The Race – Day 2
If there’s an upside to hypothermia, it’s the eternal nap you slide into—no alarm clock needed. Last Saturday, I nearly checked out permanently when suddenly, a voice broke through my frosty slumber: “Wanna hit up town for breakfast?” That invitation yanked me back to the land of the living—or at least, those of us pretending to be awake.
With the others still lost in dreamland, I seized my chance for a scenic latrine tour. The first stop was a frozen wonder, where any contributions simply perched atop the ice. I slapped a Butte 100 poster there and moved on. By the end of my circuit, four posters adorned the facilities of Hemingway Butte Recreation Area, marking my mission complete. Time to hit town.
In Melba, we stumbled upon the Melba Valley Market—a charming hybrid of hardware store, grocery, and café. As we entered, the local eyes sized us up, probably wondering about these odd early birds invading their nest. The place screamed “hardware,” but a warm welcome with coffee and smiles soon had us feeling right at home.
Post-breakfast, we returned to the venue, my stomach bravely bearing hash browns and salsa, hoping it wouldn’t make a comeback mid-race. The wind kicked up fiercely, almost sending our tent flying—an ominous sign for the day.
Geared up for a pre-ride, I was flying on the course, flaunting speed to some youngsters, when my back tire surrendered to a flat—thanks to a skirmish with a rogue goat head. After a grueling repair session, it was clear: surviving the race on mere tubes and patches was a fool’s errand. Resigned, I chose to cheer from the sidelines instead of battling the inevitable.
As the pros took off, I couldn’t help but fantasize about being in that elite group of twenty. Instead, I found myself amidst a sea of eager riders, the start a chaotic free-for-all reminiscent of the Boston Marathon. Once the race began in earnest, I managed to navigate through the pack, dodging missteps and mechanical mishaps alike.
The course threw challenges our way, with climbs and tricky rollers. Following some swift riders, disaster struck when the guy ahead botched a gear change. To avoid a pile-up, I took a detour through the weeds. Despite this setback, I clawed back towards the lead, exploiting a wide stretch of track to overtake a good chunk of the field.
However, my comeback was cut short by a collision that sent me sprawling, with visions of hospitals dancing in my head. Yet, with a spirit unwilling to quit, I realigned my twisted handlebars and continued, the pain in my neck a fiery reminder of the fall.
Throughout the race, I kept overtaking wherever possible, channeling my frustrations into conquering climbs that others shied away from. The final laps were about endurance, sticking close to competitors who matched my pace.
In a twist of fate, a missed turn on the last lap cost me dearly. Unaware that we were racing 2.5 laps, not 3, I lost my lead. The irony? I had overtaken everyone without even realizing it. If only I’d attended that racer’s meeting! Comparing times later, I could have clinched fourth overall—a bittersweet revelation.
Still, I snagged second in my age group. Throughout the ordeal, one thought kept me pedaling: “I haven’t flatted yet.” Call it luck or sheer grit, but finishing was the real victory. Just another good day in the dirt.
Boneshakerbike 
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