My quads are seizing about every dozen steps. Once so fast I literally fall over.
At that point I remembered Mike Moran’s amazing grit in walking up Alpe d’Huez on a 100 degree day a couple of years ago at the Etape -- crippled by cramps, just to make the finish under his own power. Mike’s one of the strongest guys you’ll run across on a bike. Thanks for the inspiration Mike!
I ended up walking the whole climb. Knowing I had a second big climb coming, I was worried. How do you finish the last 3 hours of a 12 hour race without any food or water? Not good.
I descended Hagerman’s pass down to the paved road, pulled out a gel and tried to force it down. No luck. Almost dropped out there, but for the encouragement of a race worker who looked at me without any sympathy and just said, “keep going.”
Oh boy. Reached the base of Turquoise lake and the clock reads 10:20. There goes my target. Three guys are sitting on a rock at the base of the climb, looking up numbers in the race guide and calling riders by name. “Alright Jon! You can make it dude! 2.5 miles to the aid station, 4 miles to the top. Go!”
I pedaled hard and reached the aid station at 10:50. Knowing that it was an hour from this point to the finish, hope for a buckle sprang up again.
Aid station workers rushed up – “what do you need?”
“Got any Sprite?”
“Yeah, just a second.”
Sprite inhaled and then Vesuvius immediately strikes again. This is one-heck of a weight loss program!
After five up-chucks in a row, the medical doc comes over and presents me with a choice: stay here and wait 3 hours for the course to clear or try to make it on your own.
I was worried about Connor at the finish. No cell coverage up here to let him know. I could see him at the line worrying as the clock turned closer to twelve hours, so decided to trudge on. Another mile and a half of walk-riding, finally to the top and am now cramping on the descents!
Now onto the flats and just eight miles to go, but only 30 minutes to do it. I try to dig for 16 mph, but am totally empty. My luck runs out at the base of the final boulevard climb (2-3 miles) where I just can’t turn the pedals faster than 10mph.
Luckily, Rick Sanders from Omaha is there. He’s been battling his own private hell with mechanicals that have sapped his day.
Rick offers to pace me in. “No, Rick, go on ahead, you don’t have to wait for me in slow-mo mode here.”
He insists. I pedal, cramp, stop. Repeat. Rich just encourages. An awesome showing of friendship.
We finally get to the edge of town and the up-chucking feeling returns. Embarrassed, I have to hop off of the bike for the last riser by the high school.
There are three silhouettes at the top of the rise. Kent, Connor and my little niece Ellie.
Kent finished in under 8 hours and has been out running and pushing 150 riders over this hill. He’s one of the most unselfish sportsman I’ve ever seen. Waiting until the last rider in our group crosses each year.
Rick and I mount up for the last ½ mile and get a great push from Connor, Kent and Ellie.
We cross the line together, completely rung out in 1230. No buckle, but a medal.
In the last 28 miles, I’d gone from a 
hour up on my time to an hour down. Holy melt down.
We crossed the line and the sickness returned. John DeTore was there alongside my Dad, Chris, and Kent -- they literally carried me into the medical tent.
The docs re-hydrated me over the next 90 minutes and the creepy crawlies that snuck into my Camelbak let me go later that night.
Thanks Dad, Connor, Rick, Kent, Chris, Kerri (awesome crew), Rita, Jim, Ellie, Dillon and Lowell. You all rock.
Other than switching to bottles from a Camelbak, not much to do differently. The bike was great and the race was great up until the last feed. Partially, I do these races to see where my limits are. Boy, did I get a close-up of that this year.
Three for three finishes at Leadville, one buckle. I’ve officially retired (at least for now).
Got to go, time for a Hot Dog and a PBR.
Now, if you aren't asleep yet and want to read the story of a really tough guy -- read this friend of Steve's account:
Thursday, Aug. 19, 2010
Wiedmer: Flying by the seat of his pants
Most of us would love to set or break a sports record. Be it Barry Bonds’ 762 major league career homers, the late Wilt Chamberlain’s 100-point NBA game or Brett Favre’s un-retirements, a record isn’t just made to be broken, it can sometimes break down barriers between generations.
Then there’s the cycling record local attorney Jamey Hurst set this past weekend during a mountain bike race in Colorado.
“I set the new course record for the most miles ever ridden in the Leadville Trail 100 without a seat,” said Hurst on Wednesday. “Twenty miles.”
That’s not 20 miles total, standing up the whole time, draining as that sounds. Those 20 miles came early. Hurst actually rode 79 miles after those 20 he peddled before he was sorta/kinda/somewhat able to re-attach his seat.
“The bolt holding my seat to the seat-post broke,” explained the 41-year-old Hurst. “The seat popped off between my legs. I pulled off of the trail and tried every McGyver trick conceivable to hold the seat on. I unscrewed every non-essential bolt. I tried twisty ties; tying it on with my arm warmers; and wedging it on the seat post. Nothing worked. By the time I realized my efforts were futile, the entire field was completely out of sight.”
Yet he somehow peddled on, riding literally by the seat of his pants, which might be one reason close friend Brad Cobb — who finished the race more than two hours before Hurst — said afterward, “He’s such a hardhead, he wouldn’t quit.”
It had been a humbling weekend for Cobb and Hurst long before he lost his seat, thanks to a previously secret accident that became public last Friday.
Two years ago — while riding in the Cohutta (Ga.) 100 ultra mountain bike race — the two met Floyd Landis, the disgraced Tour de Fraud winner who was then attempting to say his positive drug tests at the Tour de France were a mistake.
Having befriended Landis at the Cohutta event, Cobb and Hurst offered to bring his bike to him for the next race in Ohio, since they were also racing there. Landis thanked them and told them he’d see both them and the bike in a few days.
But on the drive from Chattanooga to Ohio — despite tightly securing the Landis ride to a specialized rack attached to a trailer — the rack broke somewhere north of Lexington, Ky., on Interstate 75 and the bike disappeared.
“We thought we knew pretty much where it had come off,” said Hurst, “and we searched like crazy for it for two or three hours, but we never found it.”
A few weeks ago someone working on a Kentucky highway clean-up crew found the bike and sold it to Greg Estes of Owenton, Ky., for $5. When he began researching it and found out it had once belonged to Landis, it became a national story, complete with Landis revealing the names of Cobb and Hurst to a couple of New York City journalists.
“Contrary to what some people said — not the New York Daily News writers, but others — Landis was great about the whole thing,” said Cobb. “He could have cared less. We called him as soon as it happened. When we got to Ohio, he bought us a beer and we went out to dinner.”
Still, by the time the Leadville race started on Saturday, Hurst, Cobb and fellow Chattanooga rider Stephen Lebovitz were ready to put the Landis story behind them.
At least until Hurst’s seat broke.
“The Leadville’s an out and back course,” said Cobb. “So on my way back, going 25 miles an hour, I pass Jamey, who’s going about two miles an hour up a mountain. I was like, ‘What happened to him?’”
At that point, what hadn’t happened? His seat had broken before the 103-mile course was five miles done, he had raced the 20 miles without a seat, thinking all matter of thoughts, most of them bad.
There were obvious anatomical considerations — “Fortunately, my wife and I have quit having children,” laughed the father of Eliza (10), Colmore (8) and Adelaide (6) — but how long could he continue without a seat?
“I had a choice, ride back to the start or see how far I could make it with no seat,” said Hurst. “I chose option B. My plan was to make it to the first crew-supported aid station at about mile 30 and quit.”
But then he started passing racers, many of whom incredulously shouted, “Dude, where’s your (expletive) seat?”
Said Hurst, “I must have heard ‘Dude’ 1,000 times.”
But he also heard a couple named Justin and Becka ask if they could help. They promised to take his seat down the mountains, get it fixed and meet him at the aid station, which they did.
But that was just the beginning. Already three hours and 15 minutes into the race, Hurst had to reach the bottom of the Columbine Climb in 45 minutes or be pulled from the course, since anyone who’s taken four hours to go that far is deemed unfit to finish the race.
“To be honest, I welcomed the prospect of being timed out,” Hurst e-mailed friends earlier this week, including the Bubbas, a local cycling group he rides with on weekends. “If I missed the cut off, I could avoid the torture of an 8-plus mile climb into thin air. Even if I made the cut off, how could I make the climb? I was spent.”
Somehow he made the cutoff, his computer showing a time of 3:59. But then he fell off his bike, which caused “an embarrassing temper tantrum in which I tossed my bike into the brush.”
Yet for some reason he got back on and kept riding. And riding. And riding, eventually passing more than 1,000 bikers to finish in a respectable 10:46, good for 532nd place, though well behind Cobb and Lebovitz.
And greeting him at the finish was everyone from Brad and Stephen, to the Good Samaritans Justin and Becka, to his wife Louisa — whom he’d cursed at the 30-mile aid station for asking if he was OK.
“I told her I loved her and gave her a kiss,” he said of reaching her at the finish line.
Cobb gave him the dreaded “Frog,” an ugly little ceramic figure for whichever finishes last among the trio.
Then it was back to the hotel, where someone asked him, “Hey, did you hear about that crazy fella who rode that race without a seat?’
Replied Hurst, “No, I missed that.”
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