I’m not suggesting I could have won, but I know I could have done better. Rather than compose a narrative of my Syllamo experience, I’ve decided to jot down things I remember and some of my thoughts in a bullet list formant. The truth is I’m just damn tired to think.
SYLLAMO'S REVENGE
I get up at 5:30 A.M. to make sure I have time to eat something before the race start and to better my chances of landing a premo parking spot close to the finish line. My breakfast is a mixture of Mocha flavored Prepetium and 2% milk. I arrive at the Blanchard Springs camping area shortly after 6:30 A.M. and grab a great parking spot right in front of the finish line. Things are looking good. This is going to save me a lot of trouble after the race since I can collapse right in front of my own car. Cars start to trickle in just before 7:00 o’clock. I notice lots of license plates from Kansas, Missouri, Texas, and Tennessee. I meet a fellow racer from Montana. He talked about how much he hates living in Montana because it’s always showing and wet. Scratch Montana off the list
As I’m getting ready for the race, the zipper on my saddlebag decides to get stuck and the grip breaks off. The bag is stuck in the open position and is useless. I start stuffing the extra gear in my jersey pockets and Camel-bak. This is what I get for buying a Wal-Mart saddlebag.
Everyone gathers for the pre race meeting. We are to have our numbers recorded at each checkpoint and have a color-coded mark placed on our number plates. Riders are instructed not to blow through the checkpoints without being recorded. The route is marked with white ribbon (white?!?) and powered lime which was probably washed away in the rainstorms. Riders failing to reach checkpoint 3 by 3 o’clock will be pulledEveryone is lined up for the start and I take a position in the front half of the field. We’re off and hammering down a paved road toward the camping area. The pace is faster than I would have expected for an endurance race, but I hang with it and look forward to the long climb up the side of the mountain. The group makes a sharp 90 degree turn to the right up a muddy service road that takes us to the single-track section. The service road is a mile long climb at an 11% grade. AWSOME! No sooner do I make my turn up the service road than someone in front of me comes unclipped and stops. This forces me to stop. SHIT! I’m stuck on the side of the road as rider after rider goes past. The same thing happened to me at Nationals and I know my race is over before it even starts.I finally get going and start building momentum. People are slowly grinding up the mountain like a procession of mud splatter penguins, many of them pushing their bikes. I’m in my element now, climbing, and start moving past other riders like they are standing still.Once I get to the entrance of the single-track (Yellow Trail), everything seems to come to a halt as I encounter a long train of “riders” pushing and carrying their bikes over mud buttered boulders. This particular section of trail is listed as advanced under normal conditions, but it is above that given all the mud on everything. Try walking on a marble floor after you’ve sprayed it with Pam.I witness several spectacular crashes along the way. One guy almost knocked himself unconscious after trying to ride on a mud-covered slab of granite. He just sat on the side of the trail and drooled for a while. There are giant holes caused by uprooted trees in the trail from an ice storm back in January. Some of these things are big enough to swallow a small car. There is also all manner of small sticks on some sections just waiting to devour a derailleur. I look down at my computer and realize I’ve traveled 12 miles in two and a half hours. The mud and grit from the trail are grinding away at my drive train, and I’m literally painted from head to toe in filth. My disgust with the trail conditions begin to weigh on me, so I decide to abandon the race at the first checkpoint at mile 16. I reach checkpoint 1 and ask an official how I get back to the camp area. She can’t help me, and points to a Park Ranger. I’m instructed the only way back is more trouble than it’s worth, so I decide to ride to check point 2 eight miles away and abandon thereThe trail becomes much more rideable and much less crowded. I hook up with a small group of riders. One of the riders is from Austin, Texas and the other from Memphis. As mountain bikers do, we ride along and carry on a conversation about the trail, where we are from, and cracking jokes. I reach checkpoint 2 and refill my camel-bak. I also decide to press on. I must be insane!The trail (Orange Trail) is dryer in places now but still offers plenty of mud and rocks in others. I’m pretty much riding alone by this time but do play a game of “leap frog” with group of three riders. I recognize one of the kits (uniforms) as belonging to a Memphis team. All three of them are in their late 20’s to early 30’s, so I feel pretty good about that. My front tire goes flat after an abrupt stop on a muddy down hill. SHIT! I fill it with co2, hear a loud pop, and realize it’s not a puncture but just burped air out of it, so I’m good to go.I cross a Forest Service road and get back on the Blue Trail.
I somehow get my left leg looped in a tangle of thorns protruding over the trail. The force pulls my foot out of the pedal and almost sends me off the trail. The thorns rake across my leg like a claw doing a lot of damage. My leg is a mud and blood covered mess.
The trail is little more than a mud-filled trench in places and a small creek in others. The only blessing is the field is more spread out now.
I encounter a photographer on the trail (Blue Trail) just as I ride down really gnarly rocky section. She snapped a photo of me and said,” Well done!” as I blow past her. 
As I’m riding along, I’m calculating the damage to my bike: new chain, replace the brake pads, clean headset, new cables and housings. …
I come to the first of three creek crossings and attempt to ride across. I do this because I found photos on the Internet of people riding across and figured it is doable. This was a serious mistake. The creek turned out to be much deeper than I expected and the bottom of the creek is littered with boulders. As I entered the creek, I find myself above the kneed in water and soon drop my front wheel in a hole or crevice. When I surface, I see my bike drifting down stream in the current and freak!. Reaching out as if to save a drowning child I grab the top tube and pull my bike back from the abyss. Another rider reaches the creek crossing just as I emerged from the water on the opposite shore. He looks confused about what to do, so I yell across, “WALK IT! IT’S TOO SLICK TO RIDE!”
As I remount my bike on the creek bank, I am freezing cold and soaking wet from head to foot. My shoes make a squishing sound with every pedal stroke. The good thing is I‘m not muddy anymore. I encounter a group of 15 riders coming down a dirt road. They missed a turn and were doubling back to find the course marker. We ride along together for several minutes until someone spots a white ribbon off in the woods. 
I get off and walk across the second creek crossing.
The third creek crossing is intimating because it crosses at an up stream angle, and I can’t see the bottom on the creek. Also, I can’t swim. I don’t see any dead bodies down stream, so I wade into the rushing water with a firm grip on my bike, making sure to lift it as high as I can. As I’m crossing, I get this mental image in my mind of a Marine wading through some rice paddy with an M-16 above his head. Not encountering any Vietcong on the other side, I remount and continue down the muddy trail.
I reach checkpoint 3 with an hour and a half cushion. I know I only have about 12 miles to the finish. I fish around in my jersey pocket for Ziploc bag of HEED (brought my own powder premixed with Endurolyte powder). After quickly reloading my camel-bak, I continue down the last section of trail toward the finish. 
The trail (Red Trail) is now completely dry and very fast. It also has amazing flow and is free of roots and rocks. The only negative is the trailside debris from the ice storm clean up. I zip along at my normal race speed and soon start passing small groups of riders. The end is near!
With about 5 miles to go, I begin to feel fatigued and slow down to 8 mph. I ‘m also starting to feel full, so I know a bonk is on the horizon. I concentrate on pacing myself since I know eating and drinking at this point is only going to make me sick. 
A rider up the trail spots me closing in and he picks up the pace. I know he will probably implode from the effort, so I maintain my pace and wait for the kill. He bonks on a small hill. I pass without a word.
I’m getting tired now and clip a tree with my right grip. I curse like a sailor as I pick myself up off the trail. It sucks to ride almost 50 miles on technical single-track only to crash on the easiest section. 
The trail emerges onto a steep service road with the marker indicating I’m to go down. I know this is the same road I climbed at the start and realize I’m in the home stretch to the finish. As I’m racing down, someone blasts past me at sprint speed. The road is still plenty slick, so I figure caution is the better part of valor and keep my speed in the low 20’s.
I see some poor guy walking his bike down the mountain and ask if he’s okay. He lost his brakes, probably worn out pads from all the mud.
I see the finish and cross with fumes in my tank. I think the clock said 7 hours and 23 minutes but I’m not completely sure. I honestly didn’t look that close and went directly to my car.
This is the Forest Service road at the start. I wish you cold tell how insanely steep this thing is in the photo.
It's better than tent in a thunderstorm.
This is me at the finish. The photo does not do justice to how filthy I was, but remember I crossed a creek three times and fell in once.
I need to rebuild my bike.
