When To Quit a Bike Race

Posted on March 30, 2017 by Syd Schulz

Last weekend’s Enduro World Series in Rotorua was hard.

You saw the pictures, so you know it was an unbelievable mud fest. You saw the stats — 8 hours, 64km, 7 stages, 6300 ft. So yeah, you know it was hard.

But what you couldn’t see — the mental game — was harder than all that. Yeah, the distance and the climbing and the horrendous conditions, they were all hard. And kind of more than what I was prepared for after having taken three weeks off to rehab my knee.

But, beyond all that, this was a race to see how hard I was willing to push myself simply to finish a race.

Not to do well — that was out the window within three hours after a mechanical on stage 3 and a missed start — but just to finish, most likely in last place. Physically, I was done at the bottom of stage 5. My equipment was also calling it quits. I had had a second mechanical on stage 5, or rather, a continuation of the same mechanical. To make a long story short, I made some poor equipment choices, as I expected the conditions to be similar to what they were in practice, or at least in the race in 2015. Which is to say, slippery, not clumpy. But we got clumpy, nasty, sticky clay and I had chosen a tire with not enough clearance in the front or rear (I wanted those big knobs for traction in slippery mud, and hadn’t thought about clearance), which resulted in both my tires clogging up and my chain guide getting so full of mud and pumice pebbles that it jammed with my cranks stuck at 12 and 6 o’clock, i.e. not what you want if you want any hope of navigating a technical trail with deep ruts. Then, to make matters worse, I crashed and my handlebars got stuck about 45 degrees off center, and I couldn’t ride at all, so I literally ran the last half mile of Stage 5. And by run, I mean, run five feet and then fall over, all while dragging my now 90lb bicycle, and being caught by the pointy end of the pro men’s field. Not my best moment on a bike, to be sure.

So there I was, at the bottom of stage 5, with one of the longest climbs of the race between me and stage 6, and then yet another climb after that. I had already missed my original start after stage 3 (and incurred a 10 minute time penalty), and I was in serious peril of missing the cut off and being told to go home. If there is something more demoralizing than hammering up an hour long climb, on a bike with an extra 20 lbs of muck, with only two functioning gears, being passed by the fastest men in the world, all without knowing if you will actually be allowed to continue the race if you do ever make it to the top, and knowing that they do let you drop, you will inevitably be the last finisher in the race — well, if there is a scenario less motivating than that, I have not encountered it (and I hope I never do).

A lot of shit went through my brain on that climb.

Why are you doing this?

What are you trying to prove?

Are you wrecking your knee?

Maybe you should just quit now so you can be be a DNF instead of last again.

You’re so much more prepared for races like this, why did everything still go to hell?

What will you do if they don’t let you finish?

Do you think they’ll let you ride all the stages after everyone, just to say you could do it?

For god’s sake what would be the point of that?

Would you really suffer that much for a result that wouldn’t count, just to prove you could make it around the course? What kind of fucking idiot are you? Are you really that stubborn?

Again, what the hell are you trying to prove here?

I thought your goal was to have FUN in this race, how’s that going, eh?

There’s no way you’re going to make your cut off, just stop now.

You just need to go a little bit faster, c’mon. Eat something and get it back together.

Am I lost?

No, there’s some tape. Just keep pedaling. You got this.

And then, finally, silence. It all just kind of went away. All my energy just went into turning the pedals.

I rolled through the aid station and passed most of the pro men while they got their bikes tuned up by their mechanics (must be nice, ha). I stopped only long enough to stuff my mouth and both fists with garlic bread, which I proceeded to half-eat, half-choke down on my way up the rest of the climb. I made my cut-off and actually almost made it back up to my original drop time.

That climb was the hardest I’ve ever done. Not physically, although it was up there, but mentally, because half of me was screaming “THERE’S NO POINT WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS” while the other half just kept saying “this is important, I don’t know why, but this is really fucking important.”

Sad drive chain :(

And ultimately, as I tried to explain to Macky at the finish line, I just seem to be willing to work very, very, very hard for the pleasure of being last in a bike race. I don’t think anyone would have blamed me for dropping out. After all, a quarter of the women’s field did, and I certainly don’t blame them. I could have said my knee was hurting (it was), or that my shifting wasn’t working (it wasn’t) or that I was afraid of hurting myself because I was so tired (also true). Or I could have just said I didn’t see the point because I had had two stages wrecked by mechanical issues and a time penalty on top of that. And it terms of results, yeah, there was no point. In fact, if I were thinking forward to my next race, it probably would have been smart to can it. My knee is definitely pissed this week, although I think it is doing fairly well given the circumstances.

In general, I’m trying to be more understanding of DNF-ing. I have had a tendency in the past to race through injury, or concussion, or sickness or any number of other un-safe circumstances. And ultimately, it’s a bike race — it’s not worth doing serious harm to yourself, or putting yourself back weeks in terms of health. This year I want to be smarter about that — I want to race with a long term perspective, and not feel like I have to prove something by dragging my broken body across the finish line.

And that was going through my head this weekend — maybe this is one of those times where it would be smarter to quit, my brain kept saying.

But it wasn’t. I wasn’t injured. I wasn’t sick. Nothing on my bike was broken except the shifting (and who needs that). Things just weren’t going my way. I was bummed. I was frustrated. But none of those are legitimate reasons to not at least try to finish the race.

If I had missed my cut off, I would have stopped. I wasn’t going to fight anyone to let me down the trail, and even though I entertained the possibility of riding the rest of the stages by myself, I was smart enough to realize that would have been unwise (and probably unappreciated by course marshals and medics who were undoubtedly just as eager to get out of the weather as we were). But I needed to at least see if I could make it. If I was going to go down, I was going to go down pedaling.

And yeah, I made it. Barely, but I made it. I finished the race. I was 29th out of 29 finishers (and 43 starters).

So, no, the result was not impressive. But the part of my brain that kept saying “this is important” was right. It was important. Why? Because we are capable of so much more than we think. When the brain turns off and we just keep going — the human body is amazing and can handle an incredible amount of pain and discomfort. Almost always it’s our minds that quit on us. That’s why finishing this race was so important. Not for the result, but because I thought it was impossible, and then I did it anyway.

Ask Syd: What Should I Expect at an EWS Race?

Posted on February 17, 2017 by Syd Schulz

Hi Syd :)

Thanks for keeping your wonderful blog. I am a rider from Egypt who has been dreaming big for years despite that I have been riding for only 4 yrs. I started racing local enduros only two years ago and tried an EWS [Enduro World Series] qualifing event last year which was not successful. The racing conditions were terrible with a thunderstorm and I think mentally I wasn’t ready for it. This year, it’s different. I have an amazing mtb coach and I’m working on skills and fitness. Doing at least 1 local race a month to get better. I live in Israel by the way which makes it easier! So the plan is to try more EWS qualifiers this year! To make things more exciting I won the EWS lottery for Madeira, Portugal in May :))

Here’s my question: I am focusing on skills, fitness, mental preparation and nutrition… but I need to believe from the bottom of my heart that I can make it in EWS Madeira? Any advice?

After blatantly disobeying Rule #2 on this list and going dust bowl swimming at 2016 EWS Round #1. Don’t be like me.

I decided to post my response to Yasmine, because I think there are a lot of people out there who are interested in trying an Enduro World Series race, or maybe just got into their first one via the lottery this year and are curious what to expect. While I don’t really consider myself to be an EWS racer, I have a raced a handful of the events and I certainly know what it feels like to be unprepared for the challenges of these races. (See here and here for tales of woe from my EWS exploits in 2015.)

Here’s my advice for taking on your first EWS race —

1. Don’t set expectations/goals for finishing in a certain position. The competition is incredibly fast and there’s really no way to know how you stack up until you try. So try to release yourself from any pressure on that front — once you’ve done at least one EWS you can set a goal of improving your position at the next one. Thinking about it any other way is just going to add extra stress. So wherever you finish, just think of it as a learning experience. Even though I’ve done 6 EWS races at this point, I still never set any goal position-wise — I just shoot to finish and stay calm, competent and upright for the entire race. I’ve been last, and I’ve been top-20. Shit happens at these races, and sometimes it’s out of your control.

2. If you are unable to ride something in practice, don’t ride it in the race. Running/sliding-on-your-butt is almost always faster than crashing. I have learned this lesson the hard way a few times. The trails change a LOT between practice and the race at an EWS, especially for the women as we race after all but the top 30 men. This means that some 400 racers shred up the trails before us. This makes everything harder, and it’s really important to remember that and not get discouraged if you are having more trouble during the race than you did in practice.

3. Accept that the pre-ride schedule might be very physically challenging and you might be tired before you even start the race. This is a hard one for me because when a race is important to me I want to show up refreshed and at my best. Unfortunately long practice days are part of EWS racing and everyone is in the same boat. Every race is different but for Chile last year we rode 30 miles both Thursday and Friday for practice, and then again Saturday and Sunday for the race. So, 60 miles and 10,000 feet of climbing before the race even started. I was EXHAUSTED. This can be demoralizing but remember, everyone is in the same situation and they’re all tired, too, even if they pretend they aren’t ;)

4. Try to keep in perspective that these races are hard AF. EWS races have been some of the hardest mountain bike events I have ever done. Actually, come to that, hardest sporting events of any sort I have ever done. Part of this is physical, with very long days out on the bike. Part of this is skills based, as sometimes the stages are as hard as world cup DH stages, but four times as long. Part of this is mental, as the whole scene is very amped up and can be stressful. So, it’s important to keep all that perspective. You will be racing against women/men who have done 7-8 of these races every year for the past three years, and some of them raced world cup DH for 10 years before that — these people will make things that are hard for you look easy. But they didn’t get to where they are overnight. Just by showing up and giving it a go, you are doing awesome. We all have to start somewhere.

Ultimately, what I tried to tell Yasmine is a lesson I wish I had learned way earlier than I did: these races are a very different experience to pretty much any other bike race, and your first attempt is not a measure of what you are capable of — it is simply a starting point. And an incredible experience racing your bike on some of the world’s best trails. So enjoy it. And remember that you’re lucky to be there.

Complicated Holes: Racing EWS #2 in Bariloche, Argentina

Posted on April 7, 2016 by Syd Schulz

“And there are going to be holes, which may be complicated for some.”

This was race promotor Matias’ rather understated assessment of the trail conditions in Bariloche the night before EWS Round #2 kicked off. What Matias called complicated, I was more prone to label terrifying. To be honest, I was pretty freaked out going into this race, although it’s difficult to explain why. These trails defied classification — there was nothing truly technical about them. At least, there were no technical features, no drops, no jumps, no particularly nasty corners. There were just, well, holes. And ruts. And sand. Complicated holes and ruts, filled with sand. You get the picture. It wasn’t that there was any one thing that I was worried about — it just seemed like a massive crash could occur at well, any moment, you know, when you and your bike were swallowed by a particularly complex crevasse.

And let’s just say that my practice days had been somewhat sub par, with a few crashes that left me with bruised legs, bruised confidence and a general sense of impending doom. Okay, that might be a little bit dramatic but when I woke up Saturday morning I was not excited. In fact, I was pretty much dreading the whole weekend and if someone had given me an option of fast-forwarding my life for the next 48 hours, I probably would have gone for it.

Here’s the thing, though.

It was fine. I was fine. Like, totally fine. I even had fun, kind of, in a “fun-in-retrospect” sort of way. Here are a few highlights (because a blow by blow of this race would be like “started stage one, almost fell in a sandpit, narrowly avoided sandpit but then there was another one” on and on for six stages.)

1. For the first time ever in an EWS, people were getting in my way, instead of the other way around. This sounds bad, but this was exciting to me and I reveled in it. For like, half a stage, and then the novelty began to wear off, because I passed a minimum of three women on every stage (and on the third and longest stage, that number was more like seven or eight). But it certainly kept things entertaining and I really wish I had had a helmet cam running, because I have never encountered such chaos in race stages — people running, people crashing, people crashing while running, etc. It was a glorious, ridiculous cluster fuck and I loved it. I’m also just stoked to see so many women racing in Argentina — and not just racing, but really putting themselves out there and pushing their limits. I think some of the faster pro women were getting frustrated with the traffic jams, but I couldn’t help but find it kind of awesome. A lot of these women were, quite honestly, in over their heads, but they did it anyway, and I have massive respect for that. Plus, I’m hardly one to judge as I’ve done quite a few races that were leagues over my head and I’m better for it. (Like this one, and this one, and this one.)

2. I got really good at what my race buddy Kim termed “out-riggering,” i.e riding down a sandy rut at high(ish) speeds with one leg extended, a la an outrigger canoe. This technique bears a strong resemblance to “flailing” or “being totally out of control” but we all decided that out-riggering was a cooler name, and it was a totally necessary technique for the steep, loose and narrow ruts. I also learned that while one can maintain some decent velocity with one foot out, things deteriorate rapidly should one come detached with both feet.

3. I rode all of the things that freaked me out in practice with no problem whatsoever. Even one particularly complicated hole that I had decided to forego — in the moment, I just rode it anyway, which was a pretty major mental breakthrough, and also indicative of the fact that I was totally over thinking the piss out of this race.

4. While I had quite a few minor crashes (it was fairly inevitable in this race), I managed to avoid any time consuming trips into the bushes like last week’s face plant detour in Corral. My worst mishap was getting tangled in the course tape while trying to get out of Casey Brown’s way on Stage Three. Casey went on to finish 2nd so I don’t feel too bad about the fact that she went hurling past me at light speed on about half of the stages. (She was also super nice about it and skilled enough to take some fairly creative lines so that I didn’t even have to slow down. So major props to Casey.)

5. I was feeling some serious full-body fatigue by the end of Day 2, but still managed to put down some decent (or at least, consistent) times and avoid serious injury so I’m pleased with that. I’m realizing more and more that “keeping your shit together while exhausted” is pretty much the backbone of enduro, and definitely something I’m improving on with every race. In fact, my second day was definitely my better day relative to others, so I’m stoked to see the fitness work I’ve been doing with Matheny Endurance making such a difference. That said, my arms felt like they were one step away from rigor mortis by stage six. I knew I should be getting into a more aggressive position and being more fluid, but I couldn’t do it. I had to constantly remind myself to relax, and stop being so stiff, just to make it around the next corner. In sum, this weekend was HARD and once again, in a completely different way than Corral or any other EWS I’ve done.

6. I finished in 18th place, my second top-20 in two weeks. Sneaking into the top twenty at an EWS was a goal of mine for the year, so doing it twice early in the year is an awesome feeling. A part of me is tempted to devalue this and say that the level of these races was lower than some of the other EWS races I’ve done, but I’m trying to squash that and just be stoked on the accomplishment. Because honestly it doesn’t really matter — I set a goal and I achieved it. Maybe next time I’ll aim higher. I’m relatively pleased with how I rode these two weekends, but I definitely made some tactical errors, had some crashes and wasn’t always totally focused, so there’s room for improvement. I’m excited to get back to working on my cornering (which was maybe not at its best this weekend) and building some more strength in the gym and on the bike, now that we’re back in the US and have a few weeks of *relative* calm.

All-in-all, another challenging, frustrating, enlightening, empowering EWS weekend down.

Crashing and Completos at EWS #1 in Corral, Chile

Posted on March 29, 2016 by Syd Schulz

This past week was not what I was expecting. EWS races usually aren’t, but I do admit I sort of thought I had an idea of what I was getting into this year. Wrong again, oh well. This time, instead of being shocked by the sheer treachery of the tracks (they were actually pretty manageable), I was absolutely blindsided by the amount of climbing required to pre-ride for two days and then race. Four LONG days, 24 hours total, 200km, 125 miles and 20,000 feet of climbing. Guys, my ass still hurts and it’s Tuesday.

Going into the race Saturday exhausted was not really part of my game plan. I wanted to see how I could do with fresh legs. I wanted to race, not just cling on to my bars with jello arms and hope I didn’t get bucked. But this is why game plans are stupid for enduro, because they always get derailed. Everyone was tired, and that’s part of it. But I admit I was kind of hoping it would be, I don’t know, a bit more fun and a little less painful. That said, I’m fairly pleased with how I raced. I didn’t feel like I was getting massively psyched out at any point, and I only crashed once. I made some tactical errors and took some god-awful lines, so I’m pretty happy with a 19th place result (which is my best EWS result ever, so that’s good).

But my one crash made me look like this….

Unfortunately my one and only crash was kind of a doozy that sent me flying onto my head and then pinwheeling into the bushes, where I spent about 50 seconds to a minute (according to my Garmin) flailing upside down until the spectators fished me out (and retrieved my bike which had ended up about 15 feet farther into the bushes). I spent the next transition picking dirt out of my nose and ears and exfoliating my butt with all the sand that ended up in my chamois (I do NOT recommend this). Somehow though, I was completely fine, minus the fact that my heart rate monitor tried to impale me. Really thankful for all my POC gear for keeping my head and knees intact. In fact, I barely even have any bruises and I didn’t even break or lose my phone despite being a dummy and leaving it in the outside pocket of my backpack. Mainly I wasted a lot of time, which was a bummer, but life goes on.

Contemplating my wound

And really the best part of this race was not so much the race, but the whole experience of being on a bike in this part of the world, which is, of course, precisely why I keep doing these races even when they break me emotionally and physically. This weekend, we rode past bulls pulling logs out of the woods, took a water taxi across the bay to get to the start and finished each practice day with a traditional “completo chileno,” basically a hot dog smothered in chopped up tomatoes, avocado, mayo and spicy aji. I signed autographs for a horde of small boys who were lining the street and collecting signatures in their school notepads. One of them was like, “did you really come from so far away just to ride through our pueblito?” and I was like “yeah, I guess I did” and to be honest, it’s the most compelling reason I’ve come up with so far for why I keep showing up to these races and getting the snot kicked out of me, over and over again. Seeing the world from a bike is just, plain and simple, a better way of seeing.

Loading bikes on to the water taxi after the end of a long day.

Completo!

So now, on to Bariloche where thankfully we get to ride a chairlift, at least for practice. And this time I have no game plan, other than “no more falling on my head.”