Sacred Heart, what a great day Sunday was! You’ll never know how deeply I appreciate your prayers and support. And you can only imagine how much I needed them! What a long day. So many of you have asked for details and about my experiences in the race, so I thought I would type up something to send out. If you’re up for a good read, here’s how things went for me (this won’t be short!!).

Saturday started early. I had finished much of my race prep on Friday, but I had some last minute things to take care of before the 8 a.m. mass. After mass, I met up with two members of what became a stellar support crew for the weekend. Mrs. Allie Jung and Ms. Emily Rubeling, great friends and both with our parish, signed up for the weekend and so after loading up their gear, we were off and running. 

We made it down to the Stokesville Campground outside of Mount Solon, Virginia, by about 1 p.m. Stokesville Campground organizes and hosts the race each year, and we arrived to find the place packed! Hundreds of riders and their crews and families were there already for the holiday weekend. We were lucky enough to find some space to camp right next to the rest of our little mountain biking family for the weekend. Nolan O’Donnell is a great friend and fellow rider from Catonsville. He’s been riding the SM 100 since he was 15 years old, and was joined this weekend by a wonderful cast of characters. His father, Sean, was with us for the weekend, and also his fiance, Anne Marie Hines. Nolan was also joined by two good friends from his time at  Mount St. Joseph’s High School, Adam Stein and Ian Schwing. Ian is a real talent on the bike. He rides for Mount St. Mary’s University up in Emmitsburg, and is really making a name for himself in national competitions. His father, Steve, was also with us for the weekend. Rounding out the crew was Ed Fisher, who works with Nolan at Catonsville Bikes and is himself a real machine on a bike, and my dear friend Deacon Robert Renner with the Diocese of Arlington.

Once we got ourselves settled in, we went out for a light ride to shake out the legs and get ready for the weekend. I was very glad to do it. The remnants of Hurricane Ida coming our way in the middle of the week had derailed my plans. As a result, I hadn’t spent any time on the bike since Monday. I had decided that, with the weather, the better course was to go for as much rest as possible leading into the race. So, getting out on the bike on Saturday felt great, and was reassuring. I felt good, and was able to put a plan together for Sunday.

When we were out in Colorado in August, I had stumbled on a riding technique that seemed to really help with long rides. Trying our best to cope with the altitude (we were riding out there at elevations over 12,000 feet!) I had discovered that by choosing a target heart rate and sticking to it on long climbs, I could easily manage my breathing and preserve my leg strength. When I ride, I use a wireless heart rate monitor that connects to a GPS device mounted to my handlebars. It’s easy enough to pick a heart rate and monitor my effort on a climb, so the only question was: what target heart rate would I choose for the race? Well, for whatever reason, 163 beats per minute felt pretty good to me on long climbs uphill at these lower East Coast altitudes. So, that was the plan: stick to 163 bpm for the first half of the race, and slowly lower the target heart race as the day wore on and the miles piled up.

The rest of Saturday was a blur! We finished our 15 mile ride, cleaned up, and ate as many carbohydrates as we could! There was a lot of corn. There was a lot of pasta. There was a lot of water. After a bit, we gathered together to celebrate mass. Some riders from a neighboring campsite saw that we were Roman Catholics praying a mass and came over to join us. This was all so beautiful. The Church is a life, and the Church was very much alive at the Shenandoah Mountain 100.

After mass, it was time for sleep . . .

Sunday

Well, not so much sleep, as it turned out. Some people had put up tents for themselves; others wandered into the trees and slung some hammocks. I had decided to throw down a sleeping pad on the grass and sleep under the stars. And stars there were! A gorgeous, clear night. But still I tossed and turned. Maybe because I was anxious for the race, maybe because I wasn’t tired enough for a good sleep. Maybe because sometime toward my planned 5 a.m. rising time I woke up to rain drops softly pelting me from above. When I finally willed myself up and out of my sleeping bag, I had a headache and wasn’t feeling very energized. Coffee and carbs didn’t help any. Neither did water. Ignoring the mild sense of dread, I put my gear on, got myself together, popped some Ibuprofen, and started some prayers.

The race was set to start at 6:30 a.m. Robby and I rolled up to our place in the line-up at about 6:25 and it seemed that we were only there a moment before the race began. Suddenly we were riding out at a steady pace, surrounded by hundreds of other cyclists, with barely enough sunlight to guide our way. The key was to stay in place, keep pace, and not try to move too much from side to side. Too many riders jockeying for a better position can risk crashes and injury. Robby and I opted to stay right where we had begun and keep our pace synced up to everyone around us.

Miles 1-12

These miles came quickly. I felt fresh, just like everyone else. As soon as the ride began, any thought of a headache or lack of energy disappeared. There was enough adrenaline coursing through the air that morning to start the day off right. We followed the road for maybe 2 miles before making the turn onto a fire road that climbed nicely up toward the ridge of Narrowback Mountain. The fire road was lots of fun. There were quick ups and then quicker downs, all the while we climbed higher and higher up the mountain. There were still plenty of riders all packed together; some were starting to push for a better position as they got loose; some pushed too  hard and would pass me at great speed and then a few minutes later I’d pass them as they couldn’t keep it up. For me, I pedaled to my target heart rate and settled in for a nice, long day on the bike.

About 8 miles into the ride, the fire road ended and we began a climb up some nice singletrack. Singletrack is mountain biking lingo for a good old-fashioned trail. Maybe 18 inches wide, with plenty of rocks and roots to pedal over, this trail was lots of fun. But almost immediately a frustration emerged which became a constant for me all day: road cyclists getting in the way on anything technical or downhill. Road cyclists are always in phenomenal shape, and will absolutely fly up any climb that’s smooth. But when things get technically challenging, road cyclists can’t always get over the obstacles before them. Just a few moments after hitting the singletrack, plenty of riders ahead stumbled trying to ride over a long stretch of rocks. They ended up walking for a while, and a conga line formed behind them. Getting through this section ate up some time, but eventually we were all pedaling again and preparing for the fun descent of the Tillman West Trail.

Tillman West is a blast! Super fast, super flowy, with just enough rocks and roots to challenge a rider in a few spots. We flew down. All of the sudden, riders were littering the sides of the trail maybe every 20 yards. Flat tires, mechanical failures, whatever the cause, these guys were off to a bad start for such a long ride. I felt bad for them, but being so close to the start of the race and near a road back to the campground, I didn’t worry about them and continued down the mountain to prepare for the tough hike-a-bike ahead.

Once we finished the Tillman West descent, we started a long ride northward on pavement and gravel roads. The goal was to climb west up VA 924 toward Reddish Knob until we would hit an access road that would take us to the infamous Lynn Trail. The road and gravel riding was great! I really started hitting my stride and passed several groups of riders along the way who were ahead of me on the Tillman West climb. 

But the Lynn Trail lived up to its reputation. 1.3 very short, very steep miles of trail that climbs almost 1200 feet. This was an absolutely perfect place to get off the bike and take a walk. Pushing my bike up the mountain, I was grateful for the chance to use some different muscles. And then, watching so many riders try their hardest — and wasting so much energy — was a great source of entertainment. Guys were so frustrated being unable to ride but refused to give up. One rider passed me, charging hard and pedaling harder, and gasped out a raspy, “I wasn’t made for walking.” Well, about 50 yards later, no matter what he was or wasn’t made for, he was walking alongside everyone else. 

After we reached the top of the ridge, we made a hard left to take the Wolf Ridge trail. This descent is a lot of fun. It starts with some raw, open downhill riding before hitting a couple of sharp knobs along the ridge that require more pushing the bike up a hill. But once Wolf Ridge starts to descend in earnest, things get fun. There’s plenty of flow and rocky goodness for everyone to enjoy. I ended up stuck behind a rider who wasn’t descending as fast as I would have descended on my own. But his pace was good, and I was able to sit back and relax and enjoy the downhill. It was good to take it easy and save some leg strength. 

At the bottom of the Wolf Ridge trail were ambulances and bike mechanics ready to help fix whatever kind of broken showed up — but both me and my bike were in one piece so I kept on pedaling. Ahead of us was a stretch of road that would take us to Aid Station 2. Getting back on the road felt good, but after a few miles I realized that I could no longer feel my legs; no pain, no feeling good; nothing. I was 30 miles into the race and wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to bike feeling this way, but pressed on. Thanks be to God, after only a mile of the odd experience I arrived at the Aid Station and jumped off the bike. For three minutes I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, downed Coca Cola, and filled my water bottles. And then I was back on the road and heading to the next climb.

Hankey Mountain. Ian had told me that this would be the worst climb of the day. After a few miles of pedaling on pavement and gravel, the route turned upward on a worn-out fire road. Rutted out, washed out, and full of detritus from storms and erosion, the road was no fun to climb. We were well over 30 miles into the race at this point, and most of us had only stopped for a few moments at Aid Station 2 for rest. The road wasn’t too steep; it just required more attention to detail than anyone feels like giving a fire road. Some riders were walking their bikes. Others charged hard and fast uphill only to lose energy a few moments later, pulling off to the side of the road for a break. I stuck to my plan: watch the heart rate, keep the pace right where I wanted it. 

After a few miles of climbing on the fire road, we caught the ridge of Hankey Mountain and turned south. We had reached the hard part. These were the miles of the climb that Ian described as the “worst” of the day. Slowly the fire road narrowed into a steep, steep singletrack climb. The brush and branches closed in on either side of the trail. The uphill seemed relentless. Perhaps the worst part of the experience was that there really didn’t seem to be anywhere else to go that was “up.” Time and again it looked like we were at the very top end of the ridge, but then we would turn a corner and there would be more uphill to go.

Fortunately for me, Nolan and Robby and I had come down in July to ride this trail in preparation for the race. I couldn’t remember all of the details. But I knew that the climbing didn’t last nearly as long as it seemed to last. The end would come, and then we would be rewarded with an epic downhill. And then . . . we turned a corner and that epic downhill arrived. The Dowell’s Draft descent is super fast and relatively wide-open. As long as you can look far enough down the trail to pick a good line, you can absolutely fly on this trail. And I did fly. There were plenty of roadies picking their way slowly down the trail. I passed them again and again and relished every moment of “not climbing” that Dowell’s Draft gave me. After almost 3 miles of descending, I reached Aid Station 3 at mile 45. Almost halfway!

Allie and Emily had volunteered to staff Aid Station 3. It was good to see some familiar faces. The whole staff there was amazing. One man grabbed my bike and offered to get the chain clean and lubricated for me. Another woman ran over with another Coca Cola for me. Another woman refilled my water bottles. Allie grabbed a drop bag that I had prepared the night before and gave it to me. I had a fresh and dry  pair of gloves inside that I very much wanted to wear. There were also some snacks that I stuffed in my pocket to eat as I rode. I chatted with Emily and Allie for a few minutes and asked for updates on other riders. Ian, they said, had come through the aid station in second place and had barely stopped before taking off to see if he could catch the rider in the lead. At this point, I had been riding for 5 hours 52 minutes — the first time I looked at a clock all day and I was about halfway finished the race. I started thinking of a 12 hour finishing time — that would be amazing! My spirits restored and my supplies restocked, I jumped back on the bike and headed for the middle of nowhere. 

The ride out to Braley’s Pond really does take you into the middle of nowhere. Nolan had warned for months that these were the hardest miles of the race, and I think in retrospect I agree with him. First, there is what seems like an endless ride up the pavement of US 250. The road is just mildly, just barely uphill. You think you should be riding harder and faster, but the slight uphill holds you back. The pedaling is harder than you think it should be; so, the mind games begin. And then, you’re riding on a highway at this point. There is traffic, and every now and then a big truck will fly past you close enough to give a scare; there’s no way to enjoy this kind of riding. 

After over 4 miles on the highway, I finally hit the turn for the climb up and over to Braley’s Pond. Now it was time to get really frustrated. 

The worst part of the Braley’s climb is that it is a good one: the trail begins with a steep stone staircase that requires a hike-a-bike. But then the singletrack ascends a little over 1200 feet in 2 miles. 2 miles of beautiful, challenging, but absolutely rideable trail — if you have the focus and the energy to stay on the bike. And that’s what makes the climb so frustrating . . . you want to ride it all for the challenge of it, but riding it all requires more energy and focus than you have to give. Getting up Braley’s demands some good old-fashioned humility. 

And then there is the fact that for some reason everyone becomes super distanced from one another by this part of the race. I barely saw anyone on the trail. This sinking feeling began to set in that everyone else had finished by now and I was the only one left on the trail. The mind games intensified: just quit . . . everyone else is finished . . . you’re by yourself in the middle of nowhere and there is no point . . . just quit. But . . . I didn’t quit. Just keep riding, I told myself. So, I did. I rode the bike as much as I could and I walked the bike when it seemed like the right decision. Eventually, I hit the top of the climb and it was time to start ripping downhill again. 

The descent down to Braley's Pond is raw and fast. I absolutely love it. But I struggled the whole way down with low energy levels. And the mind games continued. Not even my enthusiasm for the downhill could shake me from the thought that I wasn’t in a good place. I did everything I could to stay focused, but on a hard right hand corner I chose a bad line through some loose rocks and slipped out a little bit. A near fall. I took a moment to catch my breath and reset, and then I was off again. The downhill continued to hurt, but I made it down fine, and had made up some speed, passing several other riders on my way down. Seeing some other folks out there on the trail, finally, was a real comfort. 

Once the downhill finished, we were confronted with a two mile, miserable, trail ride to get back to the pavement. A soft rain had been threatening all day but it looked like this part of the forest had been soaked by a recent storm. First, a muddy field. Then, muddy trails. Slip, slide, slip, slide. A little uphill. A little downhill. It was all exhausting. My legs felt good — which I really couldn’t believe — but I did not feel well at all. There was no energy left in the tank. The mental games that had begun on US 250 only intensified. Just quit . . . just quit. Even seeing those riders on the downhill no longer gave me any comfort. I was right back to the slump. 

And then . . . all of the sudden . . . Aid Station 4. There it was, right when I needed it the most. I jumped off the bike and refilled my water. Someone offered me a Coke, and I swallowed it fast. Then on the table covered with various snacks I saw them . . . Pringles. I ate SO many of them. The taste of the salt was incredible, and both my body and my spirits immediately began to revive. One of the dangers of any kind of endurance activity is hyponatremia: a rapid loss of sodium in the body. I knew that going into the race, and had been eating some electrolyte blocks the entire ride that should have kept plenty of sodium in my system. But for whatever reason, these Pringles changed everything for me. I felt like the day had just begun, and it was time to get to work. 

The Death Climb. That’s what they call these 18 miles between Aid Station 4 and Aid Station 5. The last 12 miles to Aid Station 5 climb relentlessly toward the summit of Reddish Knob, gaining almost 2,000 feet along the way. Everyone hates the Death Climb. That’s the rule. Even if it’s not the worst part of the race, the reality of climbing without pause for 12 miles — after 60 miles of hard riding — is just too much to process. Everyone hates the Death Climb. 

Well, I LOVED the Death Climb. Since May, I had come down to George Washington National Forest 4 times for training rides, and I had already completed the Death Climb twice. I knew what to expect. And what the Death Climb offered was exactly what I wanted at that moment of the race: mindless, wide open, unfocused pedaling uphill on perfect gravel. After the hard and technical climb up Braley’s I was ready to just put the pedal down and go. And so I went. My inner roadie came out of me a little bit during those miles. I started passing people who had passed me hours ago. I stuck to my target heart rate and just pedaled. For a while, I rode alongside a guy from North Carolina and we kept each other company for a few miles. We talked about the race and about the good trail systems down near where he lived. The time for conversation was really wonderful. I felt GOOD again. Eventually, the gravel road took a sharp turn uphill and his pace dropped off. I kept going, and was once again pedaling alone. 

But it wasn’t too much longer before reaching the top of the climb. The last mile had been tough: plenty steep, increasingly wet. And I was cold. The top of the ridge is well above 4,000 feet there. And the rain had picked up a bit as the afternoon wore on. I was cold and I was hungry again and I was ready to get up to Aid Station 5 and eat some pizza. That’s right . . . pizza! All the way on top of the mountain is pizza waiting for you, and I was very, very excited to get there. 

It wasn’t long before I arrived. Nolan’s father, Sean, volunteers to work at Aid Station 5 every year. He checked me in as I rode by, and then came by to help me get set for the big finish to the race. I got some dry gloves out of my drop bag. I ate pizza. I drank Coke. More pizza. More Coke. I refilled water bottles and to my delight saw they offered a big cooler of Gatorade. Perfect. I chugged some Gatorade. I also pulled some bike lights out of my drop bag and got them set up on my bike. These lights were required in case we didn’t finish before dark. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon and I had every intention of finishing these last 25 miles before the sun disappeared. But I knew the lights were necessary. Anything could happen in those last miles. Plus, the cloudy skies and the density of the forest canopy could block out those last remnants of sunlight that I would likely need to get down to the finish line. 

Fed, refueled, and ready to go with lights, I thanked Sean for his help and got back on the road. 

“I’ve never made it this far before — never past the Death Climb — do you have any idea what’s ahead of us?” a man shouted as we hit the road at the same time. Well, I did know what was ahead of us, and I was not looking forward to it. 13 Meadows is the nickname for the ride out on Bald Mountain Road toward the summit of Little Bald Knob. After a short, fast, and steep descent, the trail climbs about 700 feet in 4 miles. Slowly but surely, the fire road tapers into singletrack. Things get steep. And loose. Worse: things get repetitive. The trail is nicknamed 13 Meadows for a reason. There are 13 meadows on the trail — you can count them as you go — and each meadow looks exactly the same as the one before. The trail through and around and beyond each meadow in exactly the same way. Like Sisyphus pushing his rock uphill — like some foretaste of Purgatory — these 4 miles wage a psychological war on a rider this far into the race. I had ridden these miles before and knew the best plan was to never stop pedaling, to let myself get as numb to the trail as possible. Don’t pay attention . . . get lost in your head somewhere else . . . ignore all this . . . this too shall pass.

Please, pass already. There were some prayers said on this stretch of trail. The man who started riding with me had charged ahead full of enthusiasm not long after I told him what to expect. For a while I had lost sight of him. Now I saw him ahead, walking and pushing his bike uphill. He was turning a corner that would get him to the last meadow. As I rode up to him, I shouted “This is it! Last meadow!! Keep going!!” He stopped and turned toward me and shouted back, “I’m about to QUIT!” I rode right up to him and he got back on the bike. “This is it, it really is, through this meadow and around the corner. Hang in there and the best descent of the whole day is right there for you. You’ll love it.” I gave him the encouragement that I had to offer as we climbed our way toward the summit. He paused at the edge of the meadow to catch his breath. I rolled right into the downhill. The epic downhill that is Chestnut Ridge. 

The Chestnut descent is furious. The first half-mile drops 800 feet for an average gradient of 18.4%. It is steep. And on Sunday it was wet — soaked, really. There was no grip on the rocks. Getting down safely and quickly required some real skill and choosing some great lines. I loved it. Ian had told me a few months back that the Chestnut descent is his favorite downhill ever, and that makes sense to me. That trail is wild, and flying down in the light rain was an absolute blast. I felt alive again. After the torture of the meadows, dropping those 2000 feet back into the valley came as sweet relief, and I had never been more grateful to go down a hill — we had been climbing for 22 miles at that point!

As soon as the Chestnut descent ends you empty out onto North River Road and there is Aid Station 6 waiting for you. It was about 6 o’clock and I could taste the end of the day. And I knew that if I pushed things, I could meet my goal of finishing in 13 hours. So, I wasted no time at all at Aid 6. Water, a small peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and I was pedaling away. 

First, pedaling on the road again. Then, pedaling back up toward the ridge of Hankey Mountain. Same fire road as earlier. I DID NOT want to climb up Hankey again. Easily the worst fire road climb of the day. I knew that once we reached the top of the ridge we would turn north and descend into the campground and the race would be finished . . . I knew that we wouldn’t make that hard right turn onto the painful singletrack climb up toward Dowell’s Draft . . . I knew this climb wouldn’t be nearly as bad or as long as it was earlier. But I didn’t care about what I knew. I only cared about what I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to climb up that fire road again. 

But, of course, I did climb up Hankey Mountain again. And — somehow — I actually made the climb faster than I had 60 miles earlier. I think I could taste the finish. I wanted the race to end and I wanted to hit my goal, and I wanted both of those realities more than I didn’t want to repeat the climb. As soon as I hit the top of the ridge, I made the hard left turn to the north and rode as hard and as fast as I could for the campground. The sun was up but the forest was dark. I flipped on my lights for one sharp descent. But as I rode lower and lower on the mountain and came closer and closer to the campground, the sunlight became stronger and stronger. Only a few minutes from the finish line, the sun was up and I was on pace to finish in 13 hours exactly. 

I pushed things hard in those last few miles. Along with a couple of other riders I had met on the last mile of the Hankey Climb. And then all of the sudden I could see the campground ahead. I could pick up the scent of campfires. People camped further up into the woods started to cheer as they saw us pass. We had made it. The Big Finish was ours. 

The whole team was there at the finish line. Ian had taken 2nd place in the race and had been back for hours. Nolan and Ed were happy with their times. Robby and Adam had finished about an hour before me. I was super excited to hear about how they had paced things for themselves. I really felt like I could have pushed things harder and earlier in the race . . . but I didn’t know that at the time. I only knew that now. 

All that mattered was that we had all finished safely. Allie and Emily and Anne Marie were there to congratulate everyone. My parents had made the trip down as well and were waiting for me. It was great to see everyone, and it was amazing to have finished the race. But I was immediately confronted with a hard reality: I had no idea what I needed. Really. A shower? Clean clothes? Food? Water? Beer? Rest? I had no idea what my body needed and it felt like I was in shock or something. Faced with the reality of not needing to pedal any longer, I just wasn’t sure what to do. So, I did what I was told to do . . . always a safe bet. A shower. Fresh clothes. Food. Water. Slowly and surely — the motto of the day — I started to piece myself back together. 

As I finish up this race recap on Thursday morning, I’m on day 4 of recovery. There was some muscle soreness for sure, but it was really my stomach that took the hardest hit from the race. I can’t imagine what a race like that does to the metabolism. Tuesday I went out for a light ride to shake out the legs and after a few miles I started to feel pretty good and strong on the bike. I was tired — so tired — but I still felt good, and it felt great to get back on the bike again. 

I still can’t believe that Robby and I completed the race. We trained plenty, and we love these kinds of challenges. But we hadn’t ever ridden more than 50 miles or climbed more than 6000 feet on a mountain bike ride. Every time we planned on putting together a big training ride, something came up and we ended up with less time than we needed to get it done. We really went into the race not knowing what to expect or what we were capable of, and we pulled it off. What a great day. 

Sacred Heart, apart from the celebration of sacraments, the Shenandoah Mountain 100 is the coolest thing I’ve ever done. What an awesome experience. And it was you all who really made the difference. This wasn’t just a race for me; it was a community event; it was a part of the life of our parish. And what a difference that made. I never would have made it without your support and encouragement. Especially the prayers. Lord knows we needed them. 

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for everything!

Until the next race,

Fr. Brendan