The Race Clock is Ticking
As published in the October/November 2019 issue of Adventure Cyclist magazine.
I lay on my side, my back six inches from the pavement of a desolate highway, at 2:30 am in The Middle of Nowhere, Arkansas. I forced my eyes shut as I tried to talk myself into relaxing, but my eyes wouldn’t stay closed. Instead, I looked up at the blurry stars and saw a staccato glow of lightning to the west — the direction I was headed for the next couple of days. I heard Luke’s snores coming from the other side of the road and asked myself, How the hell did I get here?
Everything else was silent. Jeremy, lying down a few feet away from me, shifted his body on the sloped, rocky highway shoulder and said, “I just saw lightning, we should probably get up and start moving.” I stood my stiffened body up and brushed the dirt off my backside, taking note that lying on the cold ground for half an hour effectively sucked all the warmth I had left from my body and I didn’t feel any more rested than I did before. Jeremy let out three enormous howls into the still darkness and I wondered if he snapped. The three of us mounted our mud-caked bikes, gritted our teeth, and lied to ourselves that the next six miles to the nearest campground would all be downhill.
I am not a “bike racer.” The boundless joy I experience while riding a bicycle is derived purely from feeling the wind on my face, smelling the trees, and watching lakes and cows and wildflowers zoom by as my head swivels endlessly. I try to absorb every aspect of the environment around me. My friends might tell you that I “race” my bike because I’m nearly always at the front of the pack — but what probably reads as an annoyingly competitive nature is usually just my excitement for being on a bike coupled with well-seasoned legs.
Knowing that I’ve only competed in a total of nine bicycle races* in my entire cycling career, you might be as shocked as my parents were to learn that my 10th race would be a 1,031-mile jaunt on both paved and gravel roads with grades reaching a staggering 22 percent, totaling around 84,000 feet of elevation gain.
On June 8, 2019, I lined up next to 17 men and one woman to start the inaugural Arkansas High Country Race.
Part of me felt like it was important to be an ambassador for both Adventure Cycling, since the race follows the majority of our newest route, and for women. I was also just curious to see if I could actually finish the route in one push. Only one person ever had at that point, after all.
A month before the official race, Red Bull–sponsored, Mountain Bike Hall of Famer Rebecca Rusch became the first person to complete the entire race route, setting a Fastest Known Time (FKT) of eight days, three hours, and 33 minutes, defying absolutely heinous weather conditions to boot. When folks asked how long I expected it would take me, I told them I’d be thrilled to cross the finish line in 11 days, but that I’d budgeted for 14 just in case. I’d also add that I wasn’t above hitchhiking if things got really dark.
I’ll admit that I am a strong cyclist (at least for someone whose gag reflex engages at the word “training”), but ultra-endurance bike races had always just been something I was on the other end of — the dot-stalking end. I set out to compete in this race with the following goals, in order: have fun, make friends, be able to tell a great story, find new limits, finish the race, come home in one piece.
For the first five days of the race, I was surprised to find myself meeting my goals. I was having so much fun, waking up every morning feeling a rush of excitement to get back on the bike and slowly chip away at the daunting 1,031 miles. I made sure to establish myself as a Trustworthy Fun Person to other racers as soon as the Grand Départ took off. My bicycle was performing beautifully with no mechanicals and impressive multiday comfort. I sang out loud to the music in my earbuds through my big, toothy grin. My helmeted shadow would catch my attention and I’d get choked up because I was finally the dot that my loved ones were stalking.
The icing on the cake was that I’d been logging so many miles every day that I was actually on track with Rebecca Rusch’s ride. I had camped near every place she’d stayed for the first 600 miles and I was the leading woman in the race. Looking back, I’m convinced that even with intentions to just “ride the ride,” it is nearly impossible to prevent at least a dash of ego from creeping in at some point — let alone entirely consume you.
Over a gas station dinner on the fifth night with the duo I’d been unintentionally leapfrogging the whole race, Luke Hall and Jeremy Ordaz, it was decided that with 362 miles left in the race, we would try to beat the FKT. I would set a new women’s record as an amateur racer on my five-year-old purple steel bike (machine-human Mike Dicken was about a day away from setting the men’s record with an astonishing six days, 10 hours, and five minutes).
We headed back out into the dark gravel abyss to put another 40 miles behind us before sleeping. As we steered toward derelict farmland, my legs immediately turned to lead and I watched Jeremy and Luke’s taillights disappear up a hill ahead of me. I was now completely alone, save for a handful of stars and cows. After hours of delirious pep talking, I hobbled through the doors of our agreed-upon destination: a delightfully whimsical one-room schoolhouse that we knew was going to be left open for us to access their drinking water. It was 1:30 am and we were 30 miles behind Rebecca’s pace.
I woke the next morning determined to make up the mileage, in denial that my body was now revolting. In the past, I’d always been able to push through low points and keep going, so I slathered on sunscreen, downed a cup of cold instant coffee, and chased after Jeremy. On the sixth day of the race, every single mile hurt.
“Through tears, I told him I wasn’t hurt physically — just emotionally — and he blessed my heart as he drove back up the mountain.”
Between miles 711 and 760, I spent a lot of time hating myself for attempting this dumb race. I hated Arkansas for its relentless hills and washed out gravel “roads.” I hated the South for its wretched humidity. I hated Luke and Jeremy for being able to climb hills faster than me (and I hated their fancy carbon bikes.) I hated the horsefly that caused me to wreck and bend my derailer hanger because I was angrily swatting it while slowly chugging uphill. I hated my bike. I hated everything.
In my 49-mile journey of self-and-everything-loathing that finally led me to Luke and Jeremy at a café in Jasper, I began to feel a storm of conflict brewing deep inside myself. My once strong, booming internal voice that said have fun, make friends, ride your own ride! was competing with the now stronger, louder internal voice that shouted YOU COULD REALLY BE SOMEONE! YOU COULD SET A NEW RECORD! YOUR DOT STALKERS WILL BE SO PROUD!
As the café hostess seated us in the darkest corner of the room, far away from other guests (who had probably showered in the last six days, unlike us), I voiced my doubts to my new friends. “Guys, what if we just let go of this goal? We’re not having fun anymore.” Luke and Jeremy, who had been grumbling about the heat, immediately rejected my doubts and fist bumped to signify that they still wanted to beat Rebecca Rusch’s time and that they were about to leave me in the dust (or so I interpreted.) We left the café and, after a 30-minute late afternoon ditch nap in the grass, we pushed onward. It was 43 miles to our next planned stop, Witt Springs.
I’d really been lagging behind them for about 12 miles after Jasper, but it wasn’t until I saw a squiggle of eight upward switchbacks on my GPS that I really broke. When I approached the base of the climb, I looked up and could see the road winding all the way up a steep mountain. Succumbing to overwhelming dread and a biting throb in my Achilles, I sat down for a five-minute break in a vacant driveway to regain physical and emotional strength.
I started to unzip my framebag for a snack when I felt tears mix with the sweat on my cheeks. I had never been driven to anything but happy tears before while riding a bicycle, but this time was different. The two Allys inside me were pulling against each other so violently that I began to sob, unable to muster the energy to do anything but turn off my taillight. I pulled out my phone to check Trackleaders for Jeremy and Luke’s dots. I barely had a bar of service and couldn’t get the website to refresh. I called my mom, even though I knew she’d say all the wrong things like, “Oh honey, just get a hotel room and call it quits! Take care of your body!” Maybe that’s what a small part of me wanted. I lost service. The call didn’t go through.
Feeling utterly hopeless, with thoughts of pulling the ripcord bubbling up for the first time, I saw two bars of service illuminate on my phone. I called my friend Katie Visco who, at the time, was preparing to run 2,112 miles straight across the whole continent of Australia. That’s right — on her feet. I figured she might be able to imagine what I was going through at that moment. She answered my call with an enthusiastic cheer, and I blubbered into the receiver, “Katie, I need a pep talk.”
I rattled off a list of all the things that had begun creating anxiety for me. “I knew it was going to be challenging, but I never wanted to push myself beyond the limit of enjoying the experience. A day ago I started thinking that the women’s record felt attainable, and it’s been downhill from there. The guys I’ve been riding with seem to still feel strong and I don’t think I can keep up with them anymore. It’s getting dark and I still have 30 miles to go before I sleep.” And then I got really pathetic: “I haven’t had any fun today.”
At that same moment, a man in a red pickup truck pulled over to tell me he’d passed me earlier on his way up the mountain, saw me crying, and was worried sick about me. He asked what direction I was going and if I wanted a ride to the top. Maybe this is my chance to scratch the race and hitchhike to a hotel! Through tears, I told him I wasn’t hurt physically — just emotionally — and he blessed my heart as he drove back up the mountain.
Katie’s soothing voice returned to my ear, “Ally, it sounds like you lost sight of your goal and you’ve put this really big pressure on yourself. Maybe you want to give yourself the gift of taking that pressure off.”
Half an hour after I’d flung my bike to the ground, I stood back up ready to tackle the climb that had sent me into an emotional downward spiral. I let go of the goal of finishing in under eight days, three hours, and 33 minutes. I planned to tell Luke and Jeremy to go on without me, and I would ride my own ride again.
When I crested the mountain, I stopped to look down at the speck of a driveway from where I’d come. I realized I’d left that heartbroken, ego-driven version of myself at the bottom. “I’m not a bike racer, I just want to ride my bike,” I told myself. I became more kind to my body, bargaining that as long as I went another couple of miles, I could camp anywhere that looked nice. I started singing along to the music in my earbuds again.
Four long hours later at Mile 796, illuminated only by my headlamp, I walked my bike into the Witt Springs Community Center. It was 1:00 am. Jeremy heard the clack of my cleats on the gym floor and stood up from a cot, walking over with a big hug that told me he was happy I’d made it safely. He pointed me to a distant glowing doorway, where I would find tables full of packaged foods, fruit, turkey sandwiches, and cookies. I stood basking in the glory of all the calories I was about to consume, completely in awe of Witt Springs, population 152.
At that point, I was in absolutely no hurry. The ever ticking race clock no longer captivated my thoughts. While the guys slept (and snored) in the next room, I stayed awake for two hours showering and eating potato chips. I washed all of my clothes in the sink and hung them up to dry. I texted Katie that her words had powered me through the remaining 30 miles right to a heavenly oasis. I smiled as I slipped into my sleeping bag liner, proud that I’d pulled myself out of a dark hole and back into high spirits. I felt a jolt of excitement to get back on my bike in the morning and keep riding the remaining 235 miles — on my own terms.
*One 25-mile road race in Austin, Texas, in 2016; one mountain bike race on a motorized dirt bike track in Austin in 2017, affectionately known as Dirt Derby (I wore Chacos); one 206-mile gravel race in 2018, known by most masochists as the Dirty Kanza 200; six small-town Missoula, Montana, cyclocross races in 2018 (so small that all fields, male and female, raced on the same course at the exact same time) — I claimed the lowest podium step at one Missoula CX race once because there were only three women in my age category.
Ally Mabry is the Lead Designer of Adventure Cyclist. She finished the Arkansas High Country Race in eight days, 15 hours, nine minutes on a Surly Straggler and became the first amateur woman to complete the entire route. Her parents were waiting at the finish line with margaritas, watermelon, and burritos. She keeps saying she’ll never do a race like this again even though no one believes her.
