Dairyland Dare: A Story of Pain and Suffering...for fun!

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” I screamed for what seemed like minutes. 170 miles in, I had just attempted to swing my right leg over the saddle to re-mount and hammer the remaining 13 miles, unfortunately my hamstring had objections, it seized from exhaustion. But, judging by the last 80 miles when the cramps had started this one would go away just like the other ones, first in my right leg, then in my left leg and now back to the right leg. In horror the cheery volunteers at the aid station looked in amazement that I was trying to get back on the bike. One came over and asked if I wanted it “worked out.” I said, in a whimper, “No, it’s ok now. Thanks.” And I got back on the bike and took off with seething anger to rip the pavement apart.

Saturday was the Dairy Land Dare bike ride (http://www.dairylanddare.com). It included four options 100K, very reasonable, 200K, doable, 266K, pushing it, and the “Triple Dog Dare” 300K, dangerous. I had tested these distances at various other times and now it was time for a challenge, thus I opted for the 300K and a heavy dose of pain. Oh, and did I mention that the 300K had 22,360 feet of climbing? No? Well it did and it was sick and sadistic.

The day had started out reasonable enough, at 6am a pack of about 25 cyclists sauntered up to the start of the 300K with the other distances to be started later. Meanwhile I blasted Pantera “The Great Southern Trendkill” from the back of my truck, quite the soundtrack for that early on the morning but I figured Phil Aselmo had all business screaming “THE TREND IS DEAD!” to a bunch of psychos ready to do a 12 hour bike ride. I started a few minutes after the main pack and fought to the front. Finally around thirty miles in I found myself with four other cyclists ranging in age range of 19, my follow UW Triathlon teammate Zeb, to 50, Dennis a former two time participant of RAMM, a race that starts in San Diego and ends in New Jersey (http://www.raceacrossamerica.org) and who had ridden 400 miles the weekend before.

We created a draft line and pushed the average speed to around 20mph each taking some turns at the front to block the wind and give the others what we called a “rest”. A few rest stops later and with about half of the mileage down I felt a twinge in my right hamstring, not a good sign. So during some downhills I would grab it and try to crank it loose. Perhaps I was low on fluids or electrolytes but at the point when you realize this and muscles start seizing it’s probably too late you’re just going to have to deal with it. On the hills I would fall back in pain and literally have to scream my way out of it. You would like to think that any sane individual would stop and massage the muscle in question but I don’t think anyone who would attempt 300K is sane in the first place. I would work it through, make it to the top, slam fluids, and continue on my way, hoping the cramps would never surface again.

Falling back again on another hill we came upon a water stop to which one of the crew pulled over. As I passed I asked if he was ok but all I got was heavy eyes and a weak shake of the head. I pushed up to the other guys to see if we might stop, they hadn’t noticed he had pulled over, but by the time I got up to them and looked back our comrade was lying on the ground and the EMT was rushing to the scene. I thought he was a goner. I got back up to the front and exclaimed “Guys! He popped like a balloon!” It would do us no good to stop, he was in good hands and besides, we had our own problems to worry about.

At the next rest stop he showed back up in good spirits explaining that something hadn’t sat well in his stomach and all he needed was a few good minutes of puking to clear it all up. The EMT had been insisting to take him in but endurance athletes wouldn’t have any of that crap, onward or die.

We rode together to the second to last rest stop that preceded the two worst hills on the course, which we had already ridden once and were forced to ride again, like I said, sadistic. I heavily considered walking. At the first hill two of our team had an energy advantage and left the rest of us behind, which was fine, it was every man for himself at this point. Thankfully, I didn’t need to walk but I was beaten up like road kill, repeatedly run over by each hill. Dennis cracked somewhere and slid off the back, Zeb for the most part held on but was getting pushed back by the hills. I was determined to catch back up to the other two, they where just in my view, at the top of the next hill, taunting me. With 15 miles to go Zeb caught me on an uphill when my left quad locked and I screamed bloody murder all the way up the hill. This wasn’t a race, there were no prizes, but my fucking pride was on the line and no way would I let some punk 19 year old who had just bought a bike in January beat me to the line. Finally, I broke away and rode like every inch of pavement was nipping at my heels, attempting to eat me alive.

At that last rest stop, with 13 miles to go, I was out of water and the two “leaders” where merely yards ahead of me. I prayed they would stop, but I guess I hadn’t paid my dues to god this year, they rode on. Zeb came in as I was screaming from the hamstring cramp and might have said something encouraging, but I couldn’t be sure, at that point I was well gone. I climbed back on and chased. Finally, at the very end I caught up and finished right behind them. With rest stops it took ten hours and forty-one minutes, an average of 17.4 miles per hour.

The feeling of finishing such a feat can only be described as “euphoric pain.” You feel really good but hurt all over, kind of like when you stop hitting yourself with a hammer. Men have completed more difficult tasks, like Dennis in RAMM, but everyone’s got to take it to that next level a step at a time. This ride will probably make any lesser tasks so much easier the next time around and that is what will keep me doing such stupid, insane, sadistic, wrong, and absurd challenges for years to come.

I would like to thank our group of five riders for the company and draft during the ride and the race organizers and volunteers for doing such a damn good job all the while not getting paid a cent.

Rhoads