Hampshire 100k Race Report

Any race I’ve ever done that was longer than five hours has left me physically shattered. The Hampshire 100k was no different. 62 miles. 6 1/2 hours. Numbers on a page that represent the limits of my endurance. 100s. 50s. 24 hours. The digits attached to each of those are nothing more than data. Data don’t describe how good trails are or how deep you have to go to actually finish. For its part, the H100 had a fair share of very sick trails. It also had grinding hills and murderous power lines in abundance. Numbers, names and words help only to color the details.

They told us at the riders’ meeting at 6:15 on a foggy Sunday morning that the easy part of the course would be the first 20 miles. Either my attention strayed or they failed to mention that the easy part included an almost 2-mile stretch of dead flat, sandy road that wasn’t easy at all. It just wasn’t quite as hard as what followed. A little before that was a narrow string of trail along railroad tracks. A thin margin of error for a pack of racers strung out wheel-to-wheel in the infant stages of an endurance event. With railroad ties just inches away from our cranks and a shallow ravine to the right, it didn't take much to bring the train to a grinding halt. Not much more, in fact, than a rider in front of me stopping suddenly, presumably for good reason. I watched the lead group leave from the bottom of the ravine. Once righted and resigned to being out the back, I settled into a more measured pace.

I saw signs of the leaders once I hit the sand slog. Tire tracks were drawn in the sand all over the road. And not very straight ones. I tried hugging the gutter, Paris-Roubaix style, angling for the slightest bit of traction in the pine needles while getting slapped by the bushes lining the side of the road. A fairly successful experiment, but I still came off the sand with considerably less left in the tank for what lay ahead.

The climbing began for real at about mile 21. Riding was marginally better than walking due to the cumulative effect of elevation gain. Terrain was a mix of smooth dirt, rutted jeep roads, bony trails and steep power line climbs. Some sections favored the purely fit. The rock gardens, not so much. Trails went through public and private property. Some were blazed for race day only. And some were not really trails as much as just arrows through the forest. I broke, physically and mentally, during one of those at about mile 43. I'd officially entered survival mode. 19 miles to go. 2 more hours. What I didn't know was that the best trail riding lay ahead of me.

One of my leg-shaving roadie mates, Bryan Zieroff from Stage 1/FusionTHINK, enjoyed a similarly pleasurable experience:

My legs didn't feel like concrete anymore, mainly because I couldn't feel them at all. It was about mile 30 that the cramps hit. My legs looked like they were having their own grand mal seizure, so I used the 30 something mile rest stop to eat, drink and stretch. It was hard to watch racer after racer go by, but I just wanted to finish. I got going again, and around mile 37 I started to feel better and found a good pace. I started passing many of the people who rode by and got some adrenaline going. I was hoping to take that to the end.

The last third of the race is a blur. Water. Fuel. Cramps. Climbs. I was wired as much as I was worn. I'd sometimes wonder if I could be too tired to appreciate a sick stretch of trail and the answer is no. 45 miles in, even 55 miles in, I was still elated for every twist and turn over soft pine needles. Of course, I viewed any grade above 2% gravely. A light rain had started to fall on the forest canopy. It was a steady rain by the time I came around to the Start/Finish area. 62 miles. 6 1/2 hours. Oh, and 1 pint glass.

http://www.efta.com/PDF/results/2010/H100%202010%20results.pdf