After a 5 hour layover in Houston, on the flight down we meet a nice couple from Phoenix, Zach Heim and his girlfriend Alejandra. He'd done some hundred miler mountain bike events, but not any stage race biking. This was his first time at La Ruta, and he was looking forward to it. He’d followed it for years, and finally bit the bullet, registering and bringing along Alejandra as his companion.
Arriving in San Jose well after sunset, and are faced with a customs line took an hour to clear, but fortunately caught the Best Western shuttle bus right away. Put our bikes together ASAP, did a test spin in the parking lot, and hit the hay at 1am.
We wake up relatively early on Thursday and head down to Denny’s for some calories, bus to Jaco leaves at 10am. Jose, one of the race employees (and incidentally, ¼ of the male population of Costa Rica), gives a very informative and articulate overview of Costa Rica as we drive. It’s a bit like watching National Geographic from the front seat of the bus. Among other things, we stop on a large bridge, look down to the rio below, and check out some bad ass looking crocodillos. At 2 pm we're checked into hotel. It’s worth noting here, that at one point while discussing the local climate, Jon summed it up well by miming the breast stroke through the air – it’s hot, humid and thick.
We nervously chat with out fellow participants, turns out Marla Streb and her husband/baby are with us, and she was sporting the single speed world champion shoulder tattoo. Darryl Jones, Jon and I head out for a warmup ride after checking into the race and getting our gear bag and timing chips. I struggle to keep up, legs are feeling dead and I feel hot. I assume that pushing through this for an hour will be good for the acclimation and that tomorrow my legs will snap back, since after all I’ve been in travel limbo for 36 hours now, which is never good for the legs. Sun sets quick, we head for dinner, check out the local chicas parading up and down the street. It’s hot, so lots of clothing is a definite faux pas (or maybe that’s falsos something??). And recall we’re firmly centered in “Latino world” here, where the fashion motto is “if it ain’t tight, it ain’t right”. This is a direct translation by me, using no Spanish, but rather just my eyes. Beach cruiser bikes are the most common form of transportation, when Tim Bresznyak sees this scene he and Tracey might be hooked, as surfing, biking and cervezas are all readily available. We head back to drop off our bikes and shuttle back to our hotel. Darryl has motocross “mud off” spray we all use, that turns out to be surprisingly effective. I notice my rear tire isn’t holding air well, so I bring it back to my room to remedy the situation.
Day 1
My alarm is set for 3am, but I wake up at 10 to 3. I put on my cycling kit, see the pitch black morning outside, and throw on a long sleeved shirt to head over to breakfast. Opening the door to leave the room, I realize I was dead wrong, it's hot and muggy out before the sun even shines. I ditch the shirt and head over to scarf down some calories. The food is very good. Boarding the bus at 3:45 to make our way to the race start, I notice the thermometer on the bus says 28C. We start at 5:15 and warm up for a couple of k's before heading up the first large climb. I feel decent, but can feel my cardiac workload is too high for my power output, as my body has the added task of trying to keep cool. I'm doing ok through the Carrerra national park, but instead of last year's "cooling" rain, the air is still and stifling. 48 hours ago I was shoveling my driveway. The first twinges of doubt enter my mind. I'm riding the climbs, hitting the difficult downhill's with gusto. I love my tire choice, and find world champion single speeder and known downhill animal Marla Streb behind me at one point. She starts by asking to pass, but I request a 15 second trial period for her to guage if I'm really slowing her down. I lead for the next several downhills, she passes me on a climb. Later on, I learn she had crashed 4 times and didn’t start stage two. I take credit for slowing her down enough to be safer ; )
After check point two I really start to suffer. I should have started the morning with a second bathroom stop as per normal race practice, but the early start threw me off. At about the 4.5 hour mark I'd degraded to heat exhaustion and bonk phase. Somewhere in here Louise Kobin passes me, and I thought how if I were just a few IQ points higher how I should have paced off her all day. I crawled into check point 3, found a bano, and took time to eat and drink. I was resuscitated only temporarily and began to suffer on the subsequent climb. Instead of last years paved climb, we went the "back way" around the same mountain which featured climbing via muddy 20+% grade "jeep" trail. I saw 4 incidences of stuck dirt bikes and 2 incidences of stuck 4WD quads on this section.
This was by far the hardest day on a bike I've had. My suffering begins to crescendo. It starts by my legs slowing, then I hang my head at all opportunity. At the low point, I find myself sitting with my head between my knees, wondering what on earth made me come back. I promise myself that I’ll slap my fingers with a ruler next time my hand directs my mouse anywhere near the “register” button on the La Ruta web site. I decide to lie down for a brief moment, and when I do, I shut my eyes. Unfortunately, I’m shivering. I begin dreaming instantly, and picture myself lying on my parent’s couch when I was a kid, their house was always kept cool. I have my deceased cat Fuzz with me, and I’m happy. I feel the need to pee, and I smile, happy to have some fluids left in me. Of course, they’d be more useful in my cells and blood, but regardless I’m happy in this dream. The incessant mud and river crossings really reset my concept of filth, I have no shame peeing in my shorts at this point. I begin to wake, and am happy that my pee is warming me up. Some dude is walking up the hill and asks if I’m ok. I ponder before answering, realizing that I’m relishing the warmth of pee to curb my shivering, despite the fact I’m in severe tropical heat. In my head I know I’m approaching the realm of “screwed”, but I tell him I’m fine.
It’s an experience to witness the war zone of the mid-pack privateers. On the long climb, a Brit in front of me asked one of the race Range Rovers if he had water. Nope. “How long till next checkstop then mate?” Seises kilometers mas. “Seises?” He replies holding up 6 fingers for confirmation. Si. He then holds his arm upward asking if it's all uphill. Si. Demoralized, he drops his bike to the ground, collapses to the ground himself, and lies face down on the dirt. Are you going to be ok? someone asks. “I find it impossible to answer that quite frankly” he says in his cockney, consonant swallowing working side of London accent. Being this far back in the field at this point, and suffering myself, gave me huge appreciation for the cut-off time beaters who finish this race. It was like warfare out there, people dropping like flies. The sides of the trail had people lying down in the most miniscule amounts of shade. As I passed, strong recreational athletes on their turf would beg for water and gels. Sitting on the trail, I pass one fellow and say “I feel your pain man, just take a breather and keep moving.” He weakly replies “can you spare a gel/swig of water?" Yeah man, but only a little, this is all I’ve got. He replies "Thanks man, really appreciate it. I won't take too much, or you'll end up like me. We all gotta survive." It was sublimely philosophical. I try to stay positive, but it’s always challenging in a bonk, and it’s super hard for me to eat in that heat, I was just force feeding myself in an unpleasant manner. Why did I ever sign up for this race again? I only get 4 weeks vacation a year, who in their right mind does this to themselves? Don’t I have better things to spend money on? Like hot dogs, I really wanted hot dogs with mustard. And those meat balls at Ikea. I should sell all my bikes as a preventative measure to avoid this behavior. It certainly is fascinating though to watch the armies of leaf cutter ants marching toward their homes. Some of the lines stretch for 30m or more. I wonder to myself if they could somehow band together to carry my bike.
The course was like riding in a steam room where the entire ceiling was an overpowered heat lamp, with zero air movement (sweat doesn't evaporate to cool you), while trying to proceed up a 22% grade (quoting Marg's GPS), with less than perfect traction in the mud, up the "feature climb" which was essentially 1,200m vertical and 30km. Pushing my bike at this point, I realize I forgot to put my tool bag on under my seat. I hope that life can't be cruel enough to throw mechanicals into the mix at this point. I’m a decently well prepared amateur athlete, and this is pure torture. The problem is I can’t sustain enough Watts to ride these hills at the ambient temperature, I need either less grade or less heat. The combo easily puts me over my limits. Paez admitted to walking, Bishop stopped to cool off in a waterfall to help him continue. When the top percentage of riders had a hard time making it between checkstops, you know the privateers are going to be in a world of pain.
I crossed somewhere around the 10.5 hour mark. 510 people started day 1, and I believe I heard at the 12 hour mark at the finish line that only 250 had crossed. Honestly, from the 5 hour mark on, I was bonking. Fortunately, there is liberal breaking of the official assistance rules on course, which state among other things that you can only receive feeds in the proper feed zones. With this year's stage one being substantially longer than day 1 last year, and without the benefit of cooling rains, assistance was necessity. Like any modern society, there are rules, then there's a higher plane of morality that (most) people have to help guide them. There's a bit of a sharing spirit at TR, and probably moreso the further back in the pack one rides, but the first stage of La Ruta crushes people into a brotherhood. They may be only inches from the other side of the line where they need help themselves. And it's not just convenience help, it's the “I'm no longer too proud to admit that there's likely no way I can make it to the finish line on my own” type of help. So many bonked, lost souls, mine included, were saved by locals offering plastic baggies of coca (flat coke), jugo (not really juice, more like hot McDonalds orange drink), or agua (never was too comfortable with the source). Occasionally you could find a guy with sugar cane too.
Upon finishing (10.5 hrs vs. Paez at 6:00.25!), I'm greeted by a surprisingly energetic Jon, who is bouncing around helping the half of my former self that remains with my heavy rain soaked bag even after expending enough energy to come in as the first Canadian on day on, 17th overall. It's raining, and I slowly work up to the task of putting some post race nutrients into my stomach, have an uncomfortably cold shower (it's not too cold out, but my body is unwilling to burn any more calories to effectively regulate my temperature), and hit the massage table. I'm led to my table, which unbeknown to me, is staffed by a masseur who I'll refer to as Wayne, since his talent for massage puts him on par in his profession with the hallowed place Wayne Gretzky occupies in hockey. "Wayne" was probably about 5'4", likely 40 years old, had short cropped hair with layered with plenty of inexpensive Costa Rican gel, a well manicured and stylishly trimmed moustache (if you believe in such a thing), multiple gold chains, a well tailored trim fitting cherry red track suit top covering his svelte frame, color coordinated shorts that were dangerously close to hot pants, bright white mid calf athletic socks, and the local equivalent of a puma flat bottom weight lifting shoe. His vocation could have easily been DJ'ing ill house beats in Brooklyn on a his prized turn-table with some serious hi-fi equipment rather than working me over on a table somewhere in the Costa Rican jungle. My initial assessment was that of the choice of Costa Rican women, a decent chica or two amongst them, was that I'd just been led to the table of the local flamer. As I wearily climbed up onto the table, both quads began to cramp as I lay down on my stomach. Other than my quads, the only other muscular contractions my body was mustering had to do with my heart and lungs. When the cramping commenced, I started to do a push up so I could roll to my side and clutch my quads, but I was interrupted by his Costa Rican massage ju-jitsu. In a flash he chopped my wrist out from under me, caught my arm and pulled it down to my side. I thought for a second he was oblivious to my pain and I wouldn't be able to fix my cramp. His other hand grabbed my head and smoothly pushed it down to the ring shaped headrest. In the second that this took, both my quads were still tightening, but with me securely in the prone position, he instantly moved down to my legs, and addressed my cramps in one deft manouver. I couldn't see what his hands did, but I suspect he drove each of his pointer finger knuckles into my hamstrings while using his thumb and index finger to squeeze each side of my leg just above the knee. This was black belt massage equivalent of the Vulcan death grip, my quads became muy tranquilo in a fraction of a second. All in, from start of cramp to this outcome couldn't have been more than 4 or 5 seconds. I knew things were looking up from here on in, my body felt more like the canvas of an artist than a defeated mountain biker for the next half hour. I never had to attempt to guide his motions to suit my ailments with one word Spanish as was being done all around me (despacio, fuerte, muy aqui, etc.), he was effectively plugged into my nervous system.
Feeling almost like a new man, I proceeded to gorge on gallo pinto and the associated parts of dinner under a tent in direct view of the finish. Jon, Marg and I sat with Alejandra, who was waiting anxiously for Zach to cross the line for a stage 1 completion photo. Conversations with racers came and went, and we encouraged her hope as the 12 hour deadline neared. It came and passed without sign of Zach, meanwhile the sun rapidly set leaving us in pitch-black night and the glowing moonlight. Eventually we rounded up our bags and decided to part on the 7pm shuttle bus. Marg and I made it to the bus, Jon was nowhere to be found. It was raining, and I attempted to jog back to find him before the bus left through ankle deep mud in a large field. To add color to your understanding of the finish area conditions, the various Latin American utilitarian style Nissan, Toyota, and Land Rover 4x4 vehicles in the area were having an extremely difficult time making their way to the road. 2WD vehicles weren't moving. Jon was with Alejandra at the finish tent, assuring her that Zach was probably fine.
The bus trip back to the hotel was in a full sized Mercedes bus, with manual transmission. Costa Rican's don't seem to think twice about driving these busses on "inappropriate" roads. We averaged no more than 30kph, navigated dozens of pitch-black hairpins by assuming the entire road (meaning the entire one lane which is used for 2 way traffic) is ours, and by amazingly navigating 4 bridges, which were located on tight corners via 3 to 6 point turns. These bridges, in all honesty, left 8" of clearance on either side of a full-length bus, done in pitch black, with no outside guidance.
We quickly unload our belongings from the bus, and make our way to the terrific restaurant around the corner from the hotel, still sporting a decidedly un-restaurant worthy amount of mud. Dinner was huge and service was great. An absent minded senior from New Brunswick is the chef and proprietor. We were lavished upon with pasta, potatoes, rice, beans, fish, chicken, steaks, agua and jugo de guaranama; grand quantities of all are devoured.
We proceed back to the hotel, only to find Alejandra in the lobby looking stressed. She concluded that maybe she somehow missed Zach finishing while she was in a quick pee or snack break, and came back to the hotel, only to find that he hasn't checked in. It's 10pm. Jon assures her, in a less convincing tone than prior, that he's probably fine. What was conceived as a neat bike racer and companion trip at home in Pheonix certainly isn't being viewed that way now by the half of the team that’s present. That's as much as we can do for her at the moment, so it's off to bed for tomorrow's 4am start.
Day 2
4am comes unpleasantly early, my body is tired and I don’t magically arise a few minutes before the alarm as is common. At breakfast we heard that Zach was the last person found and removed/rescued from the course last night in the pitch black, and was immediately hooked up to IV's to treat for severe dehydration then taken directly to the hospital rather than the hotel. Alejandra only learned of this in the morning, she looked terrible after a night of no answers, nobody knowing, and no Zach. The race crushes people.
One of the more poignant anecdotes I heard was "at La Ruta, if you think the worst is behind you, you're probably facing the wrong way".
On that note, we board the bus to head to the starting area. I locate the bano immediately, then put on my mud caked wet shoes, my mud caked we gloves, and my mud caked fresh helmet. I didn't have the energy to clean them last night, and seriously, there isn't too much of a point each day, although this year was cleaner. Today's route is more to my skill set, you climb continuously to the top of Costa Rica's 11,000ft Volcan Irazu, first in the cooler morning air since we're not on the coast, but gaining enough elevation and making our way into the clouds to keep cool before the sun could roast us. For me, the day was approximately 4.5 hours of climbing and 1.5 hours of descent. It was continually misting and "cold" on the road section. This means legs and lungs are my governors on power output, not overheating, I climb reasonably hard, wearing only a jersey, and descend like a demon. I pass 21 people on the way down; my XC tires, 80mm fork, and hard tail frame are letting me go faster than last year. Mostly I credit this to lower pressure of tubeless tires. Within 2k of the finish, I get into a corner wrong and am not leaning my bike enough to get the side tread on my tires to bite. This is the 4th instance where I enter a front wheel drift/slide, but the first where I can't correct it. I slide 3m on my chest superman style on gravel. Upon coming to a complete stop, I don't feel any excruciating pain, so before I allow much time for any more self-assessment, I grab my bike out of the ditch and motor to the finish. Later I see I'm not really any worse off for the wipeout. Unfortunately the same can't be said for Jeremiah Bishop (Trek), who was leading at that point, and who other pro riders will attest is a member of the "ride to die club", i.e., he show's little restraint on the downhill’s. Pics are available on the net, but he broke his nose, jaw, cheekbones, and lost several teeth. As with most facial injuries, the quantity of bleeding was gruesome. Last I heard he was being stabilized in Costa Rica still 2 days later, letting the swelling go down and monitoring for infection, before heading back to the US for an off season full of reconstructive surgery. He still coasted to the bottom and was 2nd on the day.
Jon suffered 5 flats, the classic one problem building on itself scenario. He did crest the hill in 12th. His day is a story in it's own. He came in a couple minutes after me for 45th I think. The 2nd and 3rd women were behind me on the climb, and I didn't see Marg until 1/2 way down the climb, so not surprisingly she won the stage again. She climbs almost exclusively standing and can climb with the top percentage of elite male riders.
Shower, food and massage all seemed less miserable, at least the suffering on the bike today translated to an acceptable result. All pain and no glory, like yesterday, is a much harder scenario to swallow. Our trip up to our lodging was an hour, turns out the place was only 500m off the racecourse at one point. It's a beautiful wildlife spotting/volcano lodge at high enough elevation to provide a Canadian style sleeping temperature. It was 11C when I went to bed.
Day 3
We arrived late to the start; I started at the back of 200 riders. Right away we climbed 5k of loose gravel with two crowded good lines, leaving passing to be done on less preferred lines. I felt on fire and climbed hard. The road gave way to rollers, which I hammered on the tail of Tim, the Cannondale single speeder. We got to gravel straightaway descent. No brakes yielded about 70kph of red line descending fun. More rollers, then the infamous "hot climb". I couldn't do anything on the hot climb other than granny, in 15C I could push a gear and make time despite the loose gravel and steep grade, but with the heat limiting my power all I could spin was small gears. There's no way it was under 35C there. Fortunately, there's a check stop at the top that leads into a 75kph paved descent before hitting the infamous railroad tracks. I descended the hill in my best Euro tuck position and caught up to a tico. We traded coasting pulls a bit, and I amused him by doing a superman pass. Eventually however it became apparent that he had no intention of doing anything than soft-pedaling at the front. See you later sucker, no need for that. We pop out onto the railroad tracks eventually and I find my bike setup amazingly well suited to them this year. I try to ride the first short crossing, but the ties are missing every other one. This doesn’t dawn on me till I’m too close and going too fast. I wedge my front wheel into the 4th gap, and endo. I put my arms out to brace my landing, but they go through the trestle. I get one across my stomach and the other across my shoulders and chin. Lovely. I get up quickly and keep going.
Eventually I catch up to a guy in front of me, but loose him on a longer bridge when a local carries his bike across so he can jog, while I watch every step and make slower progress. It takes me 15 minutes to catch back up to him, I’m pissed, but I waste too much energy doing it. It feels good to pass him however, although I suspect while doing so that it won’t be the last time I see him today.
The lowlands are poor and hot. We go through towns that don’t have any apparent economic sustenance. Kids want to high five you, some are slap you as hard as they can. Others want to throw buckets of water at you, which I welcomed, but their sport for the day is to make it as painful as possible for you. Eventually I start bonking in the heat, it’s hard to eat continually when it’s hovering around 35C. I mercilessly jam a pack of sharkies in my mouth, shift down a gear, and spin. I try to move my feet, they’re extremely sore from putting power to the pedals continually. We’re in banana plantation country, and the gravel road has no shade. I feel like I’m being baked alive.
One of the following longer train track sections surprises me. I’m grinding along, head down, putting distance onto a group I passed by starting and finishing my bridge crossing with a swift cyclocross dismount and mount, coupled with a pass along the outside lane of the ties. I just kept telling myself that if I stumbled, I wouldn’t be successful unless I caught both myself and my bike from falling to the water below. After riding a few minutes on the other side, I feel some shaking. It doesn’t register in my mind at first, so I continue to trudge onward. Eventually a blaring horn splits the thick heat, and I look up to see an oncoming train 50 yards ahead. I wasn’t aware these tracks were live, but I waste no time dismounting and moving into the weeds at the side. The train passes surprisingly quickly, with people waving at me. This certainly wouldn’t pass North American safety standards. I’m not sure exactly if TR needs to be a partner race, but this one certainly has more hazards than TR.
We cross a few streams on foot, I take the opportunity to lie down in the water to cool off. I’m careful not to get any water in and around my face or ears. I come upon check stop 3, and grab a banana while race personnel are filling my bottles. I hear some commotion and see a tico train go by as I turn. I reach for my bike, hoping to get in their group, as they looked like they meant business, but the bottle filler had moved my bike off to the side. Once I grab it, a few other volunteers move in my path, so I can’t get pedaling soon enough to get onto the pace line. I hammer for a while, but realize that it’s futile. I continue to ride mid 30’s for a while on my own, the breeze feels nice at that speed, but I realize it’s a losing battle not having anyone to draft with.
The deep puddles on the last portion of the course aren’t present this year, and I end up riding with a group that at times is up to 10 riders. We keep the pace as high as we can, and whittle the group down to three. Upon reaching pavement again, we know we’re extremely near the finish line. I hear the music blaring, and launch the stairs down to the finish line.
It didn’t take me very long to make it to the Caribbean. The salt stung the half dozen scratches on my legs, my arms, my saddle sores, and my eyes. The relief is unbelievable.
Post Race
Heard Marg come in, went and gave her a hug and a congratulations. Eventually heard Jon come in, took me a while to find him, but he was relaxing in the water too.
After relaxing, eating, getting a massage, etc. I sat down again while Jon ate his dinner. I wasn’t feeling too energetic, so eventually I said I’d have to bail out and take the first bus back. I lay down next to our bags for a while near the bus, ready to board. The bus fills up, and the guide says that the washrooms aren’t working, so I head back to the party for a quick pit stop before we depart. It… uhh… sort of indicated I wasn’t feeling well. The plan was to head back to San Jose without stops to make progress as quickly as we could. It’s around 6:30, the sun had set leaving us in total darkness, and the temperature is reading 29C. My face is clammy and hot. I try to doze off. Eventually, I get to the point where I need to request another stop. I feel terrible, and fortunately some Mexican guys buy me Canada Dry soda water while I’m otherwise occupied. After 15 minutes we board the bus.
I put back quite a bit of the agua con gas, and again try to doze off, this time having some success doing so. An hour later, I wake up, and tell Darryl Mekechuk next to me that I need to get out of the seat immediately. We’re 2 seats back from the front, and he tells the driver right away that we need to stop, pronto. The guy in the seat in front magically hands me a plastic bag. It gets used before the bus stops, saving the front stairwell from a mess. The bus is coasting to a stop, and I’m telling them to open the door fast. Eventually it gets opened, and I find myself expunging my dinner onto the grass. After the first round, I lie down on my side, resting my head on my arm, looking for some peace. Predictably, I feel better, but my face is clammy and I can feel the heat. A physician/bike racer is asking me somewhat relevant questions, honestly I’m not working too hard to give him answers as I know the feeling of food poisoning, and I know I’m already on the mend after these few minutes. But he’s trying to be helpful, and I appreciate it. I’m glad I drank the soda water, it sped up the removal process greatly, which I find is key in overcoming food poisoning.
I hear the race employee yelling at the bus driver “Miguel, get out here with your flashlight.” I can’t imagine where he’s going with this, last thing I want is any illumination on my jettisoned dinner. “Miguel, there’s snakes in the grass. Stand here with the light and don’t let any go by his arm.” If I wasn’t feeling so ill I would’ve laughed… how could it get any worse than this? Anyway, I wasn’t going to waste any more time lying down with that tidbit of knowledge. Somebody gives me half a bottle of coke. It goes down smoothly and uninterrupted. It tastes like it came from the wellspring of life itself.
I board the bus and doze off. I’m chilly with the air conditioning on, but don’t mind. Deal with checking into a hotel with no ID, credit card or money, and go lie down. Eventually Jon shows up on a later bus and brings me some simple foods. It helps.
Monday
We have nothing to do today but rest and pack before heading out Tuesday. I wake up feeling sore everywhere. My body feels poisoned, my muscles haven’t had a chance to recuperate at all since no nutrients have been absorbed by my body since finishing the race. At least I don’t have a headache.
Around noon, Jon and I mobilize for an easy spin on the bikes around the hotel. I feel like crap even walking through the lobby. We clip in and start heading up a small incline. It’s overcast, cool by San Jose standards, and breezy. Being on a bike is miraculous therapy, I instantly feel fine. It’s like night and day, no muscle aches, no the poisoned feeling has passed, and I can take deep breaths of fresh air. We cruise around for a half an hour and return to the hotel. As I dismount and walk into the lobby, my stomach rolls. Heading up the elevator I again feel poisoned. The bike is magic. But it needs to be packed for now. I make a mental note that if I’m ever faced with severe malady and hospitalization style illness in life, I will not take it lying down, spinning the neighborhoods will be my therapy, my wellspring of life like the bottle of coke.
We spend several hours wandering downtown San Jose. Nothing is cheap, but we see a variety of neighborhoods. A Quizzno’s sub place catches our eye as some palatable comfort food, so we duck in and pay the associated North American prices. I could care less. We’re strolling along with the intent of making it to Hotel Don Fadrique, the La Ruta HQ, to try to track down some of [forgetful] Jon’s belongings from a lost and found type operation. The minute we find the hotel, the skies open up into the afternoon San Jose showers (in Calgary these would be referred to as unprecedented torrential downpours). While Jon and Marg are conducting conversations to figure out his lost goods, I watch the crocodile hunter approaching crocodillos as big as the ones I looked down on from the bridge 4 days ago. I’m entertained, and glad there’s no sensible reason I’ll ever have to be as close to one of those myself. The Spanish voice-over doesn’t do Steve Irwin much justice, his spirited accent isn’t picked up by a dry translator. We take a long cab ride back, with too much diesel fumes and jostling around for the liking of my innards. We head over for eating, but I leave early for my massage booking. A bonita chica works me over for 90 minutes, flushing what needs to be flushed out of my muscles. It’s heavenly. Other than “ruining” my massage later in the night with Jon by lifting hotel mattresses so we can push the beds together to accommodate Marg in our room, that’s the end.
I’ll be down next year. The attraction is that this race is the hardest thing I think my mind will tolerate me completing. Day one is so sufferous it annually pushes my will to continue, close enough that I don’t really wish to seek out harder events until I can get “comfortable” with this one.
Arriving in San Jose well after sunset, and are faced with a customs line took an hour to clear, but fortunately caught the Best Western shuttle bus right away. Put our bikes together ASAP, did a test spin in the parking lot, and hit the hay at 1am.
We wake up relatively early on Thursday and head down to Denny’s for some calories, bus to Jaco leaves at 10am. Jose, one of the race employees (and incidentally, ¼ of the male population of Costa Rica), gives a very informative and articulate overview of Costa Rica as we drive. It’s a bit like watching National Geographic from the front seat of the bus. Among other things, we stop on a large bridge, look down to the rio below, and check out some bad ass looking crocodillos. At 2 pm we're checked into hotel. It’s worth noting here, that at one point while discussing the local climate, Jon summed it up well by miming the breast stroke through the air – it’s hot, humid and thick.
We nervously chat with out fellow participants, turns out Marla Streb and her husband/baby are with us, and she was sporting the single speed world champion shoulder tattoo. Darryl Jones, Jon and I head out for a warmup ride after checking into the race and getting our gear bag and timing chips. I struggle to keep up, legs are feeling dead and I feel hot. I assume that pushing through this for an hour will be good for the acclimation and that tomorrow my legs will snap back, since after all I’ve been in travel limbo for 36 hours now, which is never good for the legs. Sun sets quick, we head for dinner, check out the local chicas parading up and down the street. It’s hot, so lots of clothing is a definite faux pas (or maybe that’s falsos something??). And recall we’re firmly centered in “Latino world” here, where the fashion motto is “if it ain’t tight, it ain’t right”. This is a direct translation by me, using no Spanish, but rather just my eyes. Beach cruiser bikes are the most common form of transportation, when Tim Bresznyak sees this scene he and Tracey might be hooked, as surfing, biking and cervezas are all readily available. We head back to drop off our bikes and shuttle back to our hotel. Darryl has motocross “mud off” spray we all use, that turns out to be surprisingly effective. I notice my rear tire isn’t holding air well, so I bring it back to my room to remedy the situation.
Day 1
My alarm is set for 3am, but I wake up at 10 to 3. I put on my cycling kit, see the pitch black morning outside, and throw on a long sleeved shirt to head over to breakfast. Opening the door to leave the room, I realize I was dead wrong, it's hot and muggy out before the sun even shines. I ditch the shirt and head over to scarf down some calories. The food is very good. Boarding the bus at 3:45 to make our way to the race start, I notice the thermometer on the bus says 28C. We start at 5:15 and warm up for a couple of k's before heading up the first large climb. I feel decent, but can feel my cardiac workload is too high for my power output, as my body has the added task of trying to keep cool. I'm doing ok through the Carrerra national park, but instead of last year's "cooling" rain, the air is still and stifling. 48 hours ago I was shoveling my driveway. The first twinges of doubt enter my mind. I'm riding the climbs, hitting the difficult downhill's with gusto. I love my tire choice, and find world champion single speeder and known downhill animal Marla Streb behind me at one point. She starts by asking to pass, but I request a 15 second trial period for her to guage if I'm really slowing her down. I lead for the next several downhills, she passes me on a climb. Later on, I learn she had crashed 4 times and didn’t start stage two. I take credit for slowing her down enough to be safer ; )
After check point two I really start to suffer. I should have started the morning with a second bathroom stop as per normal race practice, but the early start threw me off. At about the 4.5 hour mark I'd degraded to heat exhaustion and bonk phase. Somewhere in here Louise Kobin passes me, and I thought how if I were just a few IQ points higher how I should have paced off her all day. I crawled into check point 3, found a bano, and took time to eat and drink. I was resuscitated only temporarily and began to suffer on the subsequent climb. Instead of last years paved climb, we went the "back way" around the same mountain which featured climbing via muddy 20+% grade "jeep" trail. I saw 4 incidences of stuck dirt bikes and 2 incidences of stuck 4WD quads on this section.
This was by far the hardest day on a bike I've had. My suffering begins to crescendo. It starts by my legs slowing, then I hang my head at all opportunity. At the low point, I find myself sitting with my head between my knees, wondering what on earth made me come back. I promise myself that I’ll slap my fingers with a ruler next time my hand directs my mouse anywhere near the “register” button on the La Ruta web site. I decide to lie down for a brief moment, and when I do, I shut my eyes. Unfortunately, I’m shivering. I begin dreaming instantly, and picture myself lying on my parent’s couch when I was a kid, their house was always kept cool. I have my deceased cat Fuzz with me, and I’m happy. I feel the need to pee, and I smile, happy to have some fluids left in me. Of course, they’d be more useful in my cells and blood, but regardless I’m happy in this dream. The incessant mud and river crossings really reset my concept of filth, I have no shame peeing in my shorts at this point. I begin to wake, and am happy that my pee is warming me up. Some dude is walking up the hill and asks if I’m ok. I ponder before answering, realizing that I’m relishing the warmth of pee to curb my shivering, despite the fact I’m in severe tropical heat. In my head I know I’m approaching the realm of “screwed”, but I tell him I’m fine.
It’s an experience to witness the war zone of the mid-pack privateers. On the long climb, a Brit in front of me asked one of the race Range Rovers if he had water. Nope. “How long till next checkstop then mate?” Seises kilometers mas. “Seises?” He replies holding up 6 fingers for confirmation. Si. He then holds his arm upward asking if it's all uphill. Si. Demoralized, he drops his bike to the ground, collapses to the ground himself, and lies face down on the dirt. Are you going to be ok? someone asks. “I find it impossible to answer that quite frankly” he says in his cockney, consonant swallowing working side of London accent. Being this far back in the field at this point, and suffering myself, gave me huge appreciation for the cut-off time beaters who finish this race. It was like warfare out there, people dropping like flies. The sides of the trail had people lying down in the most miniscule amounts of shade. As I passed, strong recreational athletes on their turf would beg for water and gels. Sitting on the trail, I pass one fellow and say “I feel your pain man, just take a breather and keep moving.” He weakly replies “can you spare a gel/swig of water?" Yeah man, but only a little, this is all I’ve got. He replies "Thanks man, really appreciate it. I won't take too much, or you'll end up like me. We all gotta survive." It was sublimely philosophical. I try to stay positive, but it’s always challenging in a bonk, and it’s super hard for me to eat in that heat, I was just force feeding myself in an unpleasant manner. Why did I ever sign up for this race again? I only get 4 weeks vacation a year, who in their right mind does this to themselves? Don’t I have better things to spend money on? Like hot dogs, I really wanted hot dogs with mustard. And those meat balls at Ikea. I should sell all my bikes as a preventative measure to avoid this behavior. It certainly is fascinating though to watch the armies of leaf cutter ants marching toward their homes. Some of the lines stretch for 30m or more. I wonder to myself if they could somehow band together to carry my bike.
The course was like riding in a steam room where the entire ceiling was an overpowered heat lamp, with zero air movement (sweat doesn't evaporate to cool you), while trying to proceed up a 22% grade (quoting Marg's GPS), with less than perfect traction in the mud, up the "feature climb" which was essentially 1,200m vertical and 30km. Pushing my bike at this point, I realize I forgot to put my tool bag on under my seat. I hope that life can't be cruel enough to throw mechanicals into the mix at this point. I’m a decently well prepared amateur athlete, and this is pure torture. The problem is I can’t sustain enough Watts to ride these hills at the ambient temperature, I need either less grade or less heat. The combo easily puts me over my limits. Paez admitted to walking, Bishop stopped to cool off in a waterfall to help him continue. When the top percentage of riders had a hard time making it between checkstops, you know the privateers are going to be in a world of pain.
I crossed somewhere around the 10.5 hour mark. 510 people started day 1, and I believe I heard at the 12 hour mark at the finish line that only 250 had crossed. Honestly, from the 5 hour mark on, I was bonking. Fortunately, there is liberal breaking of the official assistance rules on course, which state among other things that you can only receive feeds in the proper feed zones. With this year's stage one being substantially longer than day 1 last year, and without the benefit of cooling rains, assistance was necessity. Like any modern society, there are rules, then there's a higher plane of morality that (most) people have to help guide them. There's a bit of a sharing spirit at TR, and probably moreso the further back in the pack one rides, but the first stage of La Ruta crushes people into a brotherhood. They may be only inches from the other side of the line where they need help themselves. And it's not just convenience help, it's the “I'm no longer too proud to admit that there's likely no way I can make it to the finish line on my own” type of help. So many bonked, lost souls, mine included, were saved by locals offering plastic baggies of coca (flat coke), jugo (not really juice, more like hot McDonalds orange drink), or agua (never was too comfortable with the source). Occasionally you could find a guy with sugar cane too.
Upon finishing (10.5 hrs vs. Paez at 6:00.25!), I'm greeted by a surprisingly energetic Jon, who is bouncing around helping the half of my former self that remains with my heavy rain soaked bag even after expending enough energy to come in as the first Canadian on day on, 17th overall. It's raining, and I slowly work up to the task of putting some post race nutrients into my stomach, have an uncomfortably cold shower (it's not too cold out, but my body is unwilling to burn any more calories to effectively regulate my temperature), and hit the massage table. I'm led to my table, which unbeknown to me, is staffed by a masseur who I'll refer to as Wayne, since his talent for massage puts him on par in his profession with the hallowed place Wayne Gretzky occupies in hockey. "Wayne" was probably about 5'4", likely 40 years old, had short cropped hair with layered with plenty of inexpensive Costa Rican gel, a well manicured and stylishly trimmed moustache (if you believe in such a thing), multiple gold chains, a well tailored trim fitting cherry red track suit top covering his svelte frame, color coordinated shorts that were dangerously close to hot pants, bright white mid calf athletic socks, and the local equivalent of a puma flat bottom weight lifting shoe. His vocation could have easily been DJ'ing ill house beats in Brooklyn on a his prized turn-table with some serious hi-fi equipment rather than working me over on a table somewhere in the Costa Rican jungle. My initial assessment was that of the choice of Costa Rican women, a decent chica or two amongst them, was that I'd just been led to the table of the local flamer. As I wearily climbed up onto the table, both quads began to cramp as I lay down on my stomach. Other than my quads, the only other muscular contractions my body was mustering had to do with my heart and lungs. When the cramping commenced, I started to do a push up so I could roll to my side and clutch my quads, but I was interrupted by his Costa Rican massage ju-jitsu. In a flash he chopped my wrist out from under me, caught my arm and pulled it down to my side. I thought for a second he was oblivious to my pain and I wouldn't be able to fix my cramp. His other hand grabbed my head and smoothly pushed it down to the ring shaped headrest. In the second that this took, both my quads were still tightening, but with me securely in the prone position, he instantly moved down to my legs, and addressed my cramps in one deft manouver. I couldn't see what his hands did, but I suspect he drove each of his pointer finger knuckles into my hamstrings while using his thumb and index finger to squeeze each side of my leg just above the knee. This was black belt massage equivalent of the Vulcan death grip, my quads became muy tranquilo in a fraction of a second. All in, from start of cramp to this outcome couldn't have been more than 4 or 5 seconds. I knew things were looking up from here on in, my body felt more like the canvas of an artist than a defeated mountain biker for the next half hour. I never had to attempt to guide his motions to suit my ailments with one word Spanish as was being done all around me (despacio, fuerte, muy aqui, etc.), he was effectively plugged into my nervous system.
Feeling almost like a new man, I proceeded to gorge on gallo pinto and the associated parts of dinner under a tent in direct view of the finish. Jon, Marg and I sat with Alejandra, who was waiting anxiously for Zach to cross the line for a stage 1 completion photo. Conversations with racers came and went, and we encouraged her hope as the 12 hour deadline neared. It came and passed without sign of Zach, meanwhile the sun rapidly set leaving us in pitch-black night and the glowing moonlight. Eventually we rounded up our bags and decided to part on the 7pm shuttle bus. Marg and I made it to the bus, Jon was nowhere to be found. It was raining, and I attempted to jog back to find him before the bus left through ankle deep mud in a large field. To add color to your understanding of the finish area conditions, the various Latin American utilitarian style Nissan, Toyota, and Land Rover 4x4 vehicles in the area were having an extremely difficult time making their way to the road. 2WD vehicles weren't moving. Jon was with Alejandra at the finish tent, assuring her that Zach was probably fine.
The bus trip back to the hotel was in a full sized Mercedes bus, with manual transmission. Costa Rican's don't seem to think twice about driving these busses on "inappropriate" roads. We averaged no more than 30kph, navigated dozens of pitch-black hairpins by assuming the entire road (meaning the entire one lane which is used for 2 way traffic) is ours, and by amazingly navigating 4 bridges, which were located on tight corners via 3 to 6 point turns. These bridges, in all honesty, left 8" of clearance on either side of a full-length bus, done in pitch black, with no outside guidance.
We quickly unload our belongings from the bus, and make our way to the terrific restaurant around the corner from the hotel, still sporting a decidedly un-restaurant worthy amount of mud. Dinner was huge and service was great. An absent minded senior from New Brunswick is the chef and proprietor. We were lavished upon with pasta, potatoes, rice, beans, fish, chicken, steaks, agua and jugo de guaranama; grand quantities of all are devoured.
We proceed back to the hotel, only to find Alejandra in the lobby looking stressed. She concluded that maybe she somehow missed Zach finishing while she was in a quick pee or snack break, and came back to the hotel, only to find that he hasn't checked in. It's 10pm. Jon assures her, in a less convincing tone than prior, that he's probably fine. What was conceived as a neat bike racer and companion trip at home in Pheonix certainly isn't being viewed that way now by the half of the team that’s present. That's as much as we can do for her at the moment, so it's off to bed for tomorrow's 4am start.
Day 2
4am comes unpleasantly early, my body is tired and I don’t magically arise a few minutes before the alarm as is common. At breakfast we heard that Zach was the last person found and removed/rescued from the course last night in the pitch black, and was immediately hooked up to IV's to treat for severe dehydration then taken directly to the hospital rather than the hotel. Alejandra only learned of this in the morning, she looked terrible after a night of no answers, nobody knowing, and no Zach. The race crushes people.
One of the more poignant anecdotes I heard was "at La Ruta, if you think the worst is behind you, you're probably facing the wrong way".
On that note, we board the bus to head to the starting area. I locate the bano immediately, then put on my mud caked wet shoes, my mud caked we gloves, and my mud caked fresh helmet. I didn't have the energy to clean them last night, and seriously, there isn't too much of a point each day, although this year was cleaner. Today's route is more to my skill set, you climb continuously to the top of Costa Rica's 11,000ft Volcan Irazu, first in the cooler morning air since we're not on the coast, but gaining enough elevation and making our way into the clouds to keep cool before the sun could roast us. For me, the day was approximately 4.5 hours of climbing and 1.5 hours of descent. It was continually misting and "cold" on the road section. This means legs and lungs are my governors on power output, not overheating, I climb reasonably hard, wearing only a jersey, and descend like a demon. I pass 21 people on the way down; my XC tires, 80mm fork, and hard tail frame are letting me go faster than last year. Mostly I credit this to lower pressure of tubeless tires. Within 2k of the finish, I get into a corner wrong and am not leaning my bike enough to get the side tread on my tires to bite. This is the 4th instance where I enter a front wheel drift/slide, but the first where I can't correct it. I slide 3m on my chest superman style on gravel. Upon coming to a complete stop, I don't feel any excruciating pain, so before I allow much time for any more self-assessment, I grab my bike out of the ditch and motor to the finish. Later I see I'm not really any worse off for the wipeout. Unfortunately the same can't be said for Jeremiah Bishop (Trek), who was leading at that point, and who other pro riders will attest is a member of the "ride to die club", i.e., he show's little restraint on the downhill’s. Pics are available on the net, but he broke his nose, jaw, cheekbones, and lost several teeth. As with most facial injuries, the quantity of bleeding was gruesome. Last I heard he was being stabilized in Costa Rica still 2 days later, letting the swelling go down and monitoring for infection, before heading back to the US for an off season full of reconstructive surgery. He still coasted to the bottom and was 2nd on the day.
Jon suffered 5 flats, the classic one problem building on itself scenario. He did crest the hill in 12th. His day is a story in it's own. He came in a couple minutes after me for 45th I think. The 2nd and 3rd women were behind me on the climb, and I didn't see Marg until 1/2 way down the climb, so not surprisingly she won the stage again. She climbs almost exclusively standing and can climb with the top percentage of elite male riders.
Shower, food and massage all seemed less miserable, at least the suffering on the bike today translated to an acceptable result. All pain and no glory, like yesterday, is a much harder scenario to swallow. Our trip up to our lodging was an hour, turns out the place was only 500m off the racecourse at one point. It's a beautiful wildlife spotting/volcano lodge at high enough elevation to provide a Canadian style sleeping temperature. It was 11C when I went to bed.
Day 3
We arrived late to the start; I started at the back of 200 riders. Right away we climbed 5k of loose gravel with two crowded good lines, leaving passing to be done on less preferred lines. I felt on fire and climbed hard. The road gave way to rollers, which I hammered on the tail of Tim, the Cannondale single speeder. We got to gravel straightaway descent. No brakes yielded about 70kph of red line descending fun. More rollers, then the infamous "hot climb". I couldn't do anything on the hot climb other than granny, in 15C I could push a gear and make time despite the loose gravel and steep grade, but with the heat limiting my power all I could spin was small gears. There's no way it was under 35C there. Fortunately, there's a check stop at the top that leads into a 75kph paved descent before hitting the infamous railroad tracks. I descended the hill in my best Euro tuck position and caught up to a tico. We traded coasting pulls a bit, and I amused him by doing a superman pass. Eventually however it became apparent that he had no intention of doing anything than soft-pedaling at the front. See you later sucker, no need for that. We pop out onto the railroad tracks eventually and I find my bike setup amazingly well suited to them this year. I try to ride the first short crossing, but the ties are missing every other one. This doesn’t dawn on me till I’m too close and going too fast. I wedge my front wheel into the 4th gap, and endo. I put my arms out to brace my landing, but they go through the trestle. I get one across my stomach and the other across my shoulders and chin. Lovely. I get up quickly and keep going.
Eventually I catch up to a guy in front of me, but loose him on a longer bridge when a local carries his bike across so he can jog, while I watch every step and make slower progress. It takes me 15 minutes to catch back up to him, I’m pissed, but I waste too much energy doing it. It feels good to pass him however, although I suspect while doing so that it won’t be the last time I see him today.
The lowlands are poor and hot. We go through towns that don’t have any apparent economic sustenance. Kids want to high five you, some are slap you as hard as they can. Others want to throw buckets of water at you, which I welcomed, but their sport for the day is to make it as painful as possible for you. Eventually I start bonking in the heat, it’s hard to eat continually when it’s hovering around 35C. I mercilessly jam a pack of sharkies in my mouth, shift down a gear, and spin. I try to move my feet, they’re extremely sore from putting power to the pedals continually. We’re in banana plantation country, and the gravel road has no shade. I feel like I’m being baked alive.
One of the following longer train track sections surprises me. I’m grinding along, head down, putting distance onto a group I passed by starting and finishing my bridge crossing with a swift cyclocross dismount and mount, coupled with a pass along the outside lane of the ties. I just kept telling myself that if I stumbled, I wouldn’t be successful unless I caught both myself and my bike from falling to the water below. After riding a few minutes on the other side, I feel some shaking. It doesn’t register in my mind at first, so I continue to trudge onward. Eventually a blaring horn splits the thick heat, and I look up to see an oncoming train 50 yards ahead. I wasn’t aware these tracks were live, but I waste no time dismounting and moving into the weeds at the side. The train passes surprisingly quickly, with people waving at me. This certainly wouldn’t pass North American safety standards. I’m not sure exactly if TR needs to be a partner race, but this one certainly has more hazards than TR.
We cross a few streams on foot, I take the opportunity to lie down in the water to cool off. I’m careful not to get any water in and around my face or ears. I come upon check stop 3, and grab a banana while race personnel are filling my bottles. I hear some commotion and see a tico train go by as I turn. I reach for my bike, hoping to get in their group, as they looked like they meant business, but the bottle filler had moved my bike off to the side. Once I grab it, a few other volunteers move in my path, so I can’t get pedaling soon enough to get onto the pace line. I hammer for a while, but realize that it’s futile. I continue to ride mid 30’s for a while on my own, the breeze feels nice at that speed, but I realize it’s a losing battle not having anyone to draft with.
The deep puddles on the last portion of the course aren’t present this year, and I end up riding with a group that at times is up to 10 riders. We keep the pace as high as we can, and whittle the group down to three. Upon reaching pavement again, we know we’re extremely near the finish line. I hear the music blaring, and launch the stairs down to the finish line.
It didn’t take me very long to make it to the Caribbean. The salt stung the half dozen scratches on my legs, my arms, my saddle sores, and my eyes. The relief is unbelievable.
Post Race
Heard Marg come in, went and gave her a hug and a congratulations. Eventually heard Jon come in, took me a while to find him, but he was relaxing in the water too.
After relaxing, eating, getting a massage, etc. I sat down again while Jon ate his dinner. I wasn’t feeling too energetic, so eventually I said I’d have to bail out and take the first bus back. I lay down next to our bags for a while near the bus, ready to board. The bus fills up, and the guide says that the washrooms aren’t working, so I head back to the party for a quick pit stop before we depart. It… uhh… sort of indicated I wasn’t feeling well. The plan was to head back to San Jose without stops to make progress as quickly as we could. It’s around 6:30, the sun had set leaving us in total darkness, and the temperature is reading 29C. My face is clammy and hot. I try to doze off. Eventually, I get to the point where I need to request another stop. I feel terrible, and fortunately some Mexican guys buy me Canada Dry soda water while I’m otherwise occupied. After 15 minutes we board the bus.
I put back quite a bit of the agua con gas, and again try to doze off, this time having some success doing so. An hour later, I wake up, and tell Darryl Mekechuk next to me that I need to get out of the seat immediately. We’re 2 seats back from the front, and he tells the driver right away that we need to stop, pronto. The guy in the seat in front magically hands me a plastic bag. It gets used before the bus stops, saving the front stairwell from a mess. The bus is coasting to a stop, and I’m telling them to open the door fast. Eventually it gets opened, and I find myself expunging my dinner onto the grass. After the first round, I lie down on my side, resting my head on my arm, looking for some peace. Predictably, I feel better, but my face is clammy and I can feel the heat. A physician/bike racer is asking me somewhat relevant questions, honestly I’m not working too hard to give him answers as I know the feeling of food poisoning, and I know I’m already on the mend after these few minutes. But he’s trying to be helpful, and I appreciate it. I’m glad I drank the soda water, it sped up the removal process greatly, which I find is key in overcoming food poisoning.
I hear the race employee yelling at the bus driver “Miguel, get out here with your flashlight.” I can’t imagine where he’s going with this, last thing I want is any illumination on my jettisoned dinner. “Miguel, there’s snakes in the grass. Stand here with the light and don’t let any go by his arm.” If I wasn’t feeling so ill I would’ve laughed… how could it get any worse than this? Anyway, I wasn’t going to waste any more time lying down with that tidbit of knowledge. Somebody gives me half a bottle of coke. It goes down smoothly and uninterrupted. It tastes like it came from the wellspring of life itself.
I board the bus and doze off. I’m chilly with the air conditioning on, but don’t mind. Deal with checking into a hotel with no ID, credit card or money, and go lie down. Eventually Jon shows up on a later bus and brings me some simple foods. It helps.
Monday
We have nothing to do today but rest and pack before heading out Tuesday. I wake up feeling sore everywhere. My body feels poisoned, my muscles haven’t had a chance to recuperate at all since no nutrients have been absorbed by my body since finishing the race. At least I don’t have a headache.
Around noon, Jon and I mobilize for an easy spin on the bikes around the hotel. I feel like crap even walking through the lobby. We clip in and start heading up a small incline. It’s overcast, cool by San Jose standards, and breezy. Being on a bike is miraculous therapy, I instantly feel fine. It’s like night and day, no muscle aches, no the poisoned feeling has passed, and I can take deep breaths of fresh air. We cruise around for a half an hour and return to the hotel. As I dismount and walk into the lobby, my stomach rolls. Heading up the elevator I again feel poisoned. The bike is magic. But it needs to be packed for now. I make a mental note that if I’m ever faced with severe malady and hospitalization style illness in life, I will not take it lying down, spinning the neighborhoods will be my therapy, my wellspring of life like the bottle of coke.
We spend several hours wandering downtown San Jose. Nothing is cheap, but we see a variety of neighborhoods. A Quizzno’s sub place catches our eye as some palatable comfort food, so we duck in and pay the associated North American prices. I could care less. We’re strolling along with the intent of making it to Hotel Don Fadrique, the La Ruta HQ, to try to track down some of [forgetful] Jon’s belongings from a lost and found type operation. The minute we find the hotel, the skies open up into the afternoon San Jose showers (in Calgary these would be referred to as unprecedented torrential downpours). While Jon and Marg are conducting conversations to figure out his lost goods, I watch the crocodile hunter approaching crocodillos as big as the ones I looked down on from the bridge 4 days ago. I’m entertained, and glad there’s no sensible reason I’ll ever have to be as close to one of those myself. The Spanish voice-over doesn’t do Steve Irwin much justice, his spirited accent isn’t picked up by a dry translator. We take a long cab ride back, with too much diesel fumes and jostling around for the liking of my innards. We head over for eating, but I leave early for my massage booking. A bonita chica works me over for 90 minutes, flushing what needs to be flushed out of my muscles. It’s heavenly. Other than “ruining” my massage later in the night with Jon by lifting hotel mattresses so we can push the beds together to accommodate Marg in our room, that’s the end.
I’ll be down next year. The attraction is that this race is the hardest thing I think my mind will tolerate me completing. Day one is so sufferous it annually pushes my will to continue, close enough that I don’t really wish to seek out harder events until I can get “comfortable” with this one.
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