In January, Kate and I took a little ski holiday up to Lutsen Mountains. I hadn't skied Lutsen in quite some time, so it was nice to get into some larger terrain, and it's a good intermediate step between Welch Village and the Rockies for those in our party who are still gaining expertise.
Anyways, when we were having coffee at the excellent Moondance coffeehouse, right off Highway 61, we couldn't help but note the large wall plastered with photos from a mountain bike race held every summer known as the Lutsen 99er. As you may imagine, this involves racing 99 miles up and around the Sawtooth Mountains. Being in the general spirit of newness that always accompanies a new year, I declared my intention to complete the race, thinking "well, it can't be that hard," and that it would be good prep for the Great Divide.
I did do some due diligence. I asked my brother-in-law, who works for Erik's Bike, and another relative who is way into mountain bike racing, their thoughts on the race, and if my rigid Salsa Fargo Ti would be an appropriate steed. In both cases, I was told, more or less: "Oh yeah, you can do it, no problem. That Fargo is a great bike for this race!" I think we all shared the impression that the race was primarily on unmaintained gravel and forest service roads - nothing to sniff it, but also not super technical.
I was relieved to hear this. People get oddly emotional about bikes, and oddly attached. Once you come up with a name for your bike, you know you've reached a good place. The past year, I've done most of my riding on my All-City, which is a fantastic all around bike that I have dubbed the "Duke of Orange" (pronounced "orahngshe"). After I purchased a fatbike this winter, I went to town riding that thing out and about. Right now, I have it named "Fatty!" - with the explanation mark.
Left behind in the shuffle has been my Fargo. Objectively, it's the nicest bike I own, and when I would tell other bike people that I own a titanium mountain bike, their eyes would widen with jealousy. But for whatever reason, neither that beautiful silvery sheen, nor the fact that I specifically purchased it for the grand adventure that I am always dreaming of, has led to the type of love I thought would have surely developed by now. It didn't have a name. Something had to spice things up. So to try and help our relationship, I decided I would ride it in the Lutsen 99er.
So in the meantime, I did a couple century rides, did the Almanzo 100, went down in the river bottoms and screwed around, yada, yada, yada. To be clear, I am not a good mountain biker. I don't know how to navigate rocks or other obstacles, and actively stop to walk over them most of the time. I just don't have the confidence. While I wasn't so naive to think that I wouldn't encounter some bumps on the 99er, I had no expectation of long stretches of singletrack. While I wouldn't say that I DIDN'T ride, I wouldn't say that I trained either. But I figured, "It can't be that hard - I'll just take my time."
The Race
The Friday before the race, we took a leisurely drive up to Lutsen, stopping at one of our favourite northern Minnesota breweries, the fabulous Castle Danger Brewing in Two Harbors.
Once we finally arrived, there was a great atmosphere at the Lutsen base village where I went to pick up my race materials. Lots of people on mountain bikes, lots of cheerful looking cyclists drinking beer, lots of northwoods vibe. Such was the feel-goodedness that Kate expressed on numerous occasion how sad she was that she was not doing the ride. "Next year," I replied.
 |
| Oddly cheery at the start. |
 |
| I did not lack for blind confidence. |
The first ten or so miles were on pavement, and went easily enough. I was feeling strong, the weather was beautiful, and I snickered to myself as the more efficient Fargo sped up climbs past the MTBers on their inefficient full suspensions.
And then, the pavement ended. And the semi-maintained forest service road I had expected did not appear.
Instead, I found myself riding over what I would best describe as a scree field - the unfortunate summertime underpinning of all those delightful northern Minnesota winter ski and snowmobile trails. The type of trail that I would never ride recreationally, for fear of not being able to navigate. For those of you unfamiliar with bicycle suspensions, the purpose is generally twofold. First, the suspension helps keep the tires on the ground, which of course increases stability, efficiency, and performance. Second, it improves rider comfort by damping the impact of going over so many bumps, thus saving the rider from any number of ailments in his/her hands, arms, back, legs, etc.
I was devoid of any of these benefits. While punctuated by brief respites on gravel roads, the next 50 or so miles consisted of myself and my bike flinging ourselves headlong down narrow, winding singletrack covered with rocks the same way barnacles might cover a pier. I can honestly say I was terrified. When I did have a few merciful miles of gravel, I simultaneously contemplated the sorry state of my existence, while dreading the pink arrow directing me back into the woods. Physically, I was exhausted, not so much from the pedaling, but from the brutal bounce of my bike over the terrain, which jackhammered from my wrists through my entire body. Mentally, I was beyond fatigued from trying to read the lines in the trail, to best navigate the obstacles without hurtling myself over the handlebars. Emotionally, well, let's just say I regularly shouted out strings of expletives cursing those who I deemed had wronged me, or led me through 99 miles of apocalyptic hellscape on such an ill-equipped bike. Spiritually, I questioned why the good Lord would let His children suffer in such a fashion.
At mile 60, I stumbled into a rest stop in what I think is the worst condition I can ever remember being in - some sadistic combination of what felt like the worst hangover I've ever had and a full body ache that was akin to a constant electric current. I have little doubt that if I had been given the opportunity, I would have quit then and there. That option not being available, I sat in a heap, forcing stale PB&Js down my throat while desperately trying to glug as much gatorade as I could. Slowly, painfully, I straddled my bike and pressed on.
 |
| Blessed gravel section |
At this point, I resolved that I would not quit either. I would finish the race. Whether it was some misguided sense of pride, or the promise of free Fulton beer at the finish, or some sort of cosmic "fuck you," I pressed on. It wasn't easy, as I dealt with at least 10 more miles of singletrack, an extreme bonk around mile 90, and a grueling 250 foot climb to the finish line. But, nearly 10 hours after I had departed, I finished.
 |
| Yay. |
 |
| Dirt Tan |
The Aftermath
It turns out I unwittingly turned myself into something of a folk legend - at Voyageur Brewing in Grand Marais post-race, I actually overheard a table of racers talking about that guy that was doing the 99er on a rigid Salsa Fargo, and what a BAMF he was. Also, about how much he must be hurting. I coolly acknowledged to them that I was, in fact, the rider in question, and yes, I was in fact hurting.
It is true that I was unprepared. It is true that my Fargo was not the ideal bike for me to ride. But like I alluded to, despite the adversity, both myself and the bike pulled through. We held it together. While I was trying desperately to navigate in and around the rocks on the trail, I was reminded of that scene in The Empire Strikes Back, where Han Solo pilots the Millennium Falcon through the asteroid field outside of Hoth, trying to evade the Imperial Fleet:
I won't claim to be as good a pilot as Han Solo, but at long last, I came up with a name for my Fargo.
The Titanium Falcon.
 |
| On to the next. |
