12 Hours of Cranky Monkey: A Trilogy

Part I: 2008, the Full Story - by Joe

Prologue

With any full recount, the raconteur faces the problem of where to begin. With “12 Hours of Cranky Monkey: A Trilogy; Part I: the Full Story,” the story begins a week before the race, on Saturday June 21, 2008, the summer solstice. On that day, or that evening, the author exited his wife’s Prius into a parking lot on South Mountain, MD. Something in the celestial air had led Michelle and the author (hereafter known as ‘I' or 'me', in the first person) something had led us to wait out this longest day and arrive at this spot for a night run. We started at South Mountain Inn, ran south along the Appalachian Trail about 14 miles, and finished at roughly 1AM at Weaverton. It was lovely, and we were tired. It was a bit of a risk on my part, not having done many night runs. (Michelle is an expert, though – no risk on her part.)

Moreover, it was a risk because the next day I was shipping out to a class on the Chesapeake Bay, ostensibly labeled “Backyard to the Bay.” The class ran from Sunday, when we drove to Criswell, MD and took a boat to a dot of land just south of the invisible water boundary of VA, the dot called Tangier Island, where we would stay until Wednesday afternoon. In the class we would, ostensibly, learn the culture and science of the Bay, take water samples, learn to crab, meet watermen from Tangier Island -- the largest remaining waterman community – all this in order to bring it back to the classroom and teach kids about our important natural resource. Those of us on the inside knew it would, in fact, be four grueling days of “pirate training camp.” I can’t write much more about these four days. It consisted largely of pre-dawn swashbuckling practice, and the basics of ship raids; afternoons were spent swinging from mainsails, and lots of competitive hole digging/treasure burying. Nights were filled with bottles and songs. Suffice to say it was tough, and I was pretty dehydrated when I returned home Wednesday. The training camp concluded with Potomac River activities Thursday and Friday, including canoeing all day Friday (pirating on a river is much different than on the open water of the Bay!).

Friday afternoon, after canoeing, I left straight from the parking lot at Violets Lock, where our pirate training – I mean “class” - ended, took a quick sunshower, drove to Tyson’s Corner to pick up Lorrin, and headed down the dreaded I-95 South out of the city to the Marine Base at Quantico. Lorrin drove while I dozed in and out, thank goodness. It took two hours to go about 40 miles.

So there was my pre-Monkey week: bookended at the start with a Solstice night run on the AT, a crazy week of pirating, and at the other end: the Cranky Monkey. I was feeling the weight of the enormous 6 days I’d just lived - from South Mountain to Tangier Island, to the Potomac River. I knew that tomorrow would be that much activity all again, packed into just 12 ominous hours...

12 Hours of Cranky Monkey, 2008: the Full Story

The Full Story Itself (not prologue)

Paul and Mical arrived earlier in the day Friday, so that when Lorrin and I arrived we already had a camping space, our pit area set up, and our team was checked in. With these three tedious and crucial things off the list, Lorrin and I could focus on setting up our tent, and getting dinner. We ate at a nice Italian place Friday night for the requisite carbo-loading. Then to bed. I slept well, despite the heat and big lump on the ground underneath my ground pad. The alarm went of at 5:45, Paul and I got up while the girls slept in (lazy girls). I fumbled with the stove to make some coffee, pulled a dagger on Paul to take his gold (then remembered I wasn’t at pirate camp anymore), and we were on our way by 6:20.

Like any race, I guess, this MTB race was an exercise in hurry-up-and-wait. We got to the race start, got our pit together, heard the race briefing at 7AM, and bided our time until the 8AM start. Paul won (or lost) the “rock, paper, scissors,” and had to go first. I, therefore, bided my time until he came back, estimated at about 9:15. The way it worked was this: teams could be one person, two, or three. All teams have this basic goal: you start riding at 8am and complete as many laps as possible until 8pm. Laps are 10 miles, challenging cross country with ups and downs, tricky roots and steep slopes, very little flat trail to catch your breath. It is a great loop, not overly technical, but very little time to relax. Uphills are tough for the obvious reason that you’re going up hill. Downhills are also tough because of sharp turns, ruts, roots, logs, fellow bikers, etc. Downhills were bouncy enough that sometimes I felt like I was operating a jackhammer. Throw in the occasional copperhead or turtle, and you can see the need to stay focused.

But I didn’t know any of this yet, because I hadn’t ridden the course. Paul was still out on his first lap. After sitting in the pit reading my novel, eating some things, and just loafing, I finally headed down to the trade-off area, full of false confidence. I could see Paul ride out of the woods on the far side of the field. I prepared myself. He pulled into the timing tent, handed over the “e-punch” to the guy who would log us in after each lap. The e-punch was then handed to me, and Paul said, “Dude, we’re fine, we’re as good as 75% of the people out there.” My false confidence soared, and I hit the trails.

I wasn’t exactly sprinting as I started. I know better than that. Nor, however, was I pacing myself for 12 hours. I can say now that I started too fast, partly because the beginning section is very good and rideable, and more because I didn’t know the course. After a half mile of comfortable turning singletrack, I came to a modest hill (no problem), then a semi-technical downhill (okay, be careful, no problem), then turns, ups and downs, a few logs, and then some more of all that, and then I saw the marker “mile 2.”

I felt my legs tighten a bit. The trail opened, turning sharp left and steeply up onto a power line right of way. I cranked up the hill fine, sharp left again into the trees on a flat enough to catch the breath a little. Then a right turn took the hill higher, over roots, so I put my gears a little lower and cranked up it. Somewhere in there must have been the mile 3 marker, but I don’t remember it, so for all I knew it was still mile 2. the trail rolled up, then down a longish, straightish, almost enjoyable stretch (I knew to be suspicious). I saw a glimmer of sunshine to my front and right. In a flash the trail opened, dropped into a deep rut, and turned sharply right. I hastily breaked, downshifted and pedaled like mad negotiating the increasingly jagged wash-out. I’d opened onto another right-of-way and essentially did a three-quarter turn onto what race organizers warned was a hill that “only experts could climb,” or something to that effect.

Bouncing through the ruts, and having regained some of my momentum, I hazarded a glance up the hill. It looked to me a devious earthen carnival slide. Starting steeply at it’s great height thirty stories high (same height as Godzilla), it leveled off somewhat in the middle, then steepened again at the bottom, where I presently was. I cranked away, up the initial incline to its level point - about 30 feet, but that’s harder than is sounds, with the gravel and washout. I caught my breath, still riding, then pedaled hard toward the steepest part. I watched up ahead as two or three fellow riders teetered, then leaned and dismounted their bikes to walk to the summit. “I can make it,” I thought. “Captain John Smith wouldn’t get off his bike,” I thought. I cranked and cranked, as it steepened, steepened, grains of gravel and sand kicked out from my back tire, but upright I stayed. Like the little train that could, I could, and I knew it. I approached an erosion barrier – among the most dreaded of uphill obstacles – and with a few kicks out of the saddle, I passed over it – “yeah! take that Caption John Smith!” I screamed (on the inside, of course. I didn’t have the breath for an outward scream), “just ten more feet and I’ll be there.” My legs were stiff, burning, but kick, kick, kick. Then, scrape, skid, and my peddling went nowhere. My back tire spit more gravel, my momentum dropped, and I all but fell over, just feet from the summit. I leaned, tottered, and head down, gasping for air, I followed all the others in dismounting and walking to the top.

It was a trick hill. I should have known. Some mechanical “inclino-matic” must have been in it, designed to steepen in proportion to my proximity to the top. “Next time,” I said, but I knew that was a lie. I wouldn’t be as fresh as this for the rest of the day. And if there was one thing I wasn’t feeling like now, it was fresh.

At the top, there was a merciful flat bit following this hill. I rested as best I could. Before long I was out again on the right-of-way, this time pounding down a steep rutted hill. I wondered at the designers of rights-of-way, which all seem to show no respect to topography. They just go up the hills, then down, irrespective of grade or terrain. Then fools on mountain bikes follow them...

I passed the mile 4 marker – yes, still the first loop. Though still early, I knew I had to eat. When I pulled over to do this, I saw that the bolt on my front wheel was unhitched, and the hub bolt was loose. I fixed it and didn’t have any trouble with it after that, and I suppressed any thoughts of what might have happened if I hadn’t seen it.

Eating something was a good move. I rolled on. The next few miles followed much like the first. There was a downhill stretch of roller coastery moguls which was fun. Also a few log obstacles, the worst of which came at the bottom of a technical hill. The log was about waist high with some smaller logs building a ramp up to it, and down the other side. Paul had warned me about this one, and I knew there was an ‘easy out’ around the left. I took that, which had a smaller log to go over, and as I came around I saw a bike lying down, with a man lying next to it, clearly in bad shape. Two others were standing over him. They seemed to have things under control, and since I wasn’t likely to be any help, I continued on. The man, I learned later, had hurt himself pretty badly going over the larger log.

I rolled on, over a small bridge, then up a few tight curves, on to a longer extended hill. As I stared ahead, partly at my tire, partly at the ground ahead, I noticed movement that soon distinguished itself as a snake. I slowed, stared, decided I was on a collision course, so I stopped and continued to stare. Soon it was clear by the pointy head and dark diamond like pattern that it was not a garter snake. I first assumed copperhead, but since have decided it was a rattlesnake that lost its rattle (yes, such a thing exists). I called to the guy behind me, who smiled, nodded, and kept riding toward me – he must have thought I was just cheering him on. I made it clear why I was standing around. He dismounted. The two of us watched as the snake sidled up to a downed log and disappeared through camouflage. I started rolling again, and the other guy courteously waited a bit for me to get started, then told those behind him to watch out before getting back on the bike himself.

Somewhere along the way there I came to the second of the “experts only” hills. This one was also high (well, okay, only about 50 feet, but it had two steep switchbacks!). It appeared to be much kinder, but wasn’t. Paul had described this one, too: distinguishable by its two tight turns, but at first I didn’t realize that this was it. I started up, unsuspecting. Soon I looked ahead and saw the switchbacks, not strong, and not confident. My feeble muttering, “just like Lance on the Alpe d’Huez,” was totally unconvincing and pathetic, and I was glad I said it on the inside so that no one would ever know I said it. At the start of the first switchback I couldn’t muster the force to get around it. And since no one else could either, we all walked that one together.

By now in the ride I had lost my sense of mileage. All I knew was that it was my first lap, and it was morning time. If I had looked at a watch, I’d have seen it was only about 45 minutes or so since I started. How much more was I supposed to do today…?

This mood, one of timelessness – or chronological disorientation – became one of several themes of our day. With the trail, the heat, the bike, the loops became meshed and were largely indistinguishable. By the end of the day, Paul and I had both finished four laps. The day rolled on, ride, rest, ride, rest, in roughly one and a half hour increments. But looking back, it seemed to be one single, concentrated loop, splintered into four lines like four different string dimensions, parallel and overlapping, with a few distinct features to each one. In my memory, just like in this report, it’s hard to distinguish one lap from another.

But at this point on the first lap, early, the day had only hinted at its true teeth. It was starting to get warmer, and the heat would be a defining factor, felt on every hill, with every pedal, even during the breaks. I knew the importance of drinking as much and as often as possible. I kept an energy gel and salt pills in my pocket for easy access at all times. At least twice a loop I would take it in, eventually finding a few flat sections where I could do this while riding.

So, back to the loop, there I was with a slackening sense of time and space. I took a moment to breath and eat, and recharge a bit. I was feeling the heat and the wear. With nothing to do but to do it, I went on and did it. Soon I rode up on a guy who was clearly hurting, walking his bike on an easy hill. I asked if he had water, he said yes. I asked if he had any food, he said no. I dropped a gel pack on the ground and called back to him, “I’m leaving a Clifshot on the trail, be sure to pick it up.” I never saw the guy again; I worry the wolves got him.

The next three miles felt easy compared to the last three. There were some rolling hills, etc. I felt better. Knowing I was in the last third of the loop was inspiring, but just having eaten clearly helped. I passed the final aid station (mile 7.5 or something). Eventually we opened out to a gravel road and started a long scary downhill – probably one mile of gravity propelled riding. Then it turned sharp left to the woods, sharp right through the woods, then out again to another right-of-way, uphill. Into the low gears I went and cranked away. Over the hill, into the woods, till I saw a white square on a tree on which was written “mile 10.” The loop was around 10.3 miles total, so this sign was the beacon of hope. Down a hill, I dropped my sunglasses, stopped to get them, and then zoomed out of the woods, around the field and to the finish.

I handed to epass to Paul, he sped off, and I rolled over to where the ladies were. The rest times were sort of a blur. Mical and Lorrin were totally on task helping us recover and stay in shape for the next lap. We had the canopy donated from Michelle and Megan (thanks!). The sun crept around throughout the day so that we constantly moved our chairs to keep in the square blotch of shade. Dozing in and out whenever I could, or just sitting for stretches, then getting up to stay loose, I hung out happily in Lorrin and Mical’s good company. I ate and drank what I could, and tried to read and relax, but the heat was stifling and uncomfortable no matter where we were. In mid-day, it was hard to eat after a lap, so I just sat until I knew I should expect Paul. Then I ambled down to the transition area, futz with my bike at the last minute to make Lorrin nervous, and when I saw Paul come out of the woods, threw it all together and was ready to go.

Paul did the same. He finished his fourth loop at about 6pm, meaning I had an hour to finish in order for Paul to get out before the cutoff and start another loop. Paul had mixed feelings about going for a 5^th, but I was determined to get back in time. I roared over the trail, but alas, came in at about 7:15, and too late to send Paul out again. I asked him if he was chomping at the bit to get out again, and if I let him down not getting there in time. I remember cleary his response, “the only thing I’m chomping on is this pizza.” And that was it. Cranky Monkey was done. We finished 8 laps between us, felt good and sore (but mostly good). We packed up, headed out and had a good nights sleep at Prince William.

Thanks to everyone for making a good weekend, especially Lorrin and Mical, he awesomest wives ever. And thanks to you, reader, for sitting through this droning, long-winded write-up. Hope to return to the Monkey next year (actually two days from the date this was posted).

THE END

(Tune back later for a write up on the second part of the Trilogy,

“12 Hours of Cranky Monkey: Part II; The Monkey’s Revenge!”)