The Goddess of Speed

“Studies show that the number one most important habit for success is self-discipline, sometimes called willpower, over long periods of time.”

Last year I went 600 miles in 27 ½ hours – but 400 of that was with serious whiplash – three vertebrae in my neck were way out to the left. This year my goal was to get to 524 in 16 ½ hours. If I could do that, then even with some short rest periods planned, I’d have 7 hours cushion to finish in the 48-hour time limit.

I rolled into the town of Bahia Los Angeles, or “Bay of LA” as we called it, at race mile 400. The calm picturesque Sea of Cortez to my left, and the memory of Santana pushing the bike with a blown engine. I rolled through the seven blocks that were the town at the speed limit of 37. One dirt block off the pavement and the speed zone was over. Back to 50-70 mph range.

The 124 miles from Bay of LA to a road crossing at 524 was a fast section – the fastest of the whole course I thought, and I had to take advantage of it during the daylight hours. The sun was getting lower now and I didn’t want to waste fast terrain in the dark.

The diversity of plant life out here was amazing. I was especially fascinated by the cactus plants – or do you call them trees? Saguaros were 30 feet tall. Organ pipe cactus were thick with many dozens of 4” round spiked spires maybe 12 or 15 feet tall. Prickly pears looked like spiked plates balancing on each other. There were dozens of other varieties; cool to look at, but I was glad I didn’t hit any!

In pre-running, I hit a cactus at 40 miles an hour and had 200 little hairy thorns in me. I wound up shaving them off at the hotel that night because they were too fine to extract them all. Lucky there were no big thorns on that one. Getting ever smarter, I carried tweezers in my hip pouch.

I was on a fast road full of loose aggregate at about 60 mph, when I heard a bike close behind me. It’s funny that you can’t hear a loud bike until it’s on you. I rolled on a little more. He pulled up alongside me. It was 249x – the first Sportsman bike I had seen. I thought about it and was pretty encouraged. Sportsman teams had a bunch of teammates taking turns – always a fairly fresh rider. This guy could have been the third or fourth rider to get on that bike. Here I was at mile 460 or so by myself, and they were just now catching up.

Ironman and Sportsman are two different worlds. Ironman is a pro class. Sportsman is an amateur class. While I knew some Sportsman teams would be faster than me by myself, I just didn’t want it to happen right now – especially since I saw the gravel coming off his rear wheel like a Gatling gun. I raced him and passed him back. He hung back there a while, but I pulled a ¼ mile gap on him.

The course approached some mountains and switchbacked left and right up their shoulders. As the road switched left, I could turn my head just ¼ turn to the left and see him behind me down there. But there was someone else in the chase. At the next switchback left, I looked down and behind again, and the newcomer had blown by 249x with authority. “Who is that?” I wondered.

The switchbacks started down now and ended at the next valley floor where the road straightened out some. All of a sudden, a bike passes me like I am standing still. It wasn’t 249x, but I couldn’t make out his number. I knew it was a 250 rather than a 450 like I and most of the motorcycle riders in this race were riding. While the size of the frame of a 250 and a 450 are the same, I could hear the difference in the motor sound – a higher pitch and faster revving. The 250s were a Pro class with numbers beginning with a 1.

Thirty miles later, I see a bike and rider upright in the middle of the course ahead not moving. I pull up to a stop and see 114x, his rear tire shredded with big chunks hanging off the rim. A flat tire that shredded on the rocky ground at such high speeds before he could stop. He’s lucky as it could have caused a crash.

He was Mexican and spoke broken English. He asked me to tell them up at the next Baja Pit that he was back here with a flat. He wanted me to tell “Abelardo.” I promised I would.

It was a long way to the next Baja Pit. Maybe 15 miles. They had no way to travel back 15 miles to help him. I asked for Abelardo, but there was nobody there by that name. I went through six guys before they realized I had something they needed to hear, and they got a guy who spoke English. I told him 114x was 15 miles back with a flat rear tire that was shredded. They knew already, and he pointed to a new tire and tube sitting there. I didn’t know how they were going to get it to him, but I did my job and took off back on course.

Most racers had tires that had a hard foam insert in them instead of air, so you couldn’t get a flat. They cost some and are really difficult to get inside the tire when you mount it on the rim, but they will save your race. 114x must have been on a budget, were rookies, or were just overly optimistic. Now the whole team had a big problem. Last year a rider appeared in front of me like a ghost at night in the mountains and asked if I had an air pump. I was glad it wasn’t me.

The course took a big soft silty turn onto the straightest, smoothest dirt road I had ever seen. The one where I ran out of gas pre-running and Santana kidded me about not knowing how to ride and using too much gas. I knew I could open it up all the way here with no surprises. And I knew it had a happy ending.

In 180 miles since I saw my van last, nobody passed me. It was a good sign that I was keeping a strong pace. I had been racing for 15 hours now. The sun had a ways to go to catch the horizon, and I was going 85 miles an hour.

The Goddess of Speed and good fortune was on my shoulder.