24 Hours of Rapelje

Perhaps I should call it "7Hrs 20 minutes of Rapelje" or even "The Elusive Dirt Century". Yes.. you heard right. This years race was truncated due to heavy rain, intense thunder storms, and gumbo mud. But, more on that later..

If you've never been to Rapelje, MT, you may be underwhelmed if you show up on any other weekend. The town contains one cafe, one post office, and a handful of grain bins. Like any other town in Eastern Montana, the local population consist of ranchers, dogs, and rattlesnakes. But, on the one weekend nearest Summer solstice, Rapelje is abuzz with 200+ cyclists from near and far. Stockmans Cafe serves as the hub of all activity, and all proceeds from the race keep this establishment afloat. The story goes that Stockmans cafe used to be a bar. But, all of the old drunks either died or moved on. The staff at Stockmans are all very friendly, and always do an incredible job at putting up with the motley crew of smelly mountain bikers. Beginning at midnight, they start dishing-out the pancakes. And.. they won't stop putting food in front of you until you actually stand up and leave! (Thanks, Stockmans!)

The course itself deserves some credit. At first glance, it's just 14-odd miles of rolling farmland with cactus, tire-sucking holes, and a maze of cattle trails. Although total elevating gain is only about 800 feet, enough granny-gear climbs and technical obstacles exists to keep away those roadie types on their fancy 'cross bikes. Within just a few hours of race start, bumpy farm fields and knee-high grasslands turn into sweet single-track. The cow pastures are stitched together by a handful of farm roads that serve as excellent places to suck-down calories. Put it all together, and you have the perfect scene for a great race. A 24Hr race!

My Friday night pre-ride didn't bode well for my first 24solo effort. As I was scouting the best line off of a 3-foot rock drop, my bar end caught on an oddly-placed stick used for marking the course. The stick broke, snapped-back, and sent a huge wood shard completely through my rear tire! By "completely through", I literally mean in one side and out the other. The freak accident left a 1-inch gash, and it was immediately obvious that I was on foot. The shortest path back to the pit area definitely wasn't the trail, so I headed-off through the scrub brush towards grain silos in the distance. As I stepped-over mature sagebrush, crossed gullys, and climbed small, rocky ledges I walked gingerly and used my bike as a snake probe. All the while I was thinking, "Why didn't I just take the trail?" True. The trail may been longer, but it was better than a sprained ankle or a rattlesnake hanging off of my calf muscle. Eventually, I saw the motor home that had been parked on-course as an emergency aid station. And, just in time as dusk was setting in and I had no light. Where there is a motor home there has got to be road, right? Wrong. When, I reached the motor home it was deserted and there was no road to speak of. But.. in the distance I could see a one-eyed farm truck beating its way through the bumpy field in my direction. The pickup rolled up to me, and I was greeted by a mile-wide smile. "Need a hand?", he asked. "Uh... sure!", I replied as I tried hard not to make the obvious sound sarcastic. The driver was local land-owner, John. John was in the fields to pick up wife, Mary, who had been searching for her herd of escaped miniature horses. I grabbed my bike and hopped into the pickup bed with Black-and-Tan Coonhound, Jethro. John gave me a cold can of lemonade and we all made pleasant smalltalk through the open rear window as we rolled back to town. *phew* (Thanks John, Mary, and Jethro!)

The next morning was a flurry of activity as team riders rolled-in and frantically sorted out who was riding with whom. The talk was of cactus, flat tires, and the possibility of thunder storms. I wasn't worried about the cactus since I was rolling with tubeless tires and a coffee-cup of Stan's sealant. But.. what about the thunderstorms? I've heard horror stories of the dreaded Rapelje clay and riders returning to town carrying their bikes like firewood. I was running fast-roll tires and my bike doesn't have the best mud clearance. What would happen if it rained for 3 hours? Why didn't I bring my mud tires? In the end, my anxiety was moot.

At 10:30am, riders gathered around race director Jason Frank for the pre-race meeting. Jason first welcomed us to "downtown" Rapelje, and explained that 'that' was "rural" Rapelje (as he motioned towards a dozen-odd trailer houses). Jason warned of rattlesnake activity, and joked that you don't want to be the 3rd rider. (The 1st rider startles the snake, the 2nd pisses 'em off, and the 3rd rider gets bit.) But.. was he really joking? I couldn't tell. In either case, I was forcing myself into a slow first lap and knew that I wouldn't be the 3rd rider. It made me feel only slightly better that they were first sending a 4-wheeler on course 'beat back' the snakes. Lovely.

At 11am, we lined up for the classic Lemond-start down main street Rapelje. With a chest-thumping blast from a real cannon, we were off and running. I recall hearing the popcorn sound of 75 pairs of bike shoes running on pavement, and wondering, "why am I running so fast? This is silly!" By the time I got on my bike, my heartrate was over 150. I instantly tried to force myself to slow down, but my legs weren't listening to my brain. "Slow. Breath. Slower.. Hr at 148. Pedal slower. Breath. Hr at 144. Slower... " Meanwhile, a mad flurry of cyclists started to whiz past me on the dirt road and I began to take note of their race numbers. Solo riders were numbered 900 - 949. Within a few minutes, a pack of solo riders began to form. I was still trying to slow down my heartrate, and wondered why everybody was in such a hurry. I hoped onto a train of 5 soloists, and tried to draft. Still too fast! I again slowed, and hoped onto another train of soloists to get a pull. Still a little fast, but figured I'd sit there and try to make a few friends. But, nobody seemed to be in "chatty" mood. (Sheez guys, where's the fire?) I again backed off. My heartrate was zone3, and I wanted to be zone2. I again took note of my competition as they pounded on ahead.

After the first third of the lap, we were following pink flags across a pasture and I started to catch riders who had zipped past on the fast farm road. I settled into a pack of 4 soloists, and decided to sit there while I began eating and drinking. One soloist even had the gall to ask, "Eating already? Hungry?". I shrugged with a "yup" and laughed to myself as I eyed his 20-pound camelback and over-inflated motorcross tires on his aluminum hardtail frame.

At the half-way point, the course begins to cross a cow field. You ask, "What makes this different than the other cow fields you've already described?". Well.. simply put: cows. The trail becomes a minefield of hoof prints from mud-bogs-past, and those guys on hardtails start to take a beating. I held our pace, and suggested in a friendly tone that it was probably my turn to take a pull. As I merrily spun to the front of the line, I continued my relaxation skills. "Wiggle your fingers. wiggle your toes. relax your shoulders. breath." We eventually exited the 2-mile rumble strip, and I looked back to make sure that everybody was still on my wheel. Nope.

So, I plodded ahead and used the next road section to again take-in calories and suck-down the CarboRocket. By the time I reached the next single-track section, I was starting to catch riders who weren't soloists. I would pass them with a casual wave, and note their form. Many of them were panting HARD, and I thought to myself, "Boy, that must SUCK!"

I rolled into my pits after lap 1 for fresh bottles and a couple of endurolytes. I was happy to hear my fellow Muleterro teammates cheer me on, and I felt the confidence grow. Lap 1 down, perhaps 14 to go. I didn't know exactly how many solo riders were in front of me, but I didn't seem to care. I was doing everything right. My heartrate was a bit high at times, but I chalked it up to nerves and heat.

And so the race continue to play-out. My heartrate dropped, but my pace stayed the same. I continued to catch and pass riders. On a couple of occasions, I witnessed solo riders in front of me standing on the pedals and cranking hard in a violent swaying motion to muscle-up the hills. "Single-Speeder, " I thought to myself as I spun up the same hill at 95-rpm. But when I would catch him, I would notice an abundance of unused gears. I giggled to myself as my opinion changed from that of 'respect' to 'DumbAss'.

By the end of lap 4, I had learned from pit-boss, Mrs GhostShiftr, that my Muleterro teammate, Sten, was just in front of me. Sten is a strong rider, and I used this information as a yardstick that I was doing well. I knew that there were a few other strong soloists who I hadn't seen yet. Notably, teammate and race-favorite Bill Martin. I ran the numbers, and figured that I must be in 4th or 5th place.

But then the horizon got dark. Then it got darker. By lap 6 I started to feel that scary stillness in the air that always precedes a crazy storm and I started thinking about what layers I wanted to carry on the next lap. By the second half of lap 6, I wouldn't have been surprised to see a witch-lady pumping her cruiser complete with wicker basket and small, furry dog. I observed two large bullsnakes that looked like they were seriously going somewhere -- somewhere safer. Something was brewing.

I rolled into the pits and I could smell little rain drops. Mrs GhostShiftr was waiting for me, and immediately directed me to bypass pits and sign-in with my lap time. I learned the news that an inch of rain was predicted in the next hour, and that the race was "postponed". Postponed? I wondered what that meant as we all secured the pit area and donned our Goretex.

Then the rain started. Hard. Then the wind started. Hard. We all hunkered-down in our pit tents, holding onto the frames to keep them from becoming large kites. A handful of our friends were still on-course, and we wondered what the conditions were like. Racers began to emerge one-by-one. Some pushing. Some riding in pickups. Some riding on 4-wheelers. They were covered in mud, and their bikes were covered in more mud. From what I could tell, the only riders who had even a slight chance of working machinery were the single-speeders. But even their bikes were covered in thick, goopy brown frosting.

The rain eventually let up. We learned that the earliest possible restart was 5am, and It didn't take me too long to decide that my race was likely done. Even if we did resume, I was ill-equipped to handle the reported 4 inches of gumbo. Even in slight mud, my bike starts to chain-suck. By racing in this slop, I only had things to lose and nothing to gain.

Tunes and beers started flowing, and we socialized around the firepit as we watched the amazing show of lightening in the distance. Everybody speculated about how they could fairly restart a race like this. Many riders had to short-cut the course just to return to safety. My doubts of a race restart continued to grow as the rainfall waxed and waned, but I didn't care. I was having a great time. What a fun crowd!

Everybody watched the clock, and counted the minutes until the midnight pancake feed. As always, the pancake feed was awesome! But, I actually felt a bit bad for the staff at Stockmans. Instead of the usually appreciative racers trickling in for post-lap calories, they were inundated by a boisterous crowd of wet, smelly mountain bikers who had been drinking beers around a campfire for several hours. (Again, thanks Stockmans!)

I retired to my tent with a full belly, and listened to the rain come and go throughout the night. The race was done. I knew it. Everybody knew it.

Bill Martin had won the solo class by a country mile. If pit-boss, Bob Waggoner hadn't been coaching him to slow down, he would have beat all teams.

Sure, I wanted to prove to myself that I could finish a 24Hr race. But, no regrets. I had a blast and it was a great training day. Out of 24 riders in in Men's Solo class, I finished a strong 5th -- 10 minutes out of 3rd place. In 7hrs, 20 minutes I had 6 laps for about 86 miles. Yet, my dirt century remains elusive.

Photos: Bill Martin