Copyright 1995 David E. Cortesi
This ride was 85% of an excellent century. The last bit had some unfortunate parts which were at least partly my fault. If it had just been a nice ride, I wouldn't post a description -- there are so few ride stories posted any more. I'm posting this so perhaps others can learn from my bad example.[Note: on a bike-commute mailing list there have been recent complaints from Canadians about having to decipher speeds and distances in English units, so I am adding metric values in square brackets.]
The Tour of the Unknown Coast is sponsored by a civic organization in Ferndale, California, a quaint village near the northern border of the state. They had done a good job of advertising the Tour, billing it as "California's Toughest Century." Well, harumph, I've done the Grizzly, which has as much climbing from a higher base elevation; and only two weeks earlier I'd done 119 miles [190km] with the same elevation gain of 7200' [2200m]. So I put the bike in the camping van and with my wife Marian, went off for a nice weekend on the North Coast. All the way up the 300 mile (480km) drive from Palo Alto it rained, heavily or lightly.
This coast is "unknown" because the major highways dive away from it, leaving a huge chunk of terrain served only by tiny local roads. Eureka is the major town. The tourist-famous "Avenue of the Giants" (a popular drive through a stand of Sequoia Sempervirens) is several miles south and east.
The ride was organized tightly and well. Fourteen people who had registered for a double, "twice around," departed at 5AM. Marian saw them whiz by on the highway as she walked from our van to the camp bathroom at 6AM. 600 people had registered for "once around," and we were held for a mass start at 7AM. The purpose of the mass start -- most local centuries let you start when you like -- is so that the organizers can record an official finishing time for each rider, which they then print along with your name in a souvenir booklet you can order in advance. We were standing under immaculate blue skies when the organizer's pace car led us out for a tour of Ferndale's main street -- not a rain cloud in sight!
Within the first hour, on the first real downhill run, a rider had crashed and was down when I went by. Other riders who had been helping him said later that he was unconcious. An ambulance and sheriff's car responded in minutes. (Unlike the case of the Solvang century in March, the Humboldt County sheriff cooperated very closely and well with the ride organizers.)
The ride ran through farming country along the Eel river and then dived into the Avenue of the Giants, at which point I realized the true value of the big trees: Avenue of the Giant Windbreak. We had a good hour of absolutely still air in the grove of enormous trees. The route peeled off through the huge Humboldt State Redwoods Park, winding gently uphill through groves of redwoods. There was a profusion of wild iris growing in the dense shade between the trunks. On sunny ditchbanks grew yellow lupine and California poppies.
There were many rest stops, alternate ones with food, and I was paying attention to eating and drinking. The first major climb, 2500 feet in 8 miles [770m in 9km] was quite similar to my back-yard challenge, Page Mill hill, and I came over the top in good shape.
The descent from this "Panther Gap" should have been fun. It was steep and winding, but the road surface was badly broken up by the severe winter (and, I suspect, short funds in this rural county). The bad road made the turns treacherous and punished my hands. However, I was descending into a really pretty river valley. The Mattole river is short, branching, and unknown outside the area. It has created a valley with a great variety of dramatic land forms. There are quiet farmsteads along the river bends, while steep mountain slopes covered in pine and redwood hang above. Everything was brilliant green. I particularly remember a few horses standing contentedly under an arching oak clad in new green leaves, centered in a perfect green pasture. This is the ideal of northern California landscape, and I can't remember seeing a more attractive place aside, possibly, from some of the wilder river valleys of Provence.
The ride wandered through this valley, up and down over several low ridges, and finally reached the Pacific. Here we had a gentle southern breeze pushing us, instead of the normal northwest gale in our faces. At the north end of the beach run, at mile 81 [km 131] comes "the wall." Now, many centuries call one of their hills "the wall," but this one comes close to earning the name. It climbs one mile [1.2km] at a 20% grade, with occasional respites at 18%. From the beach it looks like a 45-degree staircase winding up a grass-covered cone.
This was where I made the first of two crucial mistakes. I was more than an hour past the last food stop, but I only ate several segments of an orange and filled my bottles. Somehow I had the notion that after "the wall" there was a generally easy ride the rest of the way. My mistakes were two: I should have looked at the route sheet, which would have told me that another, longer grade followed; and in any case, I should have eaten more.
I climbed "the wall" using the heart monitor for pacing. Whenever it topped my limit, I stopped until it dropped below 120; then I continued. (From this I know that "the wall" is not as steep as 14th avenue in San Francisco between Quintara and Santiago streets, because on that hill I can't restart after stopping.) A woman was walking; several times she passed me while I was resting, and several times I puffed past her. Each time she had some cheery, encouraging remark for both of us.
After "the wall" I felt quite fatigued, and had drunk all but half a bottle of water in the bright sun. But I was sure that things would be easier from here. After another thunderous descent on broken asphalt I passed a water stop. This was crucial mistake number 2. Shortly afterward I found myself a few hundred feet [100m or so] up "Endless Hill," looking back down a grassy slope at the water stop far below, and looking up at two more levels of the road zigzagging up to the sky. I could go back and get water; or I could continue with short fluids. I made the wrong choice, and went on. Half an hour of climbing with little water brought me to the final water stop at mile 92 or so [km 148 of 162]. I filled one bottle, drank several inches from it, filled it again.
The course workers -- nonriders for certain -- said that this stop was "nearly at the top." Just another mile of gentle upgrade, then "a few ups and downs," and then "downhill all the way."
They lied. This stop was at 1450' altitude by my computer [446m] and when the road finally began to trend downward, it had reached 2200' [676m]. I was quite exhausted, unable to hold more than 10mph [16kph] on the level, and in a vile frame of mind. I HATED that road because it WOULD NOT turn down. Every curve opened a new rise. If I had seen a SAG car, I would have hailed it and given up. But...less than 10 miles to go...
Finally the road started down. I knew that the road surfaces were bad and the curves tight, and I had enough brain left to tell myself, "You are really tired, take this slow and careful." Unfortunately, I didn't have enough brain left to follow my own instructions. Around mile 96, coming out of a sharp descending turn on pot-holed asphalt, I somehow lost it. I don't know what happened. Perhaps I was trying to jink around a pot-hole. Anyway, going 20-25mph [32-40kph] I came off the bike and banged hard into the road.
Lying on the road on my back, I knew instantly that my right shoulder was dislocated. I've had dislocations before, and the symptom is unmistakable -- you simply can't rotate your upper arm, and can only hold your hand against your stomach like Napoleon and avoid any movement with that arm. Unfortunately my left side also was painful at several points, so for several minutes I puzzled over the problem of how to get up.
Three riders came on me almost immediately and were very solicitous. They quite properly didn't attempt to move me, but finally gave me a hand so I could haul myself up. Quickly I realized that standing was not such a wonderful idea either, but I located my glasses, and then a sunny bank against which I could recline. A communications car came by in a few minutes and called for a SAG by radio. The SAG truck took me and the bike to the finish line, where the staff nurse was delightfully helpful and reassuring, sponging off my assorted abrasions and being cheerful. Her daughters, around ages 9 and 12 I would guess, were helping her. I was pleased to provide the illustration in an anatomy lesson. "See, girls? The gentleman says he has a dislocated shoulder, and you can see that he probably has. See how this shoulder looks? That's how it should look, but see how this shoulder is not the same." One of the girls went off to the finish line and claimed my tour patch. "But he didn't finish," she quoted the official as saying, "and I said `SO???'"
Finally they found Marian where she was waiting at the finish line worrying about my lateness, and we went off to the local hospital's emergency room. Well-trained by rec.bicycles.misc, I knew that what my patches of road rash needed was Second Skin, but the nurse at the emergency room had never heard of it. So Marian went off to buy some while I was injected with a sack of saline/sugar water (funny, it didn't look like GatorAde) and was X-rayed, revealing that I had a posterior dislocation. "One in 50,000," said the doctor. "Not for me," I said, "my last one, on the other side, was the same way." Anyway, I got a squirt of Valium through the IV and then the doctor and nurse put what he called a "gentlemanly tug" on my arm and it popped right in. This felt so wonderful that I immediately tried the range of motion and popped it right out again. I felt very stupid, having to call the doctor back into the room and admit I had just swung my arm around and undone his work.
Now, two days later, the aches are subsiding, the bruises are starting to change color, and the Second Skin (applied by Marian in the motel room that night) is working to keep scabs from forming on the road rash. The Rock Lobster is at CycleCraft waiting for two new brake levers to be installed. They were the only damaged parts -- so probably I stood it on its nose in crashing.
It all could have been lots worse. But if I had properly managed my liquid and calorie intake, it could have been so much better! It is crucially important to drink -- even going back down a hill if necessary to fill up. It is important to eat -- even if you think the ride is nearly over. It is also important to listen to your body. If your body wants to quit, then quit. Don't let a fixation on a particular distance draw you on past the end of your abilities. Then you won't have to miss the annual Bike-to-Work day, the way I just did.