The Legendary “24 Hours of Canaan” Mt-Bike Slogfest
by Roger “Muletrain” Hancock
I spotted her as she made the turn out of the woods, her face fixed with determination and covered with mud. She, my beloved wife, charged toward the transition tent, anxious I hoped, to share her first ever lap experience of Canaan’s 24 Hour Mountain Bike Race. I proudly yelled, “Go Sarge”, her infamous nickname. Between clenched teeth she uttered a popular two-word oath that didn’t quite sound like ‘Love You!” “At least she’s still talking to you,” shared a fellow spectator.
She picked up the baton from me, filled with information that I had relayed back to her as I completed our team’s first lap. We were Sgt. Fury’s Way Over-the Hill Gang, a masters team with three guys, 57, 51, and 48 and our leader, Sarge, pushing hard on 51. Our portable radios were working perfectly, one more indication that we had done our homework in preparing for this classic race through the hills of West Virginia. Out of the tent, up to the bike rack, then legs churning and up through the first climb to Puke Hill, she was the picture of concentration. Thirty minutes later, the prologue behind her, she squished by our team headquarters, an expression of disbelief peaking through behind globs of mud and grime.
Every so often I called on the radio to get a progress check. “I’m at the boneyard,” then “crossing the field by the barn,” followed by “on the service road and IT’S POURING.” Her last message amidst the thunder sounded faintly like, “I hope I get struck by lightning so l can end this.” I was sure that static had something to do with my interpretation.
This race was my idea. I thought it was a good way to celebrate the year of her 50th birthday. She said that she wanted to make it a year to remember. I was obliging her. We prepared meticulously. We bought lights, practiced at night, trained evenings, weekends, and whenever else time permitted. We jumped logs, rode rocks, forged creeks, streams, and “rivers”, climbed hills, charged down inclines, and tumbled, fell, and then tumbled again. By Tuesday of each week her athletic body sported fresh blotches of purple, blue and yellow; evidence of the difficult learning curve to effective mountain biking. We rented a house, planned menus, and read every article on Canaan we could find. We bought extra tires, wheels, tubes, brake pads, and chains. We scavenged deraillerus, shifters, handlehars, and stems. For Christmas, Santa brought her a video of last year’s race. An evening in front of the VCR didn’t even dent her enthusiasm.
Next up was Rich. What was to be the late afternoon, early evening ride for Rick turned into a living hell. He was our 51 year old teammate, a first-time racer who foolishly listened to my convincing sales pitch. My goal was to form a team of over 50-year-olds, a symbolic way to celebrate Sarge’s fiftieth year. Rick’s dentist was on my list of candidates but he, along with ten other prospects, turned me down. One had a blood clot in his leg; another a heart problem. One opted for a visit to the beach. A Utah relative, a former motocross rider, a Vietnam veteran, and not one taker amongst them. Rick was interested. I pounced. Rick was suckered.
The meadow had deteriorated. The service road had turned from a surface into a sponge. And the lights came on. One after another, sometimes in pairs, but never bunched up, bikes sloshed past the house, their lights bobbing and weaving an eerie pattern into the night. We knew that with a single 2n-watt lamp burning on our twin-beam handlebar-mounted Niteriders, we’d get about 2-3 hours of light. With our helmet-mounted D-cell powered 15 watt lamps, we could get another five hours and outlast the night. As we watched fresh riders set off into the night with their full 32 watts ablaze, we shuddered at the thought of the premature darkness that awaited them on the back side of the mountain as their power faded.
We waited patiently for Rick. As the hours ticked by, concern began to silently seep into our minds. Finally Rick trudged up onto the deck of our course-side house, a grim and grimy shadow of the 6’5″ warrior who had enthusiastically charged off for our third lap.
Emphatically Rick announced, “I’ve never experienced anything so awful in my 51 years of life.” For a brief moment I feared for my safety. Then I realized I was spared by his exhaustion.
An hour later, his mud-encrusted battle armor in a heap on the floor, his trusty steed in the hands of Steve and JP, refueled by a healthy platter of pasta and chicken and soothed by a warm shower, Rick recounted the pinnacle of his lap. The downhill singletrack had gone completely to hell. Riders were sliding down the trail into one another. Bikes were entangled in legs. Lights had begun to or had long since fai led . Tears of frustration and fear punctuated the night. A half hour downhill had turned into a two hour nightmare, and Rick had been right in the middle of it. And now, it was Dave’s turn.
The night was cool, the stars were out, and Dave was on the course. I left word with JP to wake me up in two hours, shuffled upstairs and snuggled into bed alongside Sarge. This was not to be an amorous encounter. We shared our thoughts about our upcoming laps. Neither of us was particularly confident at that point. In fact, fear might have better described our emotions.
I couldn’t sleep so I wandered down to trailside. It was 2:00 a.m. and JP was hosing down bikes and bikers, spraying out temporary relief from the mud. At 3:00 a.m. I gathered up my bike and stumbled down to the transition tent. Dave was still on the course and had even radioi d some civil comments to me. I was encouraged. I watched muddied riders come in, some with lights still blazing, others with penlights clenched between their teeth. And then it was my turn. Stumble up Puke Hill, into the prologue–and over the handlehars, my first encounter with a log hidden under ten inches of water. Out of the prologue, up past JP, one last bike to wash before he called it a night. Down into the singletrack. Across the bridge, the meadow and up the backside.
Midway up the road, I picked up dawns early light and Sarge’s reassuring voice on the radio, encountered a doe, and met a number of other determined competitors, pushing, shoving, dragging and just enduring. Several guys rode by us, one show-off out of the saddle. Through the rocky ‘Waterfall’, up the ‘Wall’, lights long ago having been turned off. Then down the singletrack, made infinitely wider as new trails were scuffed into the brush to circumvent the muck. “On my way down,” I radioed. Twenty minutes later, I lumbered into the tent. “Sarge!” I shouted to no one in particular. She was no where in sight. I turned around just in time to see her sauntering down from the bike racks. “How’d you get here so quick,” she shouted. My muddied chest swelled with pride. And then, off she went, baton safely stashed away for our last lap.
Around the course, I followed her by radio, savoring my first Coors of the weekend. At one point, she made some reference to divorce court. I pointed out that all the good lawyers were tied up in Los Angeles. She missed the humor. And then she was in the singletrack, downhill, and heading for home. It was 11:30. Kamal, our mechanic, had long since packed his tools, greases, and rags, and faithful Ricky, our chef, was well into his second magnum of Chardonnay. Neither Dave nor I was anxious to do another lap, and Rick would have killed first. Sarge was not going into that tent before 12:00 noon. I mentally prepared my body to be her final obstacle. I would throw myself in front of her bike, I reasoned. By the time we disentangled, noon would be well past.
Relief! It was 12:05 and she hadn’t shown. My aching body was spared. At 12:15 she came out of the final singletrack, turned it downhill, and headed into the tent. I saved my cheers. I learn quick. Instead, I raced in to greet her. She ignored me. “Becky,” she screamed as another rider arrived. “Peggy,” Becky shouted. They reached out for one another, embraced and jabbered. Then she acknowledged me. “We made a pact,” she blurted out, “to get down here together.” It worked. Only those that have done it could understand.
Two hours later, Rick was on his way back to Baltimore. JP had a six week date with his ROTC program. Dave’s farm needed him. Steve’s dairy cows were loncly, and Kamal was on the road back to Washington, visions of doing Canaan on his cyclocross bike next year dancing through his head. Ricky, Peggy, and I wandered down to the awards ceremony and stopped at the leader board. Two masters teams were two laps up on us, but a shot at third place was possible. Thirty minutes later, Sarge and I struggled up to the podium to receive our third place awards. A feeling of pride like nothing I’d felt in the past eight years of triathlon, biathlon, and mountain bike racing warmed my soul.
Twenty-four hours later, the nightmares were gone. Butch and Susan from Montserrat were helping dislnantle the tents, the limp pennants draped in the drying mud, the throngs long since gone. We exchanged high fives, and spilled out our experiences. And then, the brainless commitments. “Are you doing this next year?” “Hell yes!” “How about our race in Monserrat in November?” Susan asked. I looked at Peggy, she looked at me. “We’ll be there,” I replied. Would we ever learn? A great adventure behind us and two more great adventures to anticipate. And to all those other adventurists like us, a race unparalleled behind us. What an accomplishment. What a weekend.
