Fat Chuck’s Revenge

The Drive

I was second-guessing myself bigtime. Daylight was just coming up and I was driving to Smithville, Texas—about an hour east of Austin—for Fat Chuck’s Revenge, a TMBRA Marathon Series race at Rocky Hill Ranch. The debate in my head was the question of how hard this race would be and whether I’d prepared enough.

I’d signed up for the 2-lap option. Thirty miles. Not the masochistic 3-lapper, not the beginner-friendly single. Two laps felt right on paper. But sitting in the truck somewhere past Bastrop, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

On the prep question—well, I was maxed out at this point. I’d been training all analog, putting in the miles to the point of overtraining, or so said Intervals.icu. I had done the homework. So I decided that it really came down to how hard the race was. And I just didn’t know.

But I was about to find out.

The Start Line

Racing is a funny thing. I don’t care if it’s bikes or cars or whatever—everyone is nervous at the start line. Some look good on the outside but you know they’re shitting their pants inside. Maybe racers better than me (almost everyone) don’t feel the butterflies. But I bet they do.

Me? This morning I had them bigtime. Maybe it was the foggy weather, or that I didn’t have my crew—no Boots, no Brett. Or maybe it was because I didn’t know the course. And these guys looked XC fast. You know what I mean.

3 lappers looking rowdy

3, 2, 1, GO.

I go. We all go.

The course was different for the 2-lappers. We had more singletrack from the start. Climbing singletrack. The pace was okay. I told myself I would start in my zone and work it up over time. I had 30 miles to sort out pace, and I wasn’t here to win. Just to finish.

I let some riders go—polite enough, good passing technique—and I took some passes myself. I kinda felt like I was back two-thirds of the 2-lapper pack, but I didn’t really know.

Soon enough I’d be essentially by myself. Racing. Pushing. The SB150BR felt light, snappy, but too much for this course for sure.

The Pace

The thing is—and I’ll get better at this over time—you have to know how hard you can go and for how long.

I felt strong. I felt good. This felt fast. Much faster than Rattler. This wasn’t surviving. I actually passed someone. I was racing.

The course is nestled in the Bastrop pines, it’s beautiful. From a techical standpoint, it’s much smoother than Rattler. No giant rock drops or loose rocky climb. But it’s way more punchy, if you can believe it. Like what in the goddamn world was someone thinking, punchy.

As the miles racked up, so did the punch. A short downhill followed by 110% output uphill, then try to recover before that shit comes again. The feeling is momentum—you want to keep it—so you keep putting in 110%. And I was already going faster than I have before.

Dudes, we are in uncharted fitness waters here. I have no fucking clue how hard I can go and for how long, and the punches keep you from resting. They just keep coming.

It’s brutal and unrelenting.

That elevation map doesn’t seem so punchy..

The Crack

It’s at about 8 miles in—still on lap 1 of 2, 30 miles total. I’m still pushing, being race-y (at least for me). Make some passes, lose some spots. But I’m starting to argue with myself if I can do 2 laps.

For a while I feel great. For a while, terrible. I just keep pushing. Still that fast pace. I consider slowing down, but I can’t. Too punchy. So I just keep shoveling coal.

What I didn’t realize is I was burning out. Later, Intervals would tell me I’d averaged 20% more watts than any ride before. Yeah. I was pushing.

At mile 10 it started to become a blur.

At one point I round a corner and there’s a girl on a bike—not on the course. She’s very pretty and smiles and says my bike is a nice color.

Minutes later I hear the familiar sound of a freewheel. I look back—no one is coming to pass. And I’m pedaling. My bike isn’t making that noise.

Where is that coming fro—

OH SHIT.

I look to my right and there’s an open log. Think like a 3-foot-long canoe-looking log filled with snakes.

Yes. That noise wasn’t a Chris King or Industry Nine buzz. It was mother nature’s buzz.

I ride on now terrified, wondering if I should tell someone.

I finally just decide both the snakes AND the girl are a hallucination and I’m in worse shape than I thought. Seriously, what the hell is happening right now?!

The Spiral

Mile 12 or so it starts to mega-punch. I’m not sure if these are black trails, but you’ve got to be kidding me. Roller coaster downs and ups. Covering cool wood bridges over small ravines at the bottom, but I can’t get my head around appreciating the trail. It’s zapping, zapping, zapping all my energy.

I’m cracking. And I’m very sure now I’m doing 1 lap. I put my head down and tell myself I can do it.

The 3-lappers start coming past me and some others I’m with now, and they tell us good job, keep going. I do my best to communicate, telling them where to pass, ensuring I don’t ruin their race.

Seeing them pass by with such pace makes my speed seem worse.

I am mentally spiraling.

The course does not relent. My computer says I’m at 14 miles for what feels like 5 miles. The SB150BR now feels heavy, slack, slow, shit. Dude, just keep turning those cranks. I can hear over my shoulder a rider screaming out as he cramps on a punch.

Things aren’t good in my noggin.

I decide: It’s 1 lap for sure. Get me off this bike.

SB150BR, looking not as heavy as it felt later stages

The Finish

As we get to about mile 16, I can start to see how the course wraps itself back on itself and heads to the start/finish.

I’m still pushing. Still rocking the same pace. But I know I’ve burnt down all the matches I had. The tank is empty

I see my wife at the start/finish waiting to cheer me on. Another pretty girl. This one isn’t a hallucination. Thank god.

I pass the line and she says good job, thinking that was 2 laps. I tell her it was 1. Her face—she’s looking at me, she can tell I am in fucking pain.

Today, it’s 1 lap for me. DNF for the books. I underestimated Chuck’s. And it had its revenge.