Summer of Leadville 2022: Leadville Mountain Bike 100 Race Report

At the athlete meeting for the Leadville Mountain Bike 100, the founder of the race Ken Chlouber said, "Just finish. That way, when someone asks you, 'did you finish?' you can say 'yes' instead of spending the next 30 minutes telling them all the excuses why you didn't." He went on to tell us you can do more than you think you can, you are stronger than you think you are, and to DIG DEEP. We ended the meeting shouting together, "I COMMIT! I WON'T QUIT!"

I don't need 30 minutes to explain why I didn't finish, but I do want to talk about the events of my day and the lessons I learned.

The athlete meeting is held outdoors now instead of in the gym due to Covid.

The race started at 6:30 last Saturday morning. We were divided into corrals that stretched down Harrison Street towards Twin Lakes. As each corral went off, racers turned left onto 6th Street, crossed the start line, and raced up and over the hill, turning to the right at the bottom instead of to the left, where the run will go this Saturday. With the other Lead Challenge participants, I was seeded in the Orange corral, which is right in the middle of the pack. We started at 6:40.

I knew that the key would be arriving at the Twin Lakes timing mat at mile 41 before 10:50 am. That would require a 10 mph pace for four hours, which I've only rarely achieved on a mountain bike. I would race to that checkpoint as if my day depended on it, because it did.

As soon as we left the corral, the other Orange riders left me behind. That's okay, it takes me a few minutes to warm up, I know I'll be fine. Then five minutes later the Blue corral went by. Rick, my Silver Rush trail angel, was in that corral. He slowed to talk to me and I yelled at him not to wait and to have a great day. I didn't want to be responsible for slowing anyone down and I wanted to race my own race. 

We turned onto gravel and then turned again up St. Kevins, the first climb of the race, a fairly steep doubletrack road with plenty of loose rocks. People were still jostling for position and the chaos freaked me out. As soon as someone in front of me got off their bike to walk, I did the same. I walked more than I should have. I was too scared to try riding my bike next to all those people who were racing erratically passing each other.

I'd been told I should reach the Carter aid station in an hour or an hour and fifteen minutes: I arrived at 1:20 into the race. I was not worried about time yet. As soon as I turned past the station onto pavement, I picked up my pace as much as possible and hurried down the hills. The next climb was up Sugarloaf. I ran up Sugarloaf in 2018 as part of the 100 run, so I was aware of what it was like — another loose, rocky climb, but not as steep as St. Kevins. Also not as crowded, because by this point there were only about 20 of us riding together after the rest of the race had left us behind.

When we reached the campsite at the top, I knew we'd soon be turning right onto Powerline, a steep four mile descent that was chunky at the top and loose and super steep at the bottom. I had practiced this in training just a month ago, and I'm so glad I did. I was still terrified as I turned onto the steep, rocky descent with several other riders. On my way down, I stopped to walk a few times. I was shaking with fear. I passed another woman who was crying because she was so afraid. I was so proud to ride down the steepest portion, a dusty, loose, 20% grade towards the bottom. I said to myself "I'm doing this, I'm doing this," and once I made the final turn towards the gentle grade along the fenceline, I screamed "WOO HOO!" and my self-talk turned to "I did it, I did it."

I caught up to a strong-looking bearded man in blue who had climbed Sugarloaf with me but who had dropped me on the descent. I knew we were now behind schedule to get to the Twin Lakes cutoff. "Let's GO" I shouted at him, as I climbed on the pavement. I knew I had to race as fast as possible from now on or I would miss the time cut. I decided I wouldn't take the time to stop to eat, I would just drink sports drink from my hydration pack. Who cares if I'm fully fueled if I miss the cutoff? 

A few minutes later, the guy that I'd passed caught up with me. This was the flat section where we'd been instructed to work together. "Get on my wheel," he said, and I did. I told him, "pull off to the left when you want me to take a turn." "No," he insisted, "just stay on my wheel. We're getting you to your goal." I didn't argue. I just pedaled behind him for the next few flat miles, until we turned onto the doubletrack towards the Pipeline aid station. At that point I passed him and thanked him. He told me to keep moving. I didn't see him again.

I blew through the Pipeline aid station without even noticing that my friend Jen was there taking pictures. I was so completely focused on getting to Twin Lakes in time. I caught up with some other riders and rode with them, then passed them. There was some beautiful single track on the way to Twin Lakes that reminded me of Marshall Mesa where I rode all last year with my friends. I smiled and thought it would be really fun to run here. Then laughed as I realized that thinking about running during a bike race was probably not a good sign.

Racing through the Pipeline aid station.

The minutes ticked away faster than the miles. I saw the pros start to come back along the out-and-back course. They yelled encouragement at me as they went by. Oooooh this is LEADVILLE. But where was Twin Lakes? At each turn I expected to see the dam with all the tents and spectators. As the time of day ticked past 10:50, I knew I had missed the time cut. I didn't let off. What if they changed the time? Every race I've done up here this summer has had an adjusted time cut for one reason or another. I kept racing.

I passed riders who had clearly given up. Finally, I saw the dam, and I smiled. As I rode along the corridor of tents and crew and spectators, they all cheered for me even though they knew I wasn't going to make the cut. Eventually I saw the timing mat and rode towards it as fast as I could. Matt, the timing guy who'd shared a sandwich with me at Silver Rush, yelled encouragement as I went by. 

At the far end of the dam, a race official stood in front of the timing mat, telling me to slow down. I let off the gas and prepared to feel the disappointment of not making it. I knew my crew was just on the other side of the mat — I had told them to set up after the timing mat in case of a down-to-the-minute situation.

As I slowed and looked at the race official who was talking to me, an arm reached out from the other side, grabbing my handlebar and pulling my bike towards him and away from the timing mat. I went down with my bike onto the dirt in front of the timing mat and laid there with my bike on top of me, one of my feet still clipped in, confused. What had just happened?

"You didn't have to do that," a spectator was yelling at the man who had pulled me over. Another man helped pick me up. "Are you okay?" he asked. No I wasn't okay. I burst into tears, ugly crying as they removed my chip from my plate and dragged me and my bike to the side of the mat.

The man who had grabbed my bike came over and put his arm around me. "Don't cry," he said, "it's okay that you missed the time cut." I'M NOT CRYING BECAUSE I MISSED THE TIME CUT. I'M CRYING BECAUSE YOU KNOCKED ME OVER. "No I didn't," he said. I didn't argue, I just grabbed my bike and pushed it over to an empty place behind the row of crew tents, then sat down and cried heavily. 

I cried for only getting to see the first 42 miles of the course. I cried for being out of the Lead Challenge. I cried for all the early morning workouts at hot, humid Lake Sylvia this summer. What had it all been for? I cried in anger about the race official who had found it more important to prevent me from crossing the timing mat than preserving my dignity.

A man and woman ran over to comfort me. They asked if I was okay and if I needed anything; I didn't. I saw Becca, my friend who was crewing me, approaching. "Are you okay?" she asked, but I was still hysterically crying. "You can keep going," the other woman told me. "They will never know." Later, I learned that the woman had done the race before and knew they wouldn't stop me from continuing. 

This encouragement was what I needed to hear. I let them help me up. Becca rolled my bike to the tent where all the supplies were. I briefly saw Chris and Erika McDonald and Kellie Ramirez who were there crewing my amazing friend Michael from Texas. "I'm going to keep going," I told Chris, looking at him for approval even though I'd made up my mind already. He said, "good, but you know they took your chip, right?" I didn't care.

I dusted myself off and got back on my bike and headed up towards the Columbine Mine turnaround, which was 10 miles and 3,000 feet of climbing away. I climbed as people from the gold and silver corrals passed me going the other way. Then came green and orange and blue. I saw my friends Maggie and Jorge and Rick descending. Nearly every person who passed me offered encouraging words. It was amazing. This is Leadville. I decided to try to catch up with someone, anyone heading up the mountain in front of me. 

As I pushed higher up the mountain, I ran into Lead Challenge participant Ricardo, who I've called my brother all year because we share a last name. He was standing taking a breather with another rider. "We've been waiting for you for 45 minutes," he joked. We pushed our bikes up the hill together. At some point it had become impossible to ride. I pushed on, and eventually found myself alone again. I'd push past another racer here and there, but the crowd was thin at the top of the hill. I saw Michael riding back down. I cheered him as he went by, although we both knew he had already missed the next time cut.

Suddenly, a large thunderclap crashed across the sky. What should I do? The smart thing would probably have been to head down the mountain instead of heading up towards the storm, but I was beyond doing the smart thing. I was fixated on seeing the turnaround at the top of the climb. I don't care if I die trying, I thought to myself. It's kind of terrifying to think back and know that I meant it.

It started to rain. Another cyclist came down towards me. "They're turning people around up there," he said. I pushed on anyway. Sure enough, a moment later two ATVs came down towards me and asked me to turn around. A jeep carrying the contents of the aid station was behind them. I put on my raincoat and headed down the mountain back to Twin Lakes, past all the folks I had seen on the way up. Descending on slippery rocks was scary but eventually the terrain changed back to smooth gravel, and I rushed down, knowing it would be warmer at lower elevation.

Eventually I sensed that the ATVs were behind me again. I realized that they were following me to Twin Lakes. All the other riders had accepted rides back to town. "We have a bike rack on the back of this ATV," I was told. "You can quit anytime you want and we'll drive you back." "I want to ride back," I said, "is that okay?" The ATV driver said yes and we continued down the trail, a ridiculous procession of a slow, exhausted biker and two search and rescue ATVs, all the way back to Twin Lakes where Becca was waiting with the car. 

When I saw Becca I stopped my Garmin, thanked the ATV escorts who both gave me fist bumps, and finally breathed. My day was done after 62 miles, 6000+ feet of gain, and nine hours of riding. Matt the timing guy approached. "Oh it's you!" he said, "I was supposed come and take your chip but I know it's already been taken." I smiled sheepishly. "Everyone's been talking about how you got tackled at the timing mat," he said. He also told me that I was not the only one, and that apparently some guys actually got in a fight about their treatment at the mat. Good lord.

Becca and I drove back to the condo in Leadville and got cleaned up, then headed over to the finish line to watch the finishers come in. I was so jealous of the people crossing the line. I had so badly wanted the full experience of the day. 

I had a personal pity party for about two hours. I told Lindsey, who plans to crew and pace me for the 100 mile run this weekend, that I was just going to go home and skip it. I was out of the Lead Challenge and I'd spent all my energy training for the bike race, so what was the point of even starting the run? She told me to think about it. I talked to Laura who reminded me that I've already paid the race entry and some nonrefundable airbnb fees. I'm already here. I should go out there and have as much fun on the run course as they'll let me have. I have some really smart and wonderful friends.

I got up the next morning feeling like garbage after the effort of the bike race. There was a 10K run that was part of the Lead Challenge. I had to at least start that race to be able to move on and do the 100 mile run the following weekend. I went to packet pickup and got my bib and ran the slowest 10K of my life, feeling tired but feeling more positive as the miles progressed. 

As I jogged down the 10K course that also makes up the first and last 3 miles of the 100 mile run, I visualized running there again in one week. I also reflected on the previous day. Surprisingly, I wasn't devastated about the DNF. I knew that I tried as hard as I could. I kept pushing myself to try to get something that I wanted. I committed and I did not quit. Even when my chip was pulled, I didn't quit, and whether that was smart or stupid, I'm incredibly proud of myself for continuing on and giving the day all I had. 

I raced my heart out to get to that time cut at mile 42. I dug deeper than ever before — in 15 years of endurance racing I have never dug so deep. I was stronger than I thought, and I did more than I thought I could. All of the motivational talk from the athlete meeting applied to the race day that I had. I walk away from that mountain bike race amazed at all I learned and excited and interested to see how far I can go. I feel energized rather than defeated.

A 10K finish line with Becca, my lovely crew.

I'm glad I listened to Laura and stayed here in Colorado instead of going home with my tail between my legs. I'm working from "home" in an airbnb in Keystone this week,and I'm heading back up to Leadville tomorrow to start another 100 mile journey all over again. While the Lead Challenge is over for me, the Leadville challenge is not, and I'm excited to see where it takes me. This is Leadville, and I love it.

A little shakeout ride yesterday at Lake Dillon.