Leadville 100 MTB 2024: I Won't Quit

The Eleventh Hour

It's a month since the race, and I still can't figure out exactly how I mislabeled the mileage for the final 6:20 pm cut-off for Carter Summit. But I know I labeled it wrong, compounding inaccurate online split markers with a dose of late-night dyslexia and failure to reference the athlete guide one last time.

And so I found myself grinding up the pavement on Turquoise Lake Road at mile 91, doing math and waffling between accepting my fate of another depressing shuttle ride back to town and thinking, "Just keep pedaling."

I wanted to pick up the pace, but my heart and legs were one hard push away from going on strike. My bladder was sending me what I knew to be false alarms, colluding with my sore ass to convince me to step off the bike for just a few seconds; look at all those bushes! I ignored them.

My Wahoo kept beeping out its rigid expectations of my eating and drinking schedule. I rode the fine line of following the orders while not upsetting the delicately balanced carb cart that was my gut.

I slowly passed a few folks in even rougher shape than I. There were no words, just projected thoughts and feelings: "You've got this, we've come so far, the downhill must be soon," and so on. No one in this group had been racing anyone except their minds for quite a while now.

The final checkpoint, the cut-off between us and the finish line, was fast approaching. It was 6:10 pm, and the pavement seemed only to go up. If the paper I taped to my top tube was correct, I'd have to ride six miles in 10 minutes to make the 6:20 cut-off. No way that was right. Or was it? How did I get it that wrong? How did I blow my expected pace so miserably in the end? Wait, there's no way Carter is only six miles from the finish. This makes no sense. Shut up and pedal.

Journey to the Start

At this point, I'd been riding for over 11 hours and been awake for 18. Race day began at 3:30 am. Despite the smoothness of the week leading into it, I still worked on splits and crew sheets too late into the previous evening, resulting in only 4.5 hours of sleep. I can never sleep before races, so I might as well accomplish something.

Leadville groups its racers into ten starting corrals. The pro men start at 6:15 am, the pro women at 6:20, and the rest of the pack inch-worms across the starting line until 6:50. I was in White, the third corral from the back, starting at 6:45. I was happy with this position and looked forward to a solid climbing effort on the first climb, known as St. Kevin's.

I stood alone in the sea of riders. Some had a crew with them at the start, but it was a risky move. Getting to the aid station at Twin Lakes was my crew's top priority, and I knew the lead-up to the start would just be porta-potty visits for me. The new shuttle system had many folks nervous, but I wasn't too worried—they had over four hours after dropping me off to get into position.

I heard my name and looked around. There's my crew! They did the math, too. There's plenty of time, so why not come see me off? Seeing them brought a huge smile to my face, and I'm so glad they both got to witness the epic mayhem that is a Leadville 100 starting line.

My crew this year was light…or was it? The core group was only two—my twin sister, Becky, and my good friend, Ed Rader. Ed ran logistics during last year's race, and his memory is unrivaled. So, having him and his experience back on the team was a great advantage. My sister may have never been to a bike race before, let alone crewed for one of the most hectic in the country, but she was all in on keeping me fed, hydrated, relaxed, and focused during the week leading up to and on race day. They were both superstars; I couldn't have asked for more.

I had another cheering section planned for the mile 78 aid station. Should they arrive as planned, they would have hand-off and drop bag duties. They ended up being the perfect supplemental crew, but we'll get to that a bit later.

Back at the start line, I'd been waving and smiling at Ed and Becky, wishing I could chat with them, but I was simply glad to see them. Suddenly, I had a real job for them. I waved Ed over. He looked slightly confused but waded into the crowd of riders. "Hold my bike—and my spot—please. I have to use the porta-potty again."

Race nerves cause all kinds of physiological effects, and this particular effect was pretty typical. The gun had already gone off, and here I was in line at the closest blue throne I could find, dancing in place and discussing drop-bib shorts with the dude in front of me.

The corrals were now slinking toward the start. I honestly couldn't believe this was happening! I finally had my turn, exited the honeypot, and looked around for Ed. He was almost directly in front of me, the only person without a helmet and still wearing a bright red, puffy jacket. What a lifesaver! He handed off the bike and exited the herd.

We were off…almost. I still had time to fiddle with my Wahoo bike computer. It seemed to be having trouble picking up the power meter, so I tried syncing a few more times without any luck. As we rolled toward the start, I began to accept that I'd be racing without a power meter. The thought was surprisingly freeing, and I didn't let it bother me.

As my corral finally crossed the start line, I could feel our collective nerves drop away. We're all just riding bikes on a beautiful alpine morning. The fleet of freehubs and mountain bike tires created a mesmerizing symphony of zoom as we flew down 6th Avenue.

Disco?

This year, I decided not to carry on conversations while riding. It takes too much breath. As we ascended the first climb, the group packed and trail-wide; there was quite a lot of chatting. Folks were checking on friends they started with, vocalizing their passes, and warning about the Dream Chaser coming through. I zipped my lips except to exhale fully. My power meter was working now, and I was hitting my target–until I wasn't. Inevitably, the walking had begun, and I decided it was safer to exit the pedals than trackstand going up a rocky hill.

After that climb, we flew down almost three miles of pavement. I had a blast, shaving off a minute from last year's descent. It didn't buy me much time, but it was so much fun!

Climbing back up to our next peak at 11,220 feet is where I got my first taste of the day's altitude. I'd been up at this elevation plenty during my pre-rides, but on race day, I began to notice disco-colored wavy lines forming in my peripheral vision. They grew more noticeable, and I realized this must be the entry to the hypoxic tunnel I'd heard so much about. I had to slow down. The waffle I was eating was so dry and unpalatable that I knew that it was the first and last one of the day. I began focusing on inhaling through my nose and fully exhaling through my mouth. I had twenty minutes to get this under control before I was at the top of the world-class Powerline descent.

The deep breathing worked, and I was back to feeling great. I rode the descent in almost the same time as last year. I felt faster but simultaneously more cautious. The trail was covered with logging debris, and the now visible steep, rutted drops were even more exposed. I had also recently listened to the incredible story of Jeff Waldmuller, the challenged athlete who broke his collarbone on this very descent last year but kept riding. This was not the place to make up time.

Into the Sky

I made the first time cut-off at mile 40 with time to spare. This was also my first stop of the day. I was behind my pacing schedule, but I felt solid. Becky went down the list, asking me what I needed and giving me the must-haves. More gels, water, drink mix, and two Ibuprofen (don't worry, they were the only two of the day). Ed tended to my chain, cleaning dust and topping off the lube. I let out a string of pleases and thank you's to cover all the demands tumbling out of my mouth. I don't know how long I was there, but it felt like lightning.

I now faced the infamous Columbine climb: seven miles, 3,000 feet of elevation gain, topping out at 12,500 feet above sea level. This is where I fell apart last year, where my brain slowed to a crawl, and my legs followed. Unlike Keegan Swenson, who did laps on this section earlier in the week, I had no interest in pre-riding it. I knew what was coming.

My pace had slowed, but not by much. I climbed the road without issue, keeping up on hydration and gels. When I got to the rocky, steep section known as the goat trail, I resigned to walking. I rode whatever section seemed worth the energy expenditure. I was in good company; we were all walking at this point. Looking up, I could see the trail stretch on for what seemed like forever. I somehow kept my wits about me; the altitude never got into my head, but I was losing serious physical power as we crept up over 12,000 feet.

The turnaround was glorious. I'd watched so many people zooming downhill as we climbed, and now it was my turn! The neutral aid crew was on top of their game, and I handed off bottles with some requests, and as I circled back around, they handed them back. Perfect.

My descent down the goat trail was flawless. I picked off a few riders. I knew speed was my friend here; letting my lightweight Maxxis Aspens roll was much better than asking them to stop. Still, my new brakes were earning their keep. I felt in complete control as we left that extremely high elevation behind.

Like last year, my descent down Columbine was a highlight, carrying so much speed, moving through the miles so quickly, and feeling the air come back into my lungs. I was on my way back to Twin Lakes, ahead of the 63-mile race cut-off point where I was pulled last year. I knew well before the turnaround that I was behind the pace for a 12-hour finish. But, if I could make all the cut-offs, I could still finish. And that was my only goal at this point, I was going to cross that finish line!

I Won't Quit

Speaking of last year, tradition had been that anyone who crossed the finish line received a finisher medal. To receive the famed belt buckle, riders must cross within 12 hours. Ride sub-9 and the buckle gets bigger. However, last year, folks who fished after the 12-hour cut-off did not receive a medal, and worse yet, they received a DNF (did not finish) on the scoring site!

As I watched my 12-hour time goal slip away, I knew there would be no buckle, no medal, and a dreaded DNF on Athlinks. I had already wrestled with this possibility during late nights in the van, eating too many Oreos and wasting precious breath on discussing it too much with my star virtual crew member, Bill. How can anyone handle crossing that line and being labeled as a non-finisher? I thought it would crush me.

But on race day, the answer is sweepingly obvious. I am going to finish. I'm going to ride until someone tells me I can't. When I cross that line, my friends and family will be there to greet me. I don't need anything else. There is no question. I won't quit.

Down low at 9,200 feet, I pedaled for my life to have a reasonable stop at the mile 63 aid station. Storms surrounded me, but I'd forgotten to write "hand off raincoat" on my crew sheet. So, the jacket was still at Twin Lakes with my twin. By the time I arrived, the rain was pelting, the wind was whipping, and Ed had to struggle to keep the tent in place. My sister had to help me get the rain jacket on, which seemed a must-do at the time. I crammed down some gels, electrolytes, and water, stuffed my pockets, and headed off.

My chain dropped 20 feet from the aid station and got stuck in my derailleur. I had to turn my bike upside down. Ed came running over, as did a woman from another crew. Between the three of us, we unstuck the chain, and I was off.

Crossing the Mile 63 timing mat was exhilarating. I made it this time! I was already far ahead of my performance last year, and now I had the rest of the race to look forward to.

A Boost Before the Beast

As I pedaled toward the next checkpoint in about 15 miles, I let my mind wander a bit to seeing my brother and my nieces and nephews at the new Outward Bound Aid station. I had left a bottle with some Scratch High Carb mix the last time I was at their house, and they had instructions to retrieve my drop bag from neutral aid when they arrived. This allowed them to become my second crew, but they didn't have to be at the aid station until the afternoon. And, since anything can happen with five kids driving down from Denver, having the drop bag with neutral aid meant I was covering all my bases.

I had about five minutes to spare as I rolled into Outward Bound. My family had located themselves right next to the timing mat. I stopped to soak in the cheers and get my bottle, and someone yelled: "Cross the mat first!" Better safe than sorry. Ed and Becky also had time to make it back from Twin Lakes via the shuttle, and they were there as well. It was a grand reunion! I shoved as many gels as possible in my pockets and sped away. I considered dropping off the rain jacket (the one I wore for a whole two miles), but there were too many storm clouds around me. I still had 27 miles to go. Anything can happen.

I turned onto the pavement and headed toward the Powerline climb. An officer waved me through traffic and wished me luck. I blurted out, "Thanks, I need it. I don't think I expected to be here!"

I opened one of the gels and sucked it down. It tasted a little odd. I looked at the wrapper. 100mg of caffeine! I drink decaf coffee and meter my caffeine intake in small doses during races. This was a huge amount at once for me. I spit what was left out onto the road. Well, I was either going to finish this race or crap my pants. Maybe both. But what's done is done. Surprisingly, I didn't feel jittery or ill as I had expected. I assume I got a boost, but it wasn't one I could feel. I was already in such a hole.

The climb up Powerline felt like a death march. Again, I was in good company. Some extremely fit-looking people joined me. Every time we hopped on and pedaled a few feet, we'd gingerly get back off at the next steep pitch. I realized I wasted more energy getting on and off and just walked. It was demoralizing, humbling, and seemingly endless. In my pre-rides, I'd ridden all of this section except the steepest first half mile. But during the race, I was 80 miles in and feeling every mile.

As soon as the buzzing beast was behind us, I found my legs again. I zoomed down Sugarloaf, navigating the potholes and baby heads. This was mountain biking! Spinning at top speed down Hagerman Pass road felt like I was clearing those last 85 miles from my legs, and they seemed to come back to life. By this point, I'd started to take note of the numbers and was starting to get confused about where the final 6:20 pm cut-off was. Turning onto the pavement, I enjoyed flying down another mile or so until the last big climb began. That's when my legs protested, "Tricked ya! We're still tired."

The Final Countdown

All I could do was pedal, eat, and drink. That sounds basic, but there was no strategy and no backup plan to fix the fact that my legs were ready to be done. My heart rate refused to budge above 153 bpm. It, too, was in revolt, giving me just barely enough to keep moving.

And so I find myself at mile 91. The fatigue and brain fog left me with only one solution: keep pedaling. Whatever happens, happens. I knew I'd given it my all. If I missed this checkpoint by 30-40 minutes, well then they should pull me. As I watched 6:20 come and go, I started feeling disappointment but not anger.

Until...what's that sound? Cowbells? Are those tents? Is this Carter? Did I miss a cut-off by a minute?! Now I'm pissed. A lady stands in the road. She pointed to her watch, looked me directly in the eye, and said something completely unexpected: "It's 6:22. Can you finish?"

Well, that's a silly question!

"YES!" I say back with as much strength as I can muster. I stand up, pedal past her, and turn onto the road. The volunteers start cheering and yelling at the top of their lungs. People are shoving cokes at me. Cowbells galore. I smile and keep pedaling. "THANK YOU!!" I speed up as if to ensure they knew this lady wouldn't let them down or end up on the side of the road, puking as the sun set, waiting for the sweep. I was going to finish.

After a few short climbs, I was back to descending good old St. Kevin's. It was one of the gnarlier descents, but I was here to ride. My only concern was ensuring I picked the right lines to avoid a flat. I passed so many people. I was having the time of my life–and then the chain dropped and got stuck–again! This was maybe the third or fourth time. I flipped the bike upside down, fixed it, and watched people zoom past. It happened again, and this last time, I treated it like a person and asked to please cooperate. It did, but the grand descents were over.

I enjoyed my spin out on the gravel road where Hazel and I had spent many nights. The sun was getting low, and the wind was picking up again. It was time to get home. But the last few miles of the course climb almost 500 feet. It's a long slog. The next storm was moving in. I passed some folks, and others passed me. I hadn't allowed myself to imagine the finish line until I was about to crest the hill and see the arch. Three or four men grouped behind me for the final descent. I knew their mass would speed them down the road faster than I. So, I stood up and surged just enough to gain some distance. I had no idea how many were behind me, but I did not want to be last.

There were still people on the sidelines cheering. Everyone picked up their performance as riders descended on this goal that had almost eluded us so many times that day. Crossing the line, I put one arm up in the air, which felt quite sketchy. All of a sudden, everyone was there! Ed, Becky, Matt, Nathan, Samatha, Angela, Ty, and even 4-year-old London. "Aunt Vicky won the race!" she said. I laughed…"Well, I won mine!"

While hugging everyone, my nephew Ty came up and handed me a medal! What?! I did not expect this. I was truly surprised. Then a Life Time employee gave me a rose. "What, a medal and a rose?!" I exclaimed. I made eye contact with the Life Time person: "This means a lot. Thank you guys." She nodded in agreement. My guess is they had quite the feedback after last year's decision to withhold finisher medals and times from people who FINISHED the race.

The First Finish

To paraphrase Ken Chlouber: "When you cross that finish line, you will never be the same." I agree with this–to a point. Crossing the finish line was the culmination of years of training, planning, and extremely hard work. I was already a different person, just rolling over the start line 12 hours and 51 minutes earlier. The race itself is this meteoric, metaphoric experience, but it doesn't happen in a vacuum, on one day, alone. It takes a dedicated crew, selfless support from family and friends, and a lot of commitment for months or years leading up to the event. This journey is what changes the racer, what changed me.

I have learned so much about myself, this race, and cycling. I can feel the training starting to make real changes in my riding. I want to go back and see what else Leadville can teach me. This year, I completed my original goal set over four years ago on that sad, lonely couch in front of YouTube: Finish the Leadville Trail 100 MTB race. Now it's time to see about this 12-hour buckle business.

Thank You.

It's hard to express my gratitude to everyone who helped me reach the finish line. From my selfless crew on the ground all week, Ed and Becky, to my brother's family on race day, I will never forget your generosity, support, and great photo coverage! One of my virtual support crew, Chrissy, helped me find a safe place for Hazel at Rob and Paige's during race day.

I am also lucky to have Jason Cyr, a national champion cyclist, as my coach and Blackwater Bikes, a legendary West Virginia local bike shop, as a sponsor.

The circle grows beyond these obvious helpers to all of my friends who have supported me with encouraging words or long gravel rides and understood my anti-social behavior as I ride, rest, and repeat in the spirit of training. I am eternally grateful for my dear Bill, who has become my rock and sounding board as I question everything from gear to motivation.

Finally, thank you, dear reader, for sticking with me to the end of this post and many others as I seek to find my voice in expressing the power of Leadville. I look forward to sharing more stories and lessons from the trail!

If you enjoyed this story and it made you go "hmmm," please forward it to a friend. For more frequent meanderings, follow me on X @vweeks and Instagram @victoria.weeks.