Millionaires Riding Club: Death Ride - "I Finished And There Is No Reason To Ever Do That Again"

As a part of the continuing stupid bike ride choices by C-Dubbs, this week I am able to convey for your reading pleasure the highs (all 15000' of high) and lows (angry alarm clocks at ridiculous hours) experienced in my attempt to lay waste to the high alpine passes of the Sierra Nevada range.
With the ravages of Lymes in the rear view mirror, those in the know have seen a serious ramp up in preparation for the 33rd annual California Death Ride. To accommodate this foray to the Left Coast the Gran Fondo was moved from it's traditional 4th of July weekend to another one of our commemorative holidays, Memorial Day, which left your esteemed author in complete guppy mode from the Ashokan all the way back to Casa de C-Dubbs. In fact the pummeling was so bad that everyone with the exception of Senior Aqua Caliente and Yo Bike Chick had showered, eaten and pounded several rounds of beers by the time my saddle ravaged taint finally arrived at the man cave. On the couch that night, having spent hours translating all the data points from the ride, I realized that to make the grade(s) in the Sierras there was only one solution - mass infliction of pain and suffering. This was to be a go big or go home like no other and to accomplish this it was three centuries over the next four weekends, culminating with El Obamador's spirit breaking Big Indian Scalping.
After a week of ice bath immersions to aide my spent muscles it was a 3:15am wake up call, a massive bowl of brown rice pasta, double espresso and a final conversation with my Dutch Coach before heading to the security lines at LaGuardia. In the past these lines have always provided amusement as the scanners picked up bags of hypodermic needles, vials of medicine and of course the screech of the metal detector when the load of titanium bolted to my femur passed through the magical arch. This time around was no different as my attempt to bring a couple of Co2 cartridges was derailed by the TSA goon squad. One really has to question mental abilities of these protectors of the airways when, after finding the cartridges the TSA agent held up the bag they were in and asked if I would like to check it.

I mean seriously, something this big could cause one of the baggage handlers to throw his back out. So being the conscientious traveler I acquiesced to the agent, had her remove the Co2 and opted to carry it on rather then risk losing a pair of tire levers and Co2 nozzle.
The first leg of the trip to Houston saw the Gods of Legroom smile at me as the stew directed my ass to the emergency row to make room a mamasita and her brood so they could sit together and watch the latest episodes of their favorite telenova.

Arriving in Houston the haughty New York attitudes had disappeared and the hard drinkin' cowboy spirit was in the air, the airport bar was jammed and rocking at 8:23am with a crew that had the look of classic traveling older drunks.

Well surprise, on the next leg to Reno I thought I might have caught the barnyard special. The plane was loaded (along with a good portion of the passengers) same crew from the bar and it was comprised of drunk women clacking like a bunch of barnyard hens

and a heard of elks. Not these -

But these -

And they were all headed here -

For good measure there was even a representative from the sty division, proving that pigs can fly.

Plying one of the chickens about the mission of the Elks, I was a bit surprised to find that the Elk way was to help out the community. I can imagine what the local townspeople would think of their good Elks tipping back quite a few at such an early hour, somehow morning drinking and helping the community don't seem to go together all that well.

Having survived the cocktail party to Reno it was a dash to the rental car counter (seriously who wants to be on the road when the Elks get behind the wheel) and then a quick run to the state line (which is packed with casinos at the actual state line to lure those Californians into giving up the hard earned dollars to another state. Finally Serge, my alternative lifestyle Tom Tom voice directed me to the front door of HQ where to my surprise no one had arrived. A call to the trip coordinator, Terry who was circling the hood in a state of GPS disorientation, and a run to the corner to guide him to HQ and we quickly settled into a few icy cold brews. Opening the second round you can imagine the scramble as the local Yogi Bear (and this was no cub but a full grown black bear)

dropped out of the dumpster and headed for our front door. It was a mad dash to close up the cars, close up the house and drink ourselves into a sense of safety. With the wedding party arriving next door (hmmm maybe some easy pickin's from the bridesmaid contingent) and scaring Yogi back to Jellystone we loaded up the bikes and headed to Markleeville/Turtle Rock Park for registration.

Heading up Luther Pass we came across advertisement for tomorrow's painfest.

Back from a brief spin to the base of Monitor we set off for registration and this nice welcoming banner

along with a sampling of the 3300+ riders ready to do combat with the alps.

Having baked in the sun waiting in line we decided it was time to bake over at the Sierra Nevada tent, pour a good number of icy cool adult beverages down our throat before heading back to the house to prep for the impending mission.
Ensconced at HQ preride preparations were in full swing and the carbo loading was taking place 12 oz at a time. With the rest of the SF crew in house it was time for NECS/MRC gifts to come out with everyone pulling on the HTFU bracelets and adding the Your Bike Sucks chainstay protectors. A final round of bladder emptying and it was off to the State Line Brewery where we set about consuming moar carbs, tequila and all the food available. Fearing for her limbs our fine server took to tossing the plates onto the table from a distance that ensured all of her digits would still be attached come tip time.
With alarms sounding at 3:30am I turned on the brew master for an extra thick pot of my favorite bowel loosening Costa Rican joe. First sampled at La Ruta, this fine staple has the ability to send me into a penguin waddle after the first sip and is as reliable as the sun rising that I will visit Mt Kohler on multiple occasions before setting out for any ride. Perhaps it was the preride jitters, or maybe the altitude but the triple lindy never happened and with my taint lathered up for the impending ride I was going to have to pray that no turtles decided to come out and play on the course. Fuel for the ride consisted of a 1/2 package of brown rice pasta, canola oil and garlic salt eaten out of a gallon ziploc bag on the way to the start, which I proceeded to hide under the seat to provide a high school science class experiment for Terry at a later date.

The man train getting ready to roll - Yuri (I only drink vodka), Mike (us South Africans love to talk), Dave (what the fuck did I get myself into and Terry (our fearless Director Sportif)

Riding off in the dark like this is a guarantee that you will lose track of the crew, which is exactly what happened as I took this shot. With the masses all over the course and no light finding everyone was a virtual impossibility. Stupid me stopped a couple of times, watched hundreds of riders go by before giving up and heading toward my meeting with destiny. And there at the base of Monitor Pass was our Director Sportif with a big shit eating grin knowing that I had no clue what was coming.
As we man trained it up the lower slopes of Monitor we caught one of T's high school buddies and continued to plow up the slopes. The reward at the top was a 20+ minute high speed descent, at least until we round one of the bends to find a woman that crashed into the rocks who was not moving and was not looking in the best of condition, if fact there was a lot of riders standing there with panicked looks. Well grabbing a big handful of brakes (praise Allah I swapped the carbon rims for aluminum) we all cooled it to the bottom.
With sticker number two on the number plate it was right back what we just came down, roughly a 9-10 mile climb with so many riders it was a kin to a line of ants going up the mountain.

View to the bottom (at the upper left)

View to the top (center where the ridge drops)

The Crew on Monitor (and a rare Sierra guppy)

And the reward at the top (2x)

The wonderful sight was followed by yet another amazor descent (massive pucker factor) followed by a sharp left at the bottom and onto Ebbets where we were greeted by the Wild Women of Ebbetts Pass, the West Coast division of the Sirens of Stewart.

A quick photo op, mimosa, kisses of luck from all the Wild Women and a yellow star on the helmet and it was off for the third ascent.

Drinking under these kind of conditions can lead to one hallucinating during extreme efforts and while I wasn't pushing that hard I thought I was seeing things when I came upon this knucklehead.

Really! 120 miles, 15000' and 5 passes on this and he wasn't the only elliptical biker and just ahead of him was a recumbent. All I needed to finish off bicycle bingo was a unicycle (there have been in the past but not this year). Third star at the top, fourth star at the bottom of the backside (you get it before the climb because there is no way out other than up) and the reward after 4 passes -

Of course on the way down there was the mandatory stop to see the sirens again, get moar photo ops and have a Pacifico before the long grind back to Turtle Rock Park.

Now this is the part of the ride that really sucks dick, you fight a headwind the entire 10 miles back to Turtle Rock, ride past your car before slogging up a 15+ mile climb to the summit of Carson Pass.

Knowing this would take all of the mental fortitude on tap I had stocked the car with 2 big water bottles of coca tea to "lift" my spirits.

Riding cross eyed from all the climbing, altitude, beer and taint crushing miles I somehow missed the car and by the time I realized it was an up hill battle to get back to it. Fuck it, I just needed to keep going if I wanted to finish, one stop and it was over.

To conceptualize the mind fuck coming up the climb starts with a 4 mile 8-10% grade up a canyon with no wind and no protection from the sun plus a lot of motor vehicles. Once on top the reward is a 4 mile section of relatively flat (remember this is the Sierras) 3-5% grade that is straight as an arrow and presents this wonderful view that you get to contemplate for quite some time (the summit is just to the right of the lone pine tree on the right side).

Once you start up the grade at the end it is another 5+ miles of 8-11% grade before the summit. Finally out of gas I decided to take in the view with a couple of roadside relaxation sessions before the final push for the top. And wouldn't you know it within 300' of the summit up pulls our Director Sportif giving me a "beer hand up"coupled with the infamous TDF "sticky bottle", sending me over the top and into the parking lot for my fifth sticker, ice cream cone and finishers pin.

Determined, the entire climb, to make the 15 mile descent back to Turtle Rock Park the lure of a front seat, bike rack and six pack of beer put common sense back in my head. I proceeded to skip the descent, and all of the bike/car traffic, hop in the front seat and start drinking - probably the wisest decision of the day.
The next morning, facing an early drive back to Reno, it was time for breakfast beers (note the time)