Leadville 2009: The One That Got Away
I’m just making final preparations to cancel all my reservations for Leadville 2009. This is that story. It’s not pretty, it’s a bit heartfelt and it reminds me of why I do this.
Gotta start back a year ago. Eight of them under my belt, now eight of those belt-buckles in my drawer and eight hooded sweatshirts in the closet. Why do another? Japhy keeps reminding me of other races, but I keep coming back. Something in that thin air, something in that shotgun blast in the morning to get your blood moving and something in the view from the top of Columbine (even if only enjoyed for seconds) keeps me coming back. Those guys out in front are racing. The rest of us are proving something to ourselves.
I made a commitment one year ago that I would work harder get strong and come back for a personal best this year, maybe even go under 9 hours and snag that BIG buckle. Went whole-hog on that, got a powertap to meter my leg strength while riding or as Wolfy liked to say, “get my geek on while riding.” Hired a coach, turns out he’s one of pyroflotic’s best friends, from back in the Flagstaff days. Rode every damn day I possibly could all year long. I know this much: I am stronger than I was a year ago, I am putting out more power, for longer, than probably ever in my life and powers beyond my control have conspired, not to rob me of anything, but to remind me of many things.
The short order of the events is that Mary and I left Reno Tuesday. She hadn’t been feeling great, but had gone to the doc Monday and given some drugs and we figured all would be fine. Got out to Great Basin Nat’l Park that afternoon and set up camp. Nice evening really warm for the fact that’s at 10,000’ and I was able to enjoy just sitting with nothing warmer on than shorts and a sweatshirt, even long after the sun had gone down. Middle of the night Mary’s getting bad, I’m up and down with her, trying to get her some comfort and rest. Not happening. I’m up early when the sun’s up and when she tells me (she’s not a morning person) to pack up asap and get out of there, I know something’s wrong and I do. We get down lower and hope that part of this was the altitude. Not really. We talk about options for medical treatment. Probably some kind of hospital in Ely, an hour. Salt Lake would be better, maybe 4 hours. She’s sitting up, in pain but ok so we decide that it’s best to go where we know the people, the doctors know her and make the decision to run for Reno, 7 hours. What follows was 7 hours I do not want to relive, ever. I watched, driving as fast as I dared, as she progressively got worse over the course of that drive. I will spare you the details of it, but suffice to say watching a person you love dearly go from sitting up and talking to curled up a fetal position, clearly in a lot of pain as you drive is not something to look forward to.
Got back; got into the clinic and treatments determined and started. Concerns over whether or not to hospitalize and what steps I was to take if A, B or C happened. What followed was another really rough night of constantly getting up, getting drugs, worrying, guessing what’s best and occasionally getting some rest.
I think she’s well past the danger, but not ready for me to leave her to try this endeavor. I’m needed here. What brings me back is thinking, What if? What if she had thought I really wanted to race this and we should just push on? What if I’d insisted that she’ll be ok and that she was just at the doctors and …? I knew deep down when we were making that decision of what to do and she said “take me home” that she knew what that race meant to me, she knew how hard I had worked and she knew how disappointed I would be not to race so things were bad or worse than she told me.
So I’m reminded of how truly lucky I am. How close I came to making a really bad decision that might have seriously endangered my wife’s health and reminded of how great it is to have that person close by, the healing power of touch and a caring person by your bedside, even when you’re asleep and knowing someone will be there when you wake up. For all it’s magic, modern medicine hasn’t put that in bottle, and I hope it never does. I’m reminded of all the great friends who offered to help in the last two days. Of all the people who tried to make it possible for me to still make it there and of the real importance of those people.
So while I may get choked up over missing out on this race, I refuse to shed tears for it. The tears I will shed will be for her. Maybe in 2039 I will find a dusty belt buckle in my storage and I will wonder if it was from 2008 or maybe 2009? Will it matter then? No, and it won’t matter now. But just wait. I’ll be there next year, even stronger. I hope some of you dirtbags will finally be there with me.
Now go hug someone you love. And tell them that.
I am really glad you posted this lowco2!Anything any of us can do let us know. The Wild Island private copter is already awaiting the call for next year and I think you will be accompanied by some of your dirtbag friends next year after reading that.
family is first, though bikes and riding them are a close second. sure hope everythings OK and that the LT100 folks give you a rain check for 2010. if not, there’s always the Vapor Trail 125!