Fireweed 400 - Contacts

Jeff Oakley 's 2007 Double Century
7/10/2007 E-mail
Fastest American Solo RAAM 2 weeks ago.

Hi Peter & George-

It was good to see both of you, even if I didn't get to talk to either of you at all. And of course, it was another FANTASTIC race. Although the last time I saw George on the road I was starting to have flashbacks to last year...We got in real late friday night and talked to Bob and Gino in the greenhouse. But it was after 11pm so we didn't hunt around to find you guys.

Trying to 'race' again this soon after RAAM was probably not my smartest move. I really buried myself and am already sick as a dog from it. But I've got all summer to recover, and I had some good reasons to see what I could do.

I really like the 200 race!!! Its just a great distance that you can really hammer pretty hard and the course is so beautiful. Plus finishing at a picnic in Valdez and being able to hang out with and talk to some other riders that I sort of know, but rarely get to hang out with was great. I had so much fun. My wife and Gail both had a great time too and were already talking about next year on the way back to Fairbanks.

Just wanted to thank you guys once again!!

Jeff

Rebecca Haldeman's Double Century
by Rebecca Haldeman
2006 Fireweed Great Alaska Double Century Racer
Journalist recently covering RAAM 2006

Riding 100 miles by bicycle, to some, may seem a little crazy. Riding 100 miles by bicycle without having ridden more than 80 in the past 12 months- a bit crazier. Attempting to double that distance, 200 miles, with the same amount of training- crazy without a doubt. On a single-speed? Completely ridiculous. I didn’t have a very good idea of what I was getting myself into when I decided to ride the Alaskan Fireweed’s 200-mile road race that ran from Sheep Mountain Lodge to Valdez, but it seemed like a good goal for the summer.

After realizing how miniscule my few months of training were compared to the event I was about to begin, I grew concerned that perhaps I wouldn’t make it to see the end. By then, I had already bought a beautiful Fireweed jacket and knew it wasn’t worth wearing if I didn’t finish. On the morning of the start, I decided against bringing my long-fingered gloves and shoecovers on a whim of optimism- a decision I came to regret later in my ride. The first 75 miles was a breeze- literally. Tailwinds pushed us through the Alaskan rollers but due to my gearing, I couldn’t pedal over 21mph. It was rather frustrating coasting down a gradual decent knowing that had I a few more teeth on the rear cog, I could be pedaling along with everyone who kept passing me.

When we rolled into the rest stop at Glenallen, I noticed several cars in the parking lot with water on their windshields; I hoped they hadn’t come from the direction we would be riding, but soon after making the only turn in the race, we encountered the beginning of over 100 miles of rain. The tailwind was now a quartering-headwind and the rain was cold, but with a mentality of “only 25 more miles… (until the next rest stop!)” I was able to keep pedaling. While riding with my dad, the two options were to lead and fight the wind, or “draft” and get wheel backwash. I tended to stay in front so my dad wouldn’t drop me on the hills and the front of his raincoat was proof- covered in rain spatters.

The only time I considered dropping out of the race was during a particularly rainy section near the 100-mile mark. After my dad convinced me that we would finish in less than 10 hours, I was motivated enough to continue, with promises of Milano cookies at every rest stop. Aside from cookies, I survived on Perpetuem and peanut butter Power Bars that quickly lost their novelty. With a miniature cassette of 3 cogs on my rear wheel, I had a few options that made more of a mental difference than physical, but at times I was glad to have those extra gears. I managed to ride until the base of Thompson Pass in a 42/16 and climbed it in a 42/17, but was happy to have a 14-tooth for the decent into Valdez.

It was certainly a struggle for me to complete this ride, battling the terrain and uncompromising weather, but it would have been impossible to do so without the encouragement of my parents and three-person crew that supported me along the ride. For some, 200 miles doesn’t require a SAG vehicle, but without my cousin luring me down the road with Snickers bars, the Fireweed jacket would be shamefully sitting in my closet and my first double century would not have become a reality.

California Injury to Alaska Fireweed
by Tim Jones, 2006 Fireweed 400 Solo Racer

On Mothers Day, June 14, I went on an easy Sunday afternoon ride. After several weeks of hard training, a gentle ride in good weather is supposed to let you smell the flowers and remember why you love riding a bike. Besides, I had made some radical adjustments to the aerobars on my newest long-distance bike, custom made by one of my sponsors, Seven Cycles, and with a 600k (375mi) qualifying ride coming up I wanted to try it out.

I should note that Suisun Valley Road is a beautiful, two-lane country road near my house in Solano County, California. It’s a road I, and many other local cyclists, have ridden hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

This time would be different.

On the return leg there is a one-mile section of road with absolutely no shoulder. The pavement is good and the white line newly painted. But past the white stripe is nothing but a dirt drainage swale, about 3 feet deep.

I heard a large vehicle, undoubtedly going home after a day or more at Lake Berryessa, about 20 miles away, approaching from behind. I remember making sure my tires were tracking on the white line and I watched as the motor home passed.

After it passed me it immediately swung back into my lane.

The last thing I remember is watching the white, 25 foot long boat the motor home was pulling swing right into my left side. After that, everything’s kind of a blur!

Turned out the driver hit me and took off, although I’m fairly sure he didn’t know he had hit me.

Another car, which I don’t remember, coming the other way apparently saw the whole thing. They stopped and Jessica got out to help me while her husband (I still don’t have his name) chassed down the motor home and convinced him to turn around and come back.

In the, “It’s a Small World” category, a very good friend of mine and his wife, Bill and Jill, just happened to be out driving down the same road. They stopped and used my cell phone to contact my wife and family and direct them to the accident.

Apparently a lot of police and fire personnel showed up, but I don’t remember any of it. Clearly I was awake, but the tape recorder wasn’t running!

A decision was made to bring in a helicopter and take me to the nearest trauma center, John Muir Hospital. Tragically, I don’t remember the flight either.

Muir ran a CT Scan, took X-rays, and all the usual work-up stuff that I don’t remember, before admitting me upstairs. After more tests the next day my wife, Jaymie, was able to take me home late in the afternoon.

My helmet was badly crushed on the left side and all of my clothes were cut off. The helmet is a top of the line Giro and although it fractured into pieces, it held together so well that you had to look inside to see all the breaks. But, amazingly, the bike didn’t have so much as a scratch, which I’m sure the great folks at Seven are happy to hear.

My best guess is that I hit the boat trailer and the asphalt, while the bike flew off into the nice, soft mud!

Three weeks later I attempted the Santa Rosa 600K (375 miles). There is a fine line between stupidity and bravery and I think I found that line at about 80 miles.

Unfortunately, I didn’t drop out until 170 miles. For the last 80-100 miles the pain in the shoulder intensified. I thought I could brave it out, but the pain apparently caused muscle spasms (the Doc calls it “splinting”) which compressed the nerves running down my arm. My left arm became increasingly numb until I couldn’t feel the left brake lever. I could squeeze it, but I couldn’t tell how hard I was pulling on it. Unfortunately, the pain in the shoulder wasn’t number and got worse on every climb.

Apparently it’s the amount of time on the bike, not the pace of the ride, that causes my shoulder to spasm, so I now intend to take another week off the bike and then concentrate on short, high-intensity sessions to get ready for Fireweed.

The Art of Positively Not Thinking
My naive quest to finish the “Fireweed 400”
By Todd Goodman, 2005 400-mile Finisher

A couple of months before the 2005 Fireweed 400 my family of five started planning a trip from our home in Cleveland to see my mom (Carolyn) and step-dad (Steve) in Anchorage. When Steve mentioned he was riding 100 of the 400 miles, I asked if I could borrow his extra bike and ride along. After Steve’s bewildering explanation of how I should really have a “road bike,” special shoes, and pedals, I told him that I would think about it. My sixty-nine dollar mountain bike from Target had taken me a long way, so I felt very spoiled even looking at REI’s least expensive road bikes. I figured that if I was going to invest 700 dollars, I really should ride all 400 miles. The thrill of riding the entire 400 miles inspired me to ride my mountain bike to work each day, read a Bicycle magazine, and even brag to a few friends. Then I learned I was signing up to ride 400 miles in one day! Luckily, I was too stubborn and too naïve to give up my new biking challenge. During my thirty hours of peddling (and resting) I had plenty of time to think about this wonderfully grueling introduction to biking. After the event I jotted down some thoughts that started about twenty hours into the event:
As I near the 300-mile mark of the “race,” I smile at the beauty of my own blissful ignorance that has lead to this adventure. Even if I collapse now, people will say, “He did pretty well for an idiot.” As this turns into an out-of –body experience, the image of my ham-like head hanging out over my aero bars turns my smile to out-loud laughter. It feels like a hot, salty, 23-pound hunk of meat; baked at 72 degrees under the Alaskan sun for 19 hours. The timer started at 4:30 this morning, with a gradual warm up. But now, around 11:30 PM, the temperature has been turned back down, and the dimming sunlight has been enhanced with my support car’s encouraging beams of lights. My mom Carolyn and step-dad Steve wave and shout encouragement as they join me in chasing my big head 100 more miles across the tundra—at a vigilant fifteen miles an hour. The cool air and hot coffee breaks add to my optimistic bliss, and I peddle on to reach my goal of finishing the 400 miles.

The batteries to my music had died just before the turn in Valdez (at 200 miles), so I looked for bear or moose in the outline of trees, and reflect on the ignorance that has made this ride so wonderful. In my month of “training” I spoke with brilliant bikers that, “hadn’t been training enough to ride in a race like the Fireweed 400.” My complete numbness helps me realize their point, but also allows me the celebration of my own stupidity. Following my heart instead of brain inspired this trip across Alaska, and inspires me up the next big hill and another mile closer to the finish line.

The Alaskan night is filled with a mixture of poetry and laughter; one extra long day out of the year to listen to my mind and body battle it out for attention. I really am starting to miss my music; I know it would inspire the cadence in my numb legs. At this point I am ready to reduce the reality of the challenge with some naturally distracting endorphins. There will be a lot more to bring next year. More batteries, gel instead of these dry “energy bars,” more than a month of training (on a road bike for more than a week), a bungee cord to keep my head up, and just enough blind joy to show up.

The outlines slowly drift by and disappear into what seems like authentic darkness. It now must be about one o’clock in the morning. The sparse traffic has dwindled to almost nothing, and I can rest my eyes on the darkness rushing up into our insignificant light. I don’t think I’d have the energy to stop quickly for any wildlife that strays into our path, but I still retain the morbid curiosity of possibly looking into the eyes of an animal that might prematurely end my ride. After I sort through the short list of Alaskan wildlife I might hit, I finally wonder what time it is and exactly how far I still have to ride. Because specific numbers are not my goal, I have no speedometers, heart monitors or clocks; yet, as my mind begins to lose the battle with my body it would be nice to have some convincing numbers for inspiration. “Just 83 more miles” sounds better than “around 100,” and the negative reinforcement of dropping below ten miles an hour is always helpful. I would feel even more guilt if I knew my poor mom was following at three and a half miles an hour. But for now, without gadgets or music, the open road from Worthington Glacier to Glennallen becomes a silent slice through nature. Two long ribbons of road spliced together at a right angle in Glennallen, wrapping around the Chugach Mountains to create 28,000 feet of elevation. What a gift, and what an inspiration
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There is hope in the brief darkness: the goal being to make it to the edge of my support car’s lights. I can enjoy the brief stretches of slight down-grade, before another surprise “lift-off” into the stars. The two hours of Alaskan darkness seems to be no more then a slow fade between scenes, and then light slowly fades up on the last scene in this great adventure. The only thing that sounds appetizing for breakfast is ibuprophen and coffee, which is wonderfully motivating to every part of me except my numb neck muscles—which are beyond help. I can now only keep my head up by wedging my right forearm between my aero bar pad and my chin. As long as the edge of the road doesn’t get too soft I should be able to steer the last 40 miles or so with my right elbow and left forearm. Steve suggests there is just one more hill, and it makes me giggle to think I would really believe him. I stop peddling more often, with the hope that if I lay down some miraculous stretch will return strength to my neck, but it is less frustrating to walk. I walk up the steep hills and become “The Thinker”—chin in hand, for the rest of the miles back to Sheep Mountain Lodge. With the morning comes more traffic, and I’m relegated to the precarious shoulder. I ride the white line like a very odd high-wire act, and my own laughter adds to the wobbly show. I am Icabod Crane, balancing head in hand, as campers inadvertently add gusts of wind and dust to my ghostly ride.

Even though Steve and Mom have told me six or seven times that this is the last hill, I see Sheep Mountain off to my right and I know they are finally correct. If I sit straight up on my bike, I can finish with my head up, precariously balancing—a bobble-head biker. Everything is numb except for the sting of tears and sweat on by bruised and bloody chin. But even that pain is replaced with the cheers of my six dedicated fans—my family. I humbly accept my trophy of home-made soup and bread, presented by Peter Lekisch, our generous and patient host. Sitting below the amazing cliffs of Sheep Mountain I feel great to have finished, and even better to have tried.