I feel the need to put the word “endurance” into the title of this post for the simple reason that for me this race was mostly about mind over body. It was a test of endurance, seeing it through to the end.

Dirtworks being my first mountain bike (MTB) race saw me during the week leading up to the race getting nervous and excited. Nervous because I didn’t know what to expect. Excited about the pending adventure and thats what it was an adventure more then a race in the end. I suppose anything over 4 hours becomes more of an adventure then a race. As time increases so do the challenges and demands you have to face. Your mood, your desire to continue and your mental state changes along with the terrain as you battle your own doubts. It took me a little over 9 hours to complete the 100km’s, a back of the field result but proud none the less. Like with all adventures, it was the journey that counted not the destination or the time for me. During the race, time seemed to stand still and at the same time last forever, especially at the 50km mark. Half way there yet so far still to go. Now that it is finished and I look back at the day the 9 hours went in a blink of an eye, highlighted by different events and terrain.

After the start the first 10km of the race had ice cold temperatures, fog all around, blue legs, nice graded roads and a fast pace. The next 20km’s (10-30) brought with it long steep hills (hills and more hills), beautiful views from the ridge line and a false sense of “yeah this is achievable”. The next 20km’s (30-50km) had gorgeous forest views, sandy mud pools, knocked over trees, chain jams (from the sand and water), the start of me walking up hills thanks to chain jams (mental note: take a brush or old tooth brush next time to clean my chain) and the start of my desire to throw it all in. “I can’t do this for another 50kms it is impossible”. It was during this section that the stacks and spills started to happen, with one guy breaking both collar bones and another needing my help to work out two severe cramped legs.

The 50km water stop was an inviting break set amongst some amazing tall growth rain forests. It was almost too inviting in reality because if there was an option to pull out there and then I think I would have taken it. My legs were jelly, my spirit beaten down and my desire to continue at a low. The only way home from the 50km mark was a 32kms ride and sitting around the 50km aid station wasn’t going to get me there. So I jumped on my valiant steed and head up for yet another hill climb of 3km’s.

The next 10kms (50-60) brought on the technical riding, and with that its own demands. It was like riding a jackhammer for 10km’s. I started to eye off the dual suspension riders with envy (which was most people) as they seemed to float over the rocks on their magic carpets effortlessly negotiating their way down and up rock gardens and tight lines as I jarred and dodged my way through. I did started to get a few companions on this leg with a few people going my pace, chopping and changed positions. Some people showed strength on the technical down hills, some showed strength on the technical hill climbs. It was one of these people that voiced what I had only just been thinking a few km’s earlier “This is f*#king ridiculous! Who chooses these tracks?” My response and the conclusion I had come to in my mind so I could move forward was “All part of the fun I suppose. That’s why they call it an endurance event”. The battle with my mind raged on. I formulated ideas and outcomes to allow me to pull out. “I really want this to end, but I couldn’t wear the race jersey if i get a DNF. Looks like Brendan is getting a free bike jersey”. “If I don’t finish then I will have to come back next year. Though this time with a dually so I can prove to myself and others that I can do it”. “I just want this to end”, “boy I under prepared for this, should have done a lot more riding”. I knew then that I had to start taking smaller bits at a much larger pie because there was still a long way to go. So I started picturing the downhill section coming up. Picturing how sweet it will be to finally get a chance to sit down, relax and coast down the hill all the time getting some easy km’s under the belt with little to no exertion. How disappointed I would soon be.

The next 10km’s (60-70) was utterly relentless. There was going to be no easy downhill run for this section. With bowling ball sized loose rocks strewn all over the place and no defined line because of the movement in the rocks it took total concentration and physical effort to stay in the saddle, weaving amongst the bowling balls. The race had broken me, my mind couldn’t take anymore and I spat the dummy. Physically exhausted, mentally strained I just wanted it to be over and I let no one in particular know about it. Besides there was no one really to hear my cry because by then I was well and truly at the back of the pack. But the light at the end of the tunnel did come and a nice graded road was what awaited me at the end of the tunnel.

It was decision time. In a way I wanted this time to come because it would mean an end, but in another way I didn’t. I have never yet quit a race I had started and I didn’t really want to start it now but continuing would mean more pain, another 30km’s of pain and yet another relentless hill climb. I walked across the infamous makeshift canoe bridge, sat and gathered my thoughts for a while before riding off trying to avoid the decision. Ahead was the fork in the road. Turn right and take the easy road back to St Albans and a DNF (Did Not Finish), turn left and take the hard road. Left, right, left, right “F#*k”. With that I turned left and cemented my fate. The hard road it was.

The last 30km’s (70-100) was on relatively smooth fire trails and a welcoming change from the onslaught I had been through after the 50km marker. The smooth trails didn’t mean much to my legs though and by the 85km mark I was experiencing severe leg cramps. This equated to me having to walk up every hill big or small. Every time I tried to put some power down lactic acid would build up in my legs and trigger sever cramps making me jump off my bike hobbling and grunting while trying to walk it out. It wasn’t long after the cramps started that Brendan turned up “I was hoping to catch up”, his bike repaired after a 1 1/2hr pit stop for some mechanical repairs around the 60km mark. Brendan was welcomed company at this point as it had been a long road and I was passing the 8 hours time frame. I mentally stared breaking things down to make them seem small, 20km’s to go became 10 lots of 2km chunks to go. Making things seem a lot closer and achievable. I cursed every single hill as I got off and walk up all the while dreaming about the downhill home run to come. Hoping, always hoping that it was around the next corner. As it turned out though there was always another hill awaiting around the next corner.

The downhill did come though, and it was step. “Concentrate and don’t stack it now” I kept on saying to myself. 5km’s of graded road and a river crossing brought the finish line in sight. Brendan and I crossed the line together having not beaten many others, but I did mastered my mind and body. It was a triumphant feeling, it was “I can’t believe I just did that”, it was “I am glad that is finally over”, it was “damn that was a nut cracker”, it was “I really need to get a dual suspension bike”, it was “boy I am hungry”, it was “at least I can wear the shirt”!

I would like to finish by quoting Theodore Roosevelt.

It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat. — Theodore Roosevelt
from Citizenship in a Republic