Audi 24 Hours of Great Glen
[Hillbilly Express rider Ben Hewitt on the Outback Trail. Photo courtesy of Gabe Graff.]
During a day of fine spring skiing at Mad River Glen, my friend Ben asked me if I would be interested in joining a team to compete in a 24-hour mountain bike relay race. At the time, with snow still deep on the mountain and summer bike races just a remotely abstract concept, it seemed like a fine idea. Five months later, at three in the morning, pushing my bike through the mud, cross-eyed from lack of sleep and with my feeble headlamp beam starting to fade, it just seemed really, really dumb.
Despite the inherent absurdity of riding around and around in the dark while all sensible citizens are sleeping, 24-hour races have become one of the hottest draws on the otherwise stagnant mountain bike racing circuit. A quick search turned up at least ten such events in the United States this year, some of which draw thousands of participants. In recognition of its growing popularity, NORBA, the national sanctioning body for mountain bike racing, has even granted 24-hour racing its own national championship. Having spoken to a couple of people who waxed enthusiastic about their 24-hour race experience, and not having any endurance rides, dental work, or other character-building events on my summer calendar, I decided to give it a try.
The event our team signed up for was the Audi 24 Hours of Great Glen, in Gorham, New Hampshire. The racing took place on the trails of the Great Glen Outdoor Center, nestled up against the imposing northeast flank of Mt. Washington. As I made the long, scenic drive east on Route 2 Saturday morning, I had plenty of time to reflect on my rash decision. Like any good Sport-class mountain bike racer, I had stayed up late drinking beer the night before, and the prospect of a sleepless, punishing day and night of riding was unappealing. But my team was counting on me. I had a cooler full of Gatorade, bananas and Clif Bars. The sun was shining, sort of. I couldn’t turn around now.
After working my way through a snarl of RV’s and motorcycle caravans in Gorham, I pulled into the parking lot and hooked up with my team. They were Ben, his wife Penny, and two guys named Dan and Steve who I had never met before, but who looked fast. Together we were the Hillbilly Express. Our skill level ranged from rail-thin, scary-fast expert (Ben) to paunchy middle-aged dilettante (me). Ben reminded us we were just there to have fun, not win any big prizes, and we went and found a place to pitch our tents. Our little corner of the campground contained two other teams from Central Vermont, and among the three groups we made up a pretty fair spectrum of the kind of people that show up at 24-hour races. On one end was the Killington Mountain Bike Crew, all rippling abs and steely eyes, serious bikers out for some serious racing. A few sites down sat the big camper of the Three Stallion Warriors from Randolph. They showed up to race, to be sure, but their comfy lawn chairs, gas grill and keg of Rock Art bespoke a parallel agenda. There are all kinds of ways to enjoy a 24-hour race.
The rules of 24-hour racing may seem confusing to someone used to traditional two-hour races. The essential things to remember are that each team can only have one rider on the course at one time, and the final results are based on the total number of laps completed by each team in the 24 hour period. In our division, every racer had to spend at least three hours on the bike. This ensures that every team member contributes equally to a team’s final standing. Watchful scorekeepers logged every lap and every rider change to prevent inadvertent mishaps. Our team decided to run a one lap rotation, with each racer doing a lap of the six mile course, and then resting while the four other racers did one lap in turn. In practice, this worked out to about 45 minutes on the bike to three hours off.
At the starting line, we learned that approximately 90 teams were competing. The teams ran the gamut, from hard-core solo riders and all-expert squads to families with kids. The usual cluster of manufacturers’ vans and food vendors surrounded the big score-keeper’s tent, volunteers scurried around with radios and cameras, and riders made last-minute bike adjustments. Then the cannon sounded, and the first wave of racers scrambled for their bikes. As I waited to take the baton from Ben for my first lap, I wondered if I would really be able to stay up all night and ride lap after lap after lap. I didn’t have long to wallow in self-doubt though, because a shout went up, and the first rider came in, leading the rest of the pack by several minutes. It was Ben, and I was off.
Ben’s white-hot first lap put me in the unusual position of actually leading a bike race. For me this was a novel, practically unprecedented situation, and my resolve to pace myself and go easy flew out the window. I rode hard, and savored the lead for most of my first lap. The course turned out to be a mix of dead-easy gravel roads and almost unridable root-laced slick clay singletrack. The last section of singletrack culminated in something event organizers had dubbed “the Plunge,” which was undoubtedly constructed to draw hooting spectators and to provide the Resort Sports Network with choice video footage of hapless riders tumbling ass over teakettle. I managed to spare myself that indignity. Barely.
The rest of the day, and the night, and the next morning, became a series of increasingly difficult cycles. Race. Rest. Eat. Bananas and Clif bars began tasting really awful, and I resorted to greasy pizza around nine at night, and an even greasier egg and bacon cholesterol puck early on Sunday. It was delicious. By far, the worst moment came at three in the morning, when I woke up from half an hour of fitful sleep, pulled on a damp, nasty pair of bike shorts, and pushed off into the dark. (Note to prospective 24-hour racers: bring several pairs of shorts.)
“I hope your headlight batteries don’t die!” Penny called after me. “Mine did!”
Sure enough, five minutes into my second night lap, my powerful handlebar light faded and winked out. Luckily, my helmet light managed to just last through the lap, casting a spooky glow on the trees and the mud. A radio someone had left in the trail to provide musical inspiration belted out static, its batteries dying and its owner asleep somewhere. A mouse scurried across the trail, its little eyes reflecting my headlamp. I passed one of the solo racers, out on his umpteenth lap. “I don’t know how you do it, man,” I said.
“I don’t know why I do it,” he replied.
The night eventually passed, and the day dawned clear and warm. Not only did I make it through the night, but my seventh and final lap proved to be my second fastest. It felt good to not only survive the event, but to finish with strong legs. When the cannon went off at noon the Hillbilly Express was sitting comfortably in third place, thanks to a great team effort. Penny’s fast laps were particularly impressive, since this was only her second mountain bike race ever. We all congratulated each other, and headed to the outdoor showers which the event organizers had thoughtfully provided.
Later, clean and exhausted, I gratefully accepted a cold beer from Tim Dempsey and his ever-present keg. One more round of congratulations, and we packed up the cars, too tired to stick around for the awards ceremony. Will I do it again next year? I’m not sure. Losing a night of sleep was tough, and I would hate to ride a race like that in the rain. But there is definitely a feeling you get from a 24-hour race that is absent from the usual two-hour event. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone who lasted until noon on Sunday, whether they won their division or came in dead last, had something special to take home, something to be proud of. Everyone who finishes an event like that feels like a winner. That, more than anything, may explain the attraction of 24-hour racing.
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