The story of my Devil Mountain experience. It's not for the faint of heart!
Scott
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After competing in three Triple Crowns and two PAC Tours in a four year time span, I was burned out on riding. And not only that, I had my crash the year before, which resulted in three broken bones and a severe concussion. Making matters even worse was that I had recently started a new job at Oracle, which was requiring a lot of my time. Even though my riding had slacked off I still got out with my riding buddies on occasion; Lydia, Brad, Phil, and Dave. Even though I was the fastest, most experienced long distance rider of the group they could see I was getting out of shape. So they decided to stoke my interest...
The four of them challenged me to ride a new addition to the Triple Crown calendar, a double century called Devil Mountain. At the time it advertised itself as the most difficult double century in the country. 206 miles with 18,500 feet of climbing. Brutal, absolutely brutal. My reward if I completed it? Each one of them would buy me a pair of Continental Grand Prix tires. But the tires weren’t the motivator. I wanted to prove to the group that I could complete the ride with nothing more than mental tenacity!
The ride started in San Ramon. The first climb of the day was to the summit Mt. Diablo, then a descent into Clayton, followed by a ride up and over Morgan Territory, followed by a ride up and over Altamont Pass, followed by a ride to Del Puerto Road and up the backside of Mt. Hamilton, down Hamilton into the Santa Clara Valley, then up the “wall” called Sierra Road (at mile 160!), up and over the Calaveras reservoir area, followed by a climb up and over Palomares, and back into San Ramon. It was going to be a long day on the saddle!
Even with me being in less than ideal shape I was riding well. The climb up Mt. Diablo went well and I was using all my experience to conserve my body. That was my strength - riding “wounded” as I used to call it. Even if I “blew up” I had a remarkable ability to recover on the bike.
During this era there was an experienced Triple Crown woman rider. IIRC her name was Emily. She was fast, wicked fast. At about mile 35 I was riding by myself in my zone, climbing up Morgan Territory on the way to Altamont Pass. Morgan Territory is a beautiful road; a meandering climb under a canopy of oak trees. About halfway up I found myself behind another solo rider, a woman with flowing, curly blonde hair that literally exploded out of her helmet and draped over her shoulders and back. It was Emily.
I had never “ridden her wheel” before and quickly realized what I had been missing. Under her skintight cycling shorts was a perfect female axx. Even though her lighter weight gave her an advantage on the climb, I pushed myself a bit harder than I would have normally. There was absolutely no way I was going to let her beautiful butt escape my view, especially when it was working like that in front of me! It was a nice distraction.
There was a water/food station at the summit of Morgan Territory. I decided to ride her wheel all the way to the summit, at which point we’d go our separate ways. One of my time saving secrets was to minimize time spent at rest stops. I’d grab a fist full of food and stuff my face while filling up my water bottles. Most times I’d be stopped less than five minutes. When you consider there are a half dozen rest stops, being time efficient could give me a 30 to 45 minute time advantage over those who were not.
I stayed on Emily’s wheel all the way to the rest stop. Mission accomplished. I was in and out in short order, just like I planned. Morgan Territory descends from the summit into a canyon with a series of eye opening 50 mph downhill straights, each connected with a sweeping, near hairpin turn. On the left was the hillside embankment. On the right was the cliff. Lose control of your bike and go over the cliff at high speed, you’d be airborne for 10 seconds before crashing to earth.
Because I was going for time I was absolutely flying on the downhills, attacking every corner, hard on the brakes. While flying down a descent at 50 mph I noticed some chaos on the road about a half mile ahead of me. I could see riders slowing, some getting off their bikes. I noticed a white pickup truck stop, the two occupants getting out and running over to the side of the road.
I approached the scene and slowed. A crashed and broken bike was laying in the middle of the roadway. While I coasted past the chaos I saw a rider on the ground up against the embankment, their head facing downward. I quickly realized the rider was Emily. And strange as it might sound my first thought was how she beat me out of the rest stop! At the very moment I coasted by she raised she head, her long blonde hair exploding out of her helmet, blood pouring down her face and onto her chest, her mouth wide open in silent screaming agony! Holy effing shxx!
If that image wasn’t bad enough, it gets worse. Emily’s arms were folded across her abdomen, as if she was holding herself together. As I rolled past I could see one of her forearms was completely snapped in half and folded 180 degrees backwards, her hand laying on her elbow, the palm of her hand facing me! I slowed for a mile or two, absolutely aghast at what I had just seen. By the time I reached Altamont Pass 15 minutes later I had completely erased her crash from my mind.
I ordered a ride jersey when I registered. I’ve always considered it bad mojo to wear a jersey before actually completing the event. It’s a superstition I have. When I got to my hotel room and showered I remember propping myself up in bed, reflecting on the day’s events. I remember examining my Devil Mountain jersey. Covered in dried sweat the Saso sat silently facing me, leaning against the wall. Once again it had kept me safe. I walked over and draped my unworn jersey over the handlebars and said, “Here, I want you to wear this first”.
Yes it can be done, but it's a lot more work than summer riding.
