Mongolia Bike Challenge 2014, # 2: Survival
Cosy digs for stages 6 & 7
My mate Ned prepares to start
MBC Stage 6 - Nothing, absolutely nothing
This was supposed to be my big day. I love time trails, the longer the better, and so a 46km TT with legs that were getting better every day augured well.
We stayed at the stunning Steppes Nomad ecocamp, a collection of gers and two stone buildings set in a valley next to a slowly meandering river with the steppes standing guard. One of the buildings housed proper toilets and bathing facilities complete with hot water, and the other a warm and welcoming restaurant. So I was clean, well fed and had enjoyed a relatively good night's sleep in the ger in real bed with a duvet. The dull cough that had accompanied me since arriving in Mongolia had sharpened overnight and I was breathing a little tighter, but I still felt great and more importantly confident, so everything was set for a short and sharp hit out that would keep the momentum going … or was it?
I rolled up nonchalantly to the start line with just 20 seconds to spare much to the race ref Daniele's consternation: "Number 55, one minute … 45 seconds … 30 seconds …" I was ready to roll and I thought I blasted out of the gates. But barely three minutes into my effort at the top of the first little hill I was caught and passed by my minute man, one of the crazy young Mongolians. I took a cartoon double take; how the hell could he have made up 60 seconds so quickly? Then I remembered that the posse of young local guns always went nuts at the start and that coupled with the fact that I was employing my usual steady start for a long TT reassured me. Alas, it was a case of false cheer.
When I tried to move up a gear and follow the pup, my legs said no. It was then that I also realized I couldn't see the guy who had started a minute ahead of me on what was a wide open stretch. And the young Mongilian pup was soon out of sight too. A look over my shoulder barely 5km in showed a few jerseys closing me down in stark contrast to the invisible men ahead.
I hit a semi-technical section and soon regretted having forgone the thumb splint that morning – the doc and I both had thought the damaged digit was getting better. For me mountain biking is a confidence thing and all of a sudden I had none. While I had sailed down the descents the previous day, now I was all brakes and doing my best just to stay upright never mind find the flow. My badly chafed bottom cheeks didn't help either, but with half the field suffering a similar fate I couldn't use that as an excuse. Toughen up soldier!
This was supposed to be my big day. I love time trails, the longer the better, and so a 46km TT with legs that were getting better every day augured well.
We stayed at the stunning Steppes Nomad ecocamp, a collection of gers and two stone buildings set in a valley next to a slowly meandering river with the steppes standing guard. One of the buildings housed proper toilets and bathing facilities complete with hot water, and the other a warm and welcoming restaurant. So I was clean, well fed and had enjoyed a relatively good night's sleep in the ger in real bed with a duvet. The dull cough that had accompanied me since arriving in Mongolia had sharpened overnight and I was breathing a little tighter, but I still felt great and more importantly confident, so everything was set for a short and sharp hit out that would keep the momentum going … or was it?
I rolled up nonchalantly to the start line with just 20 seconds to spare much to the race ref Daniele's consternation: "Number 55, one minute … 45 seconds … 30 seconds …" I was ready to roll and I thought I blasted out of the gates. But barely three minutes into my effort at the top of the first little hill I was caught and passed by my minute man, one of the crazy young Mongolians. I took a cartoon double take; how the hell could he have made up 60 seconds so quickly? Then I remembered that the posse of young local guns always went nuts at the start and that coupled with the fact that I was employing my usual steady start for a long TT reassured me. Alas, it was a case of false cheer.
When I tried to move up a gear and follow the pup, my legs said no. It was then that I also realized I couldn't see the guy who had started a minute ahead of me on what was a wide open stretch. And the young Mongilian pup was soon out of sight too. A look over my shoulder barely 5km in showed a few jerseys closing me down in stark contrast to the invisible men ahead.
I hit a semi-technical section and soon regretted having forgone the thumb splint that morning – the doc and I both had thought the damaged digit was getting better. For me mountain biking is a confidence thing and all of a sudden I had none. While I had sailed down the descents the previous day, now I was all brakes and doing my best just to stay upright never mind find the flow. My badly chafed bottom cheeks didn't help either, but with half the field suffering a similar fate I couldn't use that as an excuse. Toughen up soldier!
Seven nations rehydrate after Stage 6
And I did. "Mental toughness" is a term we emphasize over and over in the Specialized Mavericks road team I race with and so I started trying to chase the people who passed. I felt like I got faster as the stage went on but rider after rider were still overhauling me and when the leaders who'd started 20-25 minutes after me flew by after only 90 minutes or so it was pretty discouraging.
To compound my misery, there was no sun or brilliant blue skies. For the first time in six days it started to rain. It wasn't heavy, no more than a series of showers, but the steppes didn't seem so pretty or welcoming under the dark grey clouds.
I was never so relieved to finish a race. It took my 2 hours, 18 minutes when I had honestly been expecting to dip under two hours and perhaps even threaten the Masters 2 podium. Guys I'd dropped for dead the previous day put 20+ minutes into me. The dream had turned into a nightmare. But at least I was back among my new family of mountain biking friends and the my gloom quickly lifted. We were staying two nights at the Steppes Nomad camp and as it had been such a short stage we had a long afternoon to take it easy. A lot of food was consumed and quite a few bottles of the tasty local beers as tales of cycling heroics from around the world were regaled.
The sun also arrived later in the day and chased the clouds away revealing just how beautiful a spot we were in. Life was good again and I went for a walk to take it all in … the fact that I quite literally couldn't sit down any longer might have contributed to my decision to stroll.
So what had gone wrong? Simply visiting new ground perhaps? I had done plenty of five-day stage races on the road, but never anything longer and definitely nothing as hard as the MBC, so maybe my body had found its limit.
Day 5's efforts involving riding in a fast-moving dust cloud for the first two hours, followed by another five hours of hard graft might have been a factor too. I'm asthmatic but had barley used my Ventolin over the past few years. Right from landing in Ulaan Bator at an altitude of 1,500 metres, however, breathing wasn't as involuntary as it usually was and I had been emitting the odd cough and having an occasional puff on the gray inhaler.
But on the evening following Stage 5 I joined my roommate Dave in the competition for loudest barker. Perhaps that's why we attracted the attentions of the cutest, furriest dog in the world, who camped at our door and pleaded with his big brown eyes to let him in out of the cold (one roomie who shall remain nameless gave him the black ball, though, lol)
Whatever the reasons, in terms of the big picture of life, I'd simply had a bad day on the bike. It wasn't the first time and I knew it wouldn't be the last. And I had Stage 7 the very next day to redeem myself. Only 92km awaited me and completing the challenge. A piece of cake, surely?
To compound my misery, there was no sun or brilliant blue skies. For the first time in six days it started to rain. It wasn't heavy, no more than a series of showers, but the steppes didn't seem so pretty or welcoming under the dark grey clouds.
I was never so relieved to finish a race. It took my 2 hours, 18 minutes when I had honestly been expecting to dip under two hours and perhaps even threaten the Masters 2 podium. Guys I'd dropped for dead the previous day put 20+ minutes into me. The dream had turned into a nightmare. But at least I was back among my new family of mountain biking friends and the my gloom quickly lifted. We were staying two nights at the Steppes Nomad camp and as it had been such a short stage we had a long afternoon to take it easy. A lot of food was consumed and quite a few bottles of the tasty local beers as tales of cycling heroics from around the world were regaled.
The sun also arrived later in the day and chased the clouds away revealing just how beautiful a spot we were in. Life was good again and I went for a walk to take it all in … the fact that I quite literally couldn't sit down any longer might have contributed to my decision to stroll.
So what had gone wrong? Simply visiting new ground perhaps? I had done plenty of five-day stage races on the road, but never anything longer and definitely nothing as hard as the MBC, so maybe my body had found its limit.
Day 5's efforts involving riding in a fast-moving dust cloud for the first two hours, followed by another five hours of hard graft might have been a factor too. I'm asthmatic but had barley used my Ventolin over the past few years. Right from landing in Ulaan Bator at an altitude of 1,500 metres, however, breathing wasn't as involuntary as it usually was and I had been emitting the odd cough and having an occasional puff on the gray inhaler.
But on the evening following Stage 5 I joined my roommate Dave in the competition for loudest barker. Perhaps that's why we attracted the attentions of the cutest, furriest dog in the world, who camped at our door and pleaded with his big brown eyes to let him in out of the cold (one roomie who shall remain nameless gave him the black ball, though, lol)
Whatever the reasons, in terms of the big picture of life, I'd simply had a bad day on the bike. It wasn't the first time and I knew it wouldn't be the last. And I had Stage 7 the very next day to redeem myself. Only 92km awaited me and completing the challenge. A piece of cake, surely?
Unfamiliar grey in the morning ...
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... saw deep blue return in the afternoon
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The start banner reflects the state of the wind
Stage 7 – Fighting demons to the finish line
I talked about mental toughness in my Stage 6 report, well I never had to dig deeper into my reserves of resolve to even make the start line for Stage 7, the "Great Chinggis Empire Stage". Sure I was "only" faced with 92km, but everything – my body, my mind – seemed at the point of terminal breakdown. I tried to be externally positive but internally I wanted nothing more than to remain curled up inside my sleeping bag in the nice warm ger.
That of course was never going to happen so I prepared best I could and got ready for more pain. But I never expected it to hurt sooooo much.
It was another beautiful morning with bright blue skies. But it was also bitterly cold. Accompanying the just-above freezing temperatures was a blustery wind that bit to the soul. To ward off this evil I added knee warmers, arm warmers, a second pair of gloves and a wind jacket to my ensemble. I started in the jacket most mornings and usually jettisoned it before or at the first feed zone due to overheating, but to illustrate how cold it was this final day, I wore the whole winter collection for the entire stage and felt like I didn't sweat a single bead.To the start and I lined up at the back with no intentions of even trying to stay with the front group. I'd been coughing all night and felt like I'd nearly emptied my Ventolin inhaler in a fruitless attempt to beat the breathlessness.
However, the worse thing was my arse. Bilateral welts haunted my soul and taunted me to climb off, but to what purpose? To face the eternal shame of DNFing while sitting in a vehicle that would provide an even bumpier ride than my bike.And so it began, the trails to redemption and the glory of completing the Mongolia Bike Challenge. But if I thought I'd get an easy ride at the back I was sorely wrong. Immediately my inner competitor took over and I soon found myself fighting like hell to make the sizable group that seemed to be forming tantalizingly ahead. The first 25 minutes of Stage 7 felt like the hardest thing I'd ever done on a bike and this was the third or fourth group on the road. Many times in that short period that felt like hours of agony I considered sitting up and drifting back. But that would have meant facing the howling winds on my own rather than getting some shelter and so I kept digging deep. Not that this was an organized bunch of men riding efficiently against the elements, no, we were a ragged crew unwilling or unable to recognize the ever-changing shifts of the wind.
I talked about mental toughness in my Stage 6 report, well I never had to dig deeper into my reserves of resolve to even make the start line for Stage 7, the "Great Chinggis Empire Stage". Sure I was "only" faced with 92km, but everything – my body, my mind – seemed at the point of terminal breakdown. I tried to be externally positive but internally I wanted nothing more than to remain curled up inside my sleeping bag in the nice warm ger.
That of course was never going to happen so I prepared best I could and got ready for more pain. But I never expected it to hurt sooooo much.
It was another beautiful morning with bright blue skies. But it was also bitterly cold. Accompanying the just-above freezing temperatures was a blustery wind that bit to the soul. To ward off this evil I added knee warmers, arm warmers, a second pair of gloves and a wind jacket to my ensemble. I started in the jacket most mornings and usually jettisoned it before or at the first feed zone due to overheating, but to illustrate how cold it was this final day, I wore the whole winter collection for the entire stage and felt like I didn't sweat a single bead.To the start and I lined up at the back with no intentions of even trying to stay with the front group. I'd been coughing all night and felt like I'd nearly emptied my Ventolin inhaler in a fruitless attempt to beat the breathlessness.
However, the worse thing was my arse. Bilateral welts haunted my soul and taunted me to climb off, but to what purpose? To face the eternal shame of DNFing while sitting in a vehicle that would provide an even bumpier ride than my bike.And so it began, the trails to redemption and the glory of completing the Mongolia Bike Challenge. But if I thought I'd get an easy ride at the back I was sorely wrong. Immediately my inner competitor took over and I soon found myself fighting like hell to make the sizable group that seemed to be forming tantalizingly ahead. The first 25 minutes of Stage 7 felt like the hardest thing I'd ever done on a bike and this was the third or fourth group on the road. Many times in that short period that felt like hours of agony I considered sitting up and drifting back. But that would have meant facing the howling winds on my own rather than getting some shelter and so I kept digging deep. Not that this was an organized bunch of men riding efficiently against the elements, no, we were a ragged crew unwilling or unable to recognize the ever-changing shifts of the wind.
So exhausted I can hardy raise my arms in triumph.
Then, a sharp turn left brought a tail wind and the first relief of the day. While most of this bunch of say 15 men were of a mind to use this opportunity to regroup, the perilous pair of big Yannie and Banksy decided this was the perfect chance to show what they were made of and put the hurt down once more. Some riders gave up as other cursed sand swore, none louder than the Scotsman. By the time the wind turned against us again forcing an eventual reformation, the group was no more than 10 strong, but at last a steady rhythm replaced the irregular beat and the next 90 minutes or so were an exercise in cooperation and camaraderie.
Jokes were told and songs were sung as yet more steppes were scaled and swept down, and the survivors seemed to realize than now was time to stick together; the work was apportioned fairly as the terrain changed with the lightest leading steadily up the hills and the big guns shepherding the flock down into the valleys.
Not that this was easy. Despite my best intentions to stand up as much as I could, this was physically impossible and so my arse screamed and burned every time I sat down. "Solider on my man, it'll soon be over."
We reached the single Stage 7 feed zone to find no life-boosting Coke. A collective groan soon petered out as the jammy dodger-like biscuits and simple but effective cold, cooling water did the trick.
The group stayed mostly together although the odd warrior forged off the front on his own, and every now and then a glance back revealed a solitary figure who had given up or silently spat out. But the group was still a solid eight when Banksy said with some 30km to go "wouldn't it be great if this group stayed together till the end".
Murphy of course took these words as an opportunity to apply his law and not long after I'm sure the big fella could be heard in Ulaan Bator as his curses over a puncture swept over the steppes. Call us callous, most of us kept going, but at least said sorry. Yannie and Banksy rode this whole stage race (and many others) as a team and so there was nothing the rest of us could do to help them in fixing the flat.
With the pair of stalwarts gone, however, the group lost its focus and eventually drifted into smaller units. I found myself with Laurie, an Aussie based in UB, and we worked well together although a slight disagreement over the race distance provided a distraction.
He reckoned we only had to race 86km, while I thought it was closer to 92km. I was eager to accept his version. With "8km" to go we spotted the camp atop a hill. Laurie said we jet had to go down and round the other side of the hill before heading back up to the line. This finishing straight turned out to be 15km long but no matter, the knowledge that the end was in sight lifted the spirits sky high. Not that they needed it. The doom and gloom of the morning had been banished about an hour into the race as the epic nature of the surroundings took a firm grasp of the emotions again.
Before the finish, there was one final KOM (or GPM as they termed them in the MBC) to tackle. It proved steep and fairly technical, full of washouts, deep ruts and loose stone, but I made it up without resorting to the walk of shame of previous stages. I'd been told pre-race by Cas and again in the race briefing that immediately following was a dangerous descent where a few people had crashed badly in 2013.
Thinking there was only 2km to go after peaking the KOM, I had told Laurie beforehand that I'd be sitting up and taking it easy. I was as good as my word and bid farewell to my partner of the previous four hours. I didn't care as I watched him swoop and jump away. I just wanted to finish safely.
Jokes were told and songs were sung as yet more steppes were scaled and swept down, and the survivors seemed to realize than now was time to stick together; the work was apportioned fairly as the terrain changed with the lightest leading steadily up the hills and the big guns shepherding the flock down into the valleys.
Not that this was easy. Despite my best intentions to stand up as much as I could, this was physically impossible and so my arse screamed and burned every time I sat down. "Solider on my man, it'll soon be over."
We reached the single Stage 7 feed zone to find no life-boosting Coke. A collective groan soon petered out as the jammy dodger-like biscuits and simple but effective cold, cooling water did the trick.
The group stayed mostly together although the odd warrior forged off the front on his own, and every now and then a glance back revealed a solitary figure who had given up or silently spat out. But the group was still a solid eight when Banksy said with some 30km to go "wouldn't it be great if this group stayed together till the end".
Murphy of course took these words as an opportunity to apply his law and not long after I'm sure the big fella could be heard in Ulaan Bator as his curses over a puncture swept over the steppes. Call us callous, most of us kept going, but at least said sorry. Yannie and Banksy rode this whole stage race (and many others) as a team and so there was nothing the rest of us could do to help them in fixing the flat.
With the pair of stalwarts gone, however, the group lost its focus and eventually drifted into smaller units. I found myself with Laurie, an Aussie based in UB, and we worked well together although a slight disagreement over the race distance provided a distraction.
He reckoned we only had to race 86km, while I thought it was closer to 92km. I was eager to accept his version. With "8km" to go we spotted the camp atop a hill. Laurie said we jet had to go down and round the other side of the hill before heading back up to the line. This finishing straight turned out to be 15km long but no matter, the knowledge that the end was in sight lifted the spirits sky high. Not that they needed it. The doom and gloom of the morning had been banished about an hour into the race as the epic nature of the surroundings took a firm grasp of the emotions again.
Before the finish, there was one final KOM (or GPM as they termed them in the MBC) to tackle. It proved steep and fairly technical, full of washouts, deep ruts and loose stone, but I made it up without resorting to the walk of shame of previous stages. I'd been told pre-race by Cas and again in the race briefing that immediately following was a dangerous descent where a few people had crashed badly in 2013.
Thinking there was only 2km to go after peaking the KOM, I had told Laurie beforehand that I'd be sitting up and taking it easy. I was as good as my word and bid farewell to my partner of the previous four hours. I didn't care as I watched him swoop and jump away. I just wanted to finish safely.
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It turns out there were 5km to the finish, but this ended up a good thing as my race head switched off, I took the time to properly take in the surroundings, as I was pretty sure I'd never see them again. It seemed they'd saved the most scenic scenes till last and I soaked it all up.
And then, as I rounded the last corner into the finishing straight, two horseman in full Chinggis Khan gear galloped up beside me to accompany me to the line in the 13th Century Nomadic Camp. Of course this was no fluke, race sponsor the Genco Tourism Bureau had set this up for very rider, but it didn't seem corny in the slightest. I crossed the line with a mixture of sheer relief and elation. On the day I only achieved 34th place, but it felt like a top 10 performance. I've accomplished a few feats on my bike over the years, but completing the MBC was by far the one that gave me most satisfaction. It took me 40 hours over the seven days to cover the 836km of ground 10,000m+ of elevation and I can safely say it was the most exhilarating but exhausting (physically and mentally) task I've ever attempted. I'll admit to shedding a wee tear as I found a quiet spot and lay next to my bike (sitting simply wasn't an option) overlooking the last of the majestic spots the organizers had chosen for this epic event. It was still freezing, though, and I was soon seeking shelter in the massive communal ger that served as our gathering point for the next 20 hours. Washing wan't an option either as there wasn't even any cold water, but as I said, I'd hardly broken a sweat, so I made straight for the recovery fare instead; the tastiest, greasiest pita/pancake meat-filled concoctions and the most gamey mutton noodle soup ever brewed. Just like Chinggis Khan would have apparently got stuck into. |
The big ger in the top photo held the post-race feed
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