June 26th-27th, 2004 by Phil Esempio
The 2004 24 Hours of Snowshoe had it all for me this year: excitement, pain, camaraderie, and, in the end, controversy. Simply put, this was the best endurance event I have participated in since I started racing off-road in 1997.
This year, I was racing in a Clydesdale team based near Pittsburgh, DJB. The core of the team, captain Ken Bach and co-captain Pat Meyers, were returning to the race after a one-year hiatus; the other member, Ron Kean, had participated with another team in 2003, as had I. The Clydesdale category requires either that all team members are over 200 lbs., or that the combined weight of the 4 team members exceeds 830 lbs. With Ron being just under 200 at weigh in, we squeaked by with a combined weight of 851 lbs. We didn't expect to win the division - the top 2 teams were seasoned veterans of this race, and one of them was stocked full of riders 6-foot-5-inches and taller. But, sizing up the competition, we felt a podium was well within reach. Never a truer statement was made...as we would soon discover.
I've described the course in last year's report, and this year the course was identical, with the exception that the extended prologue loop, used only for the first lap competitors, was removed due to wind damage and blowdowns. But other than that, it was the same 7.5-mile long course as last year—3 major technical sections broken up by 2 major climbs and 2 tricky downhill segments. The last part of the second climb, known as the Highwall, had an average grade of 23 percent—difficult even under perfect trail conditions, and downright impossible given the rock-strewn nature of the trail at that point. Pre-riding the course on Friday afternoon, it looked to be in good shape; and then, around 4 PM, the rain started. It rained steadily until almost 10, and despite forecasts to the contrary, the sun didn't break through the clouds until after the actual start of the race at noon the next day. The end result was the same as the NORBA Nationals course two weeks prior: a hard packed course covered in an inch or more of greasy mud.
The start, in fact, was worse than even last year. Even with the first-lap prologue reduced, the first riders were coming in soaked, muddied, and minus their number plates. Unlike the NORBA folks, who last year switched to plastic number plates, the promoter, Laird Knight, was still using paper number plates for the bike. Soon, volunteers were handwriting new ones for riders as they came in, even telling them to pin the handlebar number to their chest if need be. There were also paper numbers affixed to everyone's back; or at least there should have been. This, you will see, turns out to be a crucial point later in the story.
After the first round of laps, we were about where we expected to be: well behind the two top teams, but in a virtual dead heat with Noticeably F.A.T., a veteran team out of North Carolina. We were only 3 minutes behind going into the second round of riders, and as the first night laps started around 9 PM, we had edged to a 2-minute lead. We knew, however, that during the dark hours of a West Virginia night, strange things were bound to happen.
On my first night-lap, I managed to transform a 2-minute lead that Pat had given me into a seven-minute deficit, primarily by missing the baton handoff by 4 minutes. I had miscalculated when I thought Pat was coming in, and when I got to the timing tent, the baton was waiting on me. I took off looking for time in the fading light, as our rival team's rider had left two minutes before I did. I did well in the first technical section, hammered the long Cub Run Climb, and headed towards my comfort zone—the treacherous Powerline downhill.
Last year, I had cleaned this technical, boulder-strewn piece of singletrack on every lap, including my one night lap. And I had repeated the feat on my first lap in the late afternoon, so I headed into it very confident. But I was in for a brutal surprise.
On the short chute of singletrack before the actual downhill, my bike kicked out from under me unexpectedly when I leaned into a corner, dumping me unceremoniously on my hip. This surprised me, as during the day this segment had been bone dry and was easily taken at high speed. But landing on the ground, I found myself lying in fresh mud, surprising since it hadn't rained since the prior night. But I got up, remounted my bike, and charged towards the Powerline only to find a small river running down it!
Later, we would find out that one of the drain tubes from the bike wash area had been diverted by parties unknown (I heard several theories, but none actually confirmed) directly onto the Powerline downhill. What had once been a challenging downhill became downright treacherous and unpredictable, especially given that the change had taken place after sunset. I had no time to think about it: I charged into it headlong, dodging around two riders who had panic stopped in the middle of it. The second dodge took me to the right hand side of the trail, just as I heard spectators screaming, "GO LEFT!! GO LEFT!!" Even so, I thought I had it nailed, until at the bottom of a steep transition, my front wheel sucked down into 6 inches of mud, launching me over the bars in a classic somersaulting endo. I heard the crowd scream with delight as I took flight, yet somehow managed to land on my feet running in the wet grass. I gave my admirers a thankful bow, then retrieved my bike and headed off into the second technical section. But the damage was done at this point.
Yet the brutal night also savaged our competitors. Two laps later we were sitting on a 10-minute lead, apparently the result of a busted shock on one of their bikes. As I waited for Pat to come in from his first full night lap (his first had been at sunset), I spoke with one of our rivals. He gave me the sob story on the broken bike, and how one of his teammates was done for, and how they had no spare bikes, etc., etc., ad nauseam. He concluded by conceding third place to us, telling me that they would be lucky to stay ahead of the 5th place team, which was 2 laps back at this time, and falling apart badly. Ron was there to see me off and help with the changeover, and both of us encouraged him, saying that there was no reason to quit yet, that they could probably work out a schedule with 3 bikes and 4 riders that would keep them going. I left the timing tent with a 5-minute lead and doubts about his story; those doubts were fully confirmed when I returned with a bare 56-second lead. On my way back to the campsite, I was approached by competitors from several other teams, congratulating us, saying that they too had heard the story about the broken bike and hurt rider. Someone was spreading propaganda in a big way, and after a brief discussion in our pit, we decided to ignore it and keep pushing on. The course was drying up rapidly; the afternoon sun had helped, and clear skies meant a morning sun would make the course drier and faster with each passing hour.
At first, there seemed some truth to what they said; by 7:30 in the morning, we had amassed a 20-minute lead over them, despite turning some slower laps. Then, all at once, in two laps, they took all but 36 seconds of this lead away, including an amazing 10 minutes in one lap against Ron, our fastest rider. And it is here, that the controversy started.
We knew that Ken would have the last lap, starting at around 11:30 or so. Ron was out on the course, having left with an 11-minute lead, but we knew by now that that might not be enough. Therefore, Pat went to the timing tent with Ken, and I stationed myself with a spare bike at the halfway point where the course passed by the pits again, the only legal place to perform repairs or replacements on the course. In the timing tent, there were two riders from F.A.T. waiting for the baton. Their captain, Chris, who Ken had repeatedly been bettering each lap, said he was going out next, and another rider, Don, was there to help him out. Ken told Chris that Pat was there doing the same thing for him, and might ride along with him in the event of a mechanical mishap (also legal). Ron came in for us first; Ken took the baton and flew out onto the course, Pat riding behind him. 36 seconds later, their rider Tim came in, having clocked a very fast lap, having single-handedly carved 10 minutes off the lead. But, instead of Chris scanning in for them, Don did, and Chris walked over to the halfway point where I was stationed. Unaware of what had happened in the timing tent, I was chatting amiably with him, discussing the possibilities, and I commented on the little propaganda game they had played with us during the middle of the night.
Rather than denying it, as I had expected, he actually bragged how they had done something like this two years ago to beat another team! I refrained from comment, deciding that I would let the results speak for themselves. Ken's strategy was to ride fast, but not kill himself, until their rider caught him, then follow his wheel to the finish, and beat him on the final technical section, where Ken was at his best.
As we waited at the halfway point, I watched for either our rider, or theirs, to come up the hill first. Suddenly, Chris started yelling and pointing at a rider coming up the hill. But, this rider had no number plate, nor any number pinned to his back. I turned to Chris, and asked, "Is that your guy?" He said that, yes, it was. I asked where his numbers were, and he shrugged it off. 4 minutes later, Ken came up the hill. I started screaming at him, telling him that they were ahead. He yelled back, no, that it was a decoy until he saw Chris standing next to me. I saw him give it all he had at once, and by the top of the next climb, he had shaved off a minute of the lead, but that was all he had. He had been tricked into letting Don go past him.
Later, as we waited in the timing tent for them to come in, I asked Chris where Don's numbers were again. He said he must have fallen and lost them, as others had earlier. I said nothing else, but found this hard to believe that someone could fall enough to lose not one but both numbers, and still pick up 5 minutes on a rider who didn't fall at all. When Ken came in, he shook their hands, but also told them in no uncertain terms what he thought of their tactics. Later, he would admit it was partly out of frustration at himself, but he had a point—if you have to use deception to beat someone in a competition which depends a great deal on the honor system (there's no way to monitor 7 and a half miles of backwoods trail for rules violations), then how much of a victory is it?
And despite being disgusted with our rivals, we all agreed afterwards that despite the end result, it was for each and every one of us the best race we'd ever done. Just being in the hunt for a podium position had kept us motivated and working together as a team, and that was reward enough in itself. Also, Laird announced after the race was over that this was the last race for Snowshoe; next year's race would be held at a new venue. There is currently much speculation that the race will return to the Canaan Valley, near Davis, WV, where 24-hour racing originated 12 years ago, but Laird would not confirm this.
And next year (or perhaps later this year, should Noticeably F.A.T. appear at Seven Springs in September), we will show them that competing in an unsportsmanlike manner will get them nowhere against us a second time.