The crowd of runners began to gather at the foot of the mountain, in the little town of Wilmington, NY, as Firdaus and I jogged to the starting line. We had jogged from the lodge, where we were staying, past the beautiful Ausable River, known for its excellent trout fishing to the foot of Whiteface Mountain, to race its eight mile distance, with an average 8% grade, to the summit. For Firdaus, Whiteface Mountain was a new experience, but for me it was different. Whiteface had a history.

I rode a Mountain Bike race here on the slopes of this mountain back in 1996. It was pure torture, with its steep climbs and bone chattering descents (I didn’t have a front suspension in those days), and man-eating mosquitoes picking you off in the muddy wooded sections of the singletrack. Back when I was a child, I sat in the back seat of an old Ford Station Wagon, as my father drove us up this winding road that stretched up to the sky. It was the tallest mountain in the world when I was 10 years old.

Now I was back with Firdaus, to run up this monster. Armed with the added confidence of having run MT. Washington 3 times, I approached this race with a touch of overconfidence. I had been talking with an employee of High Peaks Cyclery in Lake Placid, and he told me that he had in fact won the race a few years back, with a time of 58 minutes or so. He said that if I could run about 1:20, I could place in my age group. That’s a 10-minute mile. I could jog that.

Our plans were to run the race, and then run back down the mountain, as I was helping Firdaus to learn to run easily on the downhills. With eight miles of downhill, we’d get plenty of practice. Then, with a jog back to the lodge, it would be a good 18 miles or so, and a tough workout. Since Firdaus was training for the Vermont 100 Miler, and I was training for some upcoming cycling races, this would be the perfect workout for both of us.

As we lined up at the starting line, I looked up, and I could see the road incline immediately, and disappear into the forest. I wished Firdaus good luck, and we decided that we would start out together, and see how things sorted out. The gun went off, and we began our climb. Firdaus began to move ahead of me, as I was content to start off slowly, and speed up according to how I felt. I knew that there were no flat spots to recover in the entire 8 miles, and the road inclined less at mile 7. I was surprised by the number of people who started out ahead of me, and I hoped that they had gone out too fast, and that I’d see them later. I found a rather comfortable pace, and decided to hold it steady, as people around me began to struggle on the steep incline.

At about the 2nd mile, I began to pass some people, and it became obvious that my endurance was starting to become a factor. I could see Firdaus about 300 yards ahead of me, and I was afraid he’d be out of sight before long. I continued keeping my pace, as we Passed “Santa’s Workshop” on the right. Under new ownership, and closed for repairs, I remembered the times I had gone there as a child with my family, and petted the reindeer, and touched (what I thought was) the actual North Pole, made of ice. Those memories brought a smile to my face, as I continued my long ascent.

At mile 3, we passed through the tollgate, and were greeted by a group of people cheering us on, and offering water. Sine I had taken my own water bottle, I made up several positions at every water stop. And I drank when I liked, and wasn’t restricted to the water stops. This was the most difficult part of the course to me, as the incline got steeper, the road was straight at this point, and looked to go on forever. And I knew that I was still not even at the halfway point yet. After this point, the road began to turn back and forth, and I ran every tangent of every turn, to make up time. I was beginning to pass people with regularity now, and Firdaus appeared to be getting closer.

My spirits became lifted as we got to the mid-point of the 4th mile, as I could look out on the countryside below, and this gave me a feeling of accomplishment. I continued chasing the people in front of me, and running the tangents. At this point, I reached for my gel bottle, and had difficulty putting it back in its holster on the run. It began to leak down my leg and on my hands. At times like these, when I’m at my limit, something minor can become quite an irritant, and this was just such a time, as run up the road, licking my fingers, and cursing at my leg splashed with gel. I could see the summit way off in the distance.

At mile 7, the road leveled off a bit, and I accelerated to about a 9-minute mile. Off in the distance, I could hear the cheering of the crowd, as the runners were finishing. I made the final turn, and I could see the summit castle and the finish line off in the distance. I began to push my pace, but I was thoroughly exhausted. I looked behind me, and a runner in his sixties was trying to pass me. With all of my strength, I let out another burst of speed, and another runner shot by. By this time, there was traffic on the road, and I had to run in front of a group of slow moving motorcycles, to decrease my distance to the finish. As I got to within about 200 meters to the line, I saw Firdaus cross. I pushed towards the line, and heard someone say, “Go for it, it’s only 100 yards to the finish”. I crossed the line with my tongue hanging out, but it was over. I had pushed it to the limit.

The cold wind was blowing at about 15 mph, and I was soaked, and starting to cool down rapidly. Firdaus asked if we could go the summit observatory. We climbed the 26 stories of stone stairs to the observatory, completely exposed on all sides, except for an iron rail fence on either side of the stairs. The views were breathtaking. It was an absolutely gorgeous day. We could see into Canada, and New Hampshire. We stayed for a few minutes, and then walked back down the stairs, shivering in the cold wind.

After refilling our water bottles, we ran back down the mountain. We had done the work, now we could take it easy running back down. Now we could enjoy the views, and all the hard work it took to get up here. We flew back down the hill, smiling all the way, as several cars full of runners honked and offered us a ride. “No thanks”, we said, now we can enjoy ourselves.

Downhill running is fun, but 8 miles of unrelenting downhill is work. We pushed the pace all the way down to the bottom. Firdaus had to back off, as he had a bad stitch, but I pushed it all the way, savoring every minute of the descent. Needless to say, we were both wiped out by the time we ran back to the lodge, but it was a special day, a very special day. And we will be back.

No... the story is not over... let's now put away our running shoes, and get out our bikes!

While I was picking up my number for the Whiteface Uphill Footrace, I found out about a bike race, which would be happening for the first time on June 22nd. This race would be held on the same course that the uphill footrace was being held. With 8 miles of 8% grade, I realized that this was the same length and gradient as one of the legendary Tour De France climbs, the “Alp d’Huez”. I just had to see if I could ride this course on my bike. Of course, when the pro cyclists ride the Alp d’Huez, it is one of about 3 or 4 climbs they ride during a day’s stage, and there are about 20 stages in the Tour De France. Being a loyal cycling fan, I had to experience this climb, to really appreciate the degree of difficulty of a real cycling stage race.

Saturday morning, I woke up to the sound of rain outside my window. Looking out the window of my room, I was unable to see the summit of Whiteface Mountain, as it was shrouded in clouds. “What a dismal day”, I thought to myself. If it rains all day, I hope the race is not cancelled, however, the thought of riding a race up to 4,800 feet in altitude in the rain was almost as scary as the thought of riding back down, on a slippery descent. I decided that I would go out for an easy run instead of waiting around in my room for the skies to clear. Just as I ran out the front door of the lodge, the rain stopped, but the humidity was very high. I went for a 4 mile run along the Ausable River, watching the fishermen wading in the cold water, fishing for trout. The run was exhilarating, and left me with hope that the day would clear. Just as I got back, the skies opened up again, and I could hear thunder over the distant mountains. It was a dreary day, as I patiently waited for the unending rain to stop.

At about 4 pm, the rain started to taper, and by 5 pm, it had stopped. I was amazed at the perfect timing. With a 6 pm start, it just might be dry in time for the race. As I left the lodge, for a warm-up ride, cyclists were already riding up and down the road, in their colorful jerseys and bikes. The race would go off in three groups: the open group, the 40+ group, and the 50+ group. I would be riding in the last group, of course. The gun went off for the first group, and I could see them struggling immediately to find their rhythm. I tried to see what gears they were riding, as they disappeared up the hill and out of sight. The second group went off about 5 minutes after, and then that moment in the twilight zone, as we waited for our race to begin. I intended to start conservatively, and see what gears the other riders were using, and I also knew what lie ahead, 8 miles of unending hill, with no rest at all. I was told by a few people before the start that I would need a 25 tooth sprocket in the rear, but all I had was a 23 tooth sprocket, so that would have to do.

I positioned myself at the center of the group of 20 or so riders in my age group, as the gun went off. Immediately, we were pedaling uphill, and I changed into my 21-tooth sprocket in the back, trying to keep a fast cadence of about 85 pedal revolutions per minute. I found myself pushing too hard on the first section, and I heard this awful clanging sound, as my chain rubbed on my front derailleur. I tried to adjust my front derailleur, but it wouldn’t move in any further, and the rubbing/clanging of the chain on the derailleur continued. This is awful; I thought to myself, how could I have overlooked this? How could I have not checked my front derailleur? The clanging sound continued, as I pedaled on. The riders in the group began to give me dirty looks and make comments, as I continued to pedal. I backed off from the group to try to sort out the problem. I had no tools to adjust the derailleur, and even if I did, I didn’t have my reading glasses to see the small adjustment screws anyway. The sound was driving me nuts, and besides that, I was wasting precious energy, as the chain continued to drag across the derailleur cage. At this point, I decided that I had come too far to give up. I would block out the sound, and pedal as hard as I could.

I began to catch the back riders, just as the road turned, and the gradient increased again. I was pushing too hard for this speed, so I shifted into my 23-tooth sprocket, and the noise became even louder! I kept pedaling, and began to pass the riders, one by one, clanging, and scratching, and cursing, as I turned the pedals over. I began to catch the slower riders from the earlier group now, and I would pass them while riding out of the saddle, trying to ignore the noise, and convincing myself that it wasn’t that bad, I could have been running this thing again. The riders in front of me obviously had a 25 or 27 tooth sprocket, as I could see them pedaling faster than me, and yet I was going faster than they were. Off the saddle, standing up, on the saddle, in the front of the saddle, in the back of the saddle, I changed my position as often as needed, to work different muscle groups, and prevent myself from becoming too fatigued.

At the 3-mile point, when we passed through the tollgate, I called out to see if there was a mechanic present, but “NOPE” was all I heard, so I pedaled on. After a while, the road opened up. And I could see the countryside below. This for me was a psychological boost, as I continued up the unforgiving hill, trying to maintain an 8 mph pace, but it was a struggle, and I kept telling myself I needed that 25-tooth sprocket, which I didn’t have. Way off in the distance, and up in the sky, I could see the summit castle. How cruel that it never seemed to get closer!

Up around the 7-mile point, there were a series of switchbacks, and the road leveled off a bit, so I shifted into my 21, and then my 19, and got out of the saddle to make up time. Off in the distance, I could hear the cheers of the crowd, welcoming the finishers, but I still had some work to do. Off in the distance, there were 3 cyclists within striking distance, so I gritted my teeth, and went after them. Around the last switchback, and then about a half mile to the finish, I caught them one by one, but just then, a young girl passed me on the right, sprinting for the line. I tried to catch her, but it was in vain, as I crossed the line in 1:06:59. What a race! I grabbed a couple of water bottles, as I had drank my 2 water bottles in just 8 miles, and went to sit down on the side of the road, to talk to other finishers. After a few minutes, I went to the race van to retrieve my pack with extra clothing. I would be riding back down the mountain, and on the descent, it gets really cold, as the wind chill factor kicks in, and you’re not working hard enough to stay warm. It was cold and foggy on the summit, and I put on my knee warmers and hat, and changed my top layers, and put on a windbreaker. It was as though the seasons had changed in just a few minutes, as everyone was bundled up for the descent.

I rode back down very cautiously, afraid of riding too fast, and yet fearful of my brakes overheating and causing a blowout. I was also fearful of “frost heaves”, which are sections of road uplifted by freezing water in winter, causing the road to buckle in places. When you hit these, it almost knocks the handlebars out of your hands. I was cruising along at about 35-40 mph, when a group of riders passed me like I was standing still. I tried to follow at their pace, but then realized that was too crazy for me, and just then, some kamikaze passed them all like they were going in reverse! He must have been going over 65 mph, and tucked in an aerodynamic position.

My hands began to cramp from using the brakes, and my knees were cold and stiff, as I descended into the twilight. I had never ridden such a long and steep descent. When I finally reached the bottom of the hill, I was cold and stiff, but relieved. I had accomplished it! I had raced this mountain on foot and by bike twice in 2 weeks!

At the awards dinner, I realized that I had not even placed in my age group, as the faster riders were so far out in front that I never saw them. The winner of the race, who had ridden a time of 45:02, had also run the uphill footrace 2 weeks before with a time of 58:00. I found out that he was a local professional triathlete, who would be doing the Ironman Triathlon up here in Lake Placid on July 28th. Now that’s what I call being in shape!
Will I do it again? You bet, this time I’ll check out my bike first, and bring a 25-tooth sprocket.

 

Dennis Burns, June, 2002