Race Recap: Telluride 100 2021 — Team KellCat - Women's Elite and Junior Development Mountain Bike Racing

I didn't know "monsoonal" was a word until the weekend of the 2021 Telluride 100. Not that it's a particularly peculiar word; I've just never heard it used to describe heavy rain. While studying the weather forecast for race day, Joe and I read "monsoonal rain expected Saturday" (i.e., race day) and I cringed a little knowing that the forecast served as an unofficial promise for an epic day in the saddle.

As a word, "monsoonal" rolls off the tongue with a slight smirk—it has a somewhat playful or comical sound—but I can promise you that monsoonal rain is no joke. It's the kind of rain accompanied by landslides and thunderstorms; the kind of rain you'd rather not race in for two hours, after already racing 7.5 hours at altitude. It's the kind of rain that creates mud you can never wash away completely.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning...

A Little Background

You might know that my biggest cycling goal is to race in the UCI Elite Marathon Mountain Bike World Championships. If not, now you know. Endurance racing suits my athletic strengths and I have an inexplicable desire to represent the US on the world stage at least once in my life. For my readers who are less familiar with mountain biking, the marathon cross country mountain bike discipline is abbreviated by the UCI (the international cycling union) as "XCM", which I'll use moving forward.

In the US, there hasn't been a UCI-sanctioned XCM race in a few years (except for US Marathon MTB National Championships). However, to qualify for Marathon World Championships, it helps to have XCM points and a strong showing at XCM races. So, when I was planning my 2021 race schedule and I saw that USA Cycling added XCM Telluride 100 to the Pro XC calendar, I locked the race weekend into my plans.

The Preparation

Now, I have raced at altitude a few times and have suffered greatly, so I knew going into Telluride 100 (in Telluride, CO, of course) that an extra layer of preparation was necessary. This included tuning my nutrition. It also meant sleeping "at altitude" while still living in the comfort of my rural Massachusetts home. About two months before Telluride 100, I rented one of those snazzy altitude systems you see super serious athletes using, because living and training at 350ft above sea level was going to set me up for failure when racing at 9000+ ft. I slept in the altitude tent every night possible leading up to the race and I rode using the altitude mask a couple times each week. Did this make me "super serious" like other athletes? Well, a few coworkers called me "intense", "committed", and even "crazy", so yes, maybe. At a minimum, it made me realize just how much my husband loves me. The head tent, which is big enough to cover my pillow, was wider than half of our queen-sized bed. So, my husband was left with less than half of the bed. That's love, folks. Or maybe just really strong tolerance. Moreover, race day was on our 5-year wedding anniversary. So yes, that must be love.

Smiling while using the heat tent; must have been early on while I still thought it was novel and cool.

Fast forward to late July 2021. In the days leading up to the race, I was more nervous than I had been in a long time. First, a lot of people knew about this race (most of my close friends, family, and colleagues knew this was my "A" race), which led to self-inflicted pressure. Second, a 100 mile mountain bike race would be the longest mountain bike race I had ever done, by a LOT. Third, knowing that this was an official XCM meant it mattered a lot to me and my goal to qualify for Worlds.

Fun fact: extra anxiety paired with altitude does wonders for sleep quality--and by "wonders" I mean terrible things. In the nights preceding the race, I nightmared about missing the race start, being unprepared, taking multiple wrong turns, breaking my bike, breaking my body, any just about any other scenario my mind could conjure. In reality, I knew I was prepared as I could be for this race and there was nothing more I could do to improve my performance in a few days.

After studying the field of UCI Elite women registered for the race, I was hopeful for a Top 5 finish. Most of my competitors live and train at altitude, so I knew it would take a strong performance for me to compete, but I also believed it was possible. Plus, that snazzy altitude tent was supposed to help, right?

Joe and I spent the day before the race studying the course, strategizing the Aid Station hand ups, and relaxing as much as possible. "Relax" in this case meant taking the free(!) gondola up to the top of the Telluride ski mountain to enjoy the views I'd be too tired to appreciate when I pedaled up the same mountain the following day.

Race Morning

The race was scheduled to start at 6am. Luckily, coming from the East Coast, this was more like 8am. That said, waking up at 3:45am is painful no matter what time zone you're in. Pancakes and eggs with a side of anxiousness at 4am doesn't go down very well. But my dietician told me to prioritize carbs on race day, so I did my best.

With sunrise at 6:15am, I wasn't able to warm up like I usually do. I traveled with my portable Feedback Sports trainer, but it was going to be too loud to warm up properly at 5:35am in a courtyard of condos filled with families. Rather than be Kelly-the-jerk-who-woke-everyone-up, I skipped the proper warmup and just soft pedaled around the eerily quiet downtown using the streetlights as my guide. Unfortunately, race morning warmup sprints on dark streets aren't as exhilarating (or safe) as you might expect. A stupidly easy 10 minute spin was the best I could do.

It was quite chilly on race morning (48 degrees F) and the ground was soaked from the monsoonal rain that fell the day and night prior, which meant the trails would undoubtedly be muddy. I imagined this would be advantageous for someone who has been living in New England, where the rain has fallen nearly daily for the past several weeks. The Men and Women Elite fields started together, with the first few miles taking us out of town along the one road out of Telluride at a pace that was shockingly slow.

The sunrise bathed the mountains around us in warm golden light as we pedaled away from town and up the first climb. The views of the surrounding mountains were spectacular. What was NOT spectacular was how terrible my legs and my lungs felt. I was not warmed up physically or mentally as the lead women started to pull away and I watched my fate unfold. At this point, I decided that the altitude tent was a big hunking waste of money and effort.

On this climb, my expectations quickly transformed from "Top 5 finish" to "just finish the damn race. You flew all the way out here and it's your anniversary." This mindset shift was helpful but, admittedly, not enough to keep me from tumbling into a very dark place. By the time I arrived at Aid Station #1 (mile 14), I felt like I had already raced 50 miles. My lungs burned, my legs already carried a deep ache, and I was on the verge of heartbreak. Joe greeted me with a huge smile and several words of encouragement while I muttered "I don't think I can do this." The Aid Station was at the base of the Telluride ski mountain, which was the next climb I would face on course. At this point, I was in 5th place, with 6th place just a few seconds behind me.

The steep climb up to mile 14. This was just the beginning.

Telluride's gondola takes you almost straight up the mountain in a matter of minutes, which affords some particularly fantastic views. What's much less fantastic is that the trail we climbed was directly below the gondola's path at several points. I found myself thinking on more than one occasion "There's a reason they made a gondola—so people don’t have to climb this mountain!" Some pitches were so steep that I had to walk my bike and my heart rate was STILL pinned. With a climb that lasted from mile 14 until 22, I knew I was in for a long, painful slog. Early in the climb, the 6th place woman passed me, and I did everything I could to keep her within reach.

As a reward for climbing, the singletrack after the summit was gorgeous. I've always dreamed of riding singletrack that snakes between aspen trees, and let me tell you, it was as fantastic in real life as it is in the pictures. I lost myself somewhere out there among the giant white trees and lush forest.

Note: this is not an actual race day photo, but rather a photo I took later in the trip. I don’t race with my phone, but if I did I would definitely take photos like this!

The Turning Point

I found myself again at the next Aid Station (mile 31), where I stopped to refill a water bottle while the 5th place woman spent a bit longer replacing a water reservoir in her hydration pack. We pedaled out of the aid station together and I remarked "Wow! You're super strong on the technical downhills!" (she really was). She asked me how I was feeling and in a moment of weakness and lack of grace, I responded "This is the worst I've ever felt in a race." Terrible word vomit directed at a perfect stranger! While I felt horribly embarrassed, my new friend just laughed at my brutal honesty and unusual candor.

At that moment, something remarkable happened. I realized that uttering this statement out loud mid-race was probably one of the worst things anyone can do to themselves. It's a self-affirmation that could catalyze a cascade of negativity. It's the beginning of what could become a self-fulfilling prophecy if I let it. And so, I consciously fought back.

Instead of throwing myself a pity party, I decided to dig deep and make myself a promise. I promised to push as hard as my body would allow and I would do everything in my power to NOT bonk during the race. I even said it out loud to myself (no one was around), to help make the vow more official. Whatever place I came in at the end of the day didn't matter, as long as I left my heart out on course. And you know what? That one positive thought was like a small spark deep in my core that warmed me from the inside out. I found my "second wind" while pedaling up Ames Road (a steady dirt road climb) and I passed a handful of people along the way.

Coming through the half-way Aid Station (mile 50), I was greeted again by Joe's beaming smile and encouragement. The announcer at the start/finish line alerted everyone to my arrival, and I was welcomed with cheers and excitement from passers by. At this point, I was feeling more like my upbeat, positive self and was pleased with my current 5th place position. Riding out of town for Loop 2 was a very different experience than the race start. The town was bustling with activity and pedestrians were cheering for me, even though it was evident they had no idea why random cyclists were riding along town's busiest road, covered in mud.

On the second largest climb on course, up Last Dollar Mountain, I was completely alone. On the rugged gravel/jeep roads, I passed several 4-wheel drive vehicles, many of which gave me the pity wave or the obligatory thumbs up. One guy rolled down his window and said "you got this!" to which I replied "I can't believe I paid for this!". Seriously though, I reminded myself several times that I paid for this experience and then immediately proceeded to wonder what the heck is wrong with me.

As the gravel roads rolled on, I celebrated the passing of each mile, sometimes cheering for myself out loud with only the mountains to hear me. I kept myself entertained by singing some of my favorite songs, taking comfort in knowing that trees and the wildflowers couldn't tell just how bad I sounded. In many ways, this race was as much a test of physical strength as it was mental strength.

Monsoonal Rain

At about 7.5 hours into the race, the rain began as a slow drizzle and I welcomed the cool, refreshing drops on my arms and my legs. At this point I thought it might remain just a light drizzle and, honestly, all that mud on my skin was starting to get itchy. Then, in a matter of minutes, steady rain began. Luckily, the timing coincided with the next Aid Station (mile 84) where I got to see Joe for the third time. Met with his usual positivity and smile, I was buoyed for a short while and forgot about the rain, the pain, and everything else that had happened up to that point. With bottles replaced, I started the Ames Road climb for the second time. Remembering that this was the turning point for me on Loop 1, I was determined to stay positive and strong on this same climb again. Only 20 miles to go!

When the monsoonal rain hit, I found myself digging a little deeper for positivity and instead ended up playing my own personal version of "Are you smarter than a 5th grader: Weather Edition”. When the winds picked up and lightning illuminated the sky in front of me, I began counting "one Mississippi....two Mississippi..." until I heard thunder, to see how far away the storm was (I vaguely remembered learning that each second between lightning and thunder is equivalent to a mile).

Then, when I knew the storm was within a mile of my location, I started considering the principles of electrical conductivity I learned years ago. Is titanium more or less conductive than that metal "falling rocks" sign I just pedaled by? Which one of us would nature claim first? If lightning hit my bike but I'm sitting on my saddle and holding my rubber handlebar grips, would I survive? (Of course not, the lightning would surely hit my head or my back before it hit my bike!)

And the thunder, let me tell you. The thunder was the kind that sounds like the sky is ripping apart. Like the threads holding the clouds together were being torn by the immeasurable force of the rain and wind. To say I was scared would be an understatement, but I maintained a somewhat funny mood by assuring myself that if I was going to die from lightning, it would be a pretty darn epic way to die. Maybe someone will write a book about it someday.

It was these distracting thoughts that led me to be surprised when I saw the blue kit of the woman in 4th place ahead of me on the climb. It was raining so hard and I had wiped so many different things through my eyes in the past few hours (mud, sweat, sunscreen, rain, probably some horse manure...) that I actually didn't believe it was happening. When I caught and then passed her, I asked if she was OK and if she needed anything and she replied that her knees were in an incredible amount of pain. I wished her well and then continued pedaling forward, noting that this is all part of racing and I really didn't want to be stuck in the lightning and monsoonal rain any longer than I needed to.

Ames Road and the proceeding trails were fully exposed and snaked alongside cliffs. I've heard about landslides and wasn't sure how hard it had to rain in order for land to slide, but it turns out monsoonal rain for about an hour is the threshold. I witnessed a few smaller landslides right in front of me and was simultaneously terrified and also completely disappointed that I couldn’t share the phenomenon with anyone. At one point, I thought a fellow racer was getting ready to pass because I heard a loud noise behind me. But when I turned around, I saw a bunch of very large boulders had fallen into the road behind me (good thing I wasn't 10 seconds slower!).

It’s worth noting that the jury is still out on whether I’m smarter than a fifth grader. I probably am, but paying to participate in an event like this is a bit suspect.

Almost Home

At mile 97, I passed Joe for the last time. I was frozen from the wind and rain and I could barely move my fingers to shift gears. The heavy rain was almost deafening but I screamed out to Joe “You won’t believe it, but I’m in 4th place!” Spoken out loud, that admission had helped me shed the layer of self doubt that weighed me down for the past 8.5 hours. Assuming nothing catastrophic happened, I was not only going to finish the race, but I was going to stand on the podium for my first ever XCM.

On the final singletrack trail, it was raining so hard that the trail had become a stream. My pace slowed because I couldn't see rocks and roots in the trail, and the stream crossings from Loop 1 had become intimidatingly strong in Loop 2. In the final stretch of bike path leading into town, the water level of the adjacent ponds had almost risen above the pavement. Ducks in the pond watched as I pedaled by, and I imagined them laughing at how ridiculous and cold I must have looked. I had one of those smile-grimace combinations plastered on my face that certainly betrayed the pain in my body and mind.

When I finished, I could feel my body trying to squeeze out tears of joy but I simply had no energy left. My eyes were plugs on a well that had run dry; my body was a shell of my normal self, just barely held together with relief, happiness, and sticky mountain mud. That course, that day, had sucked every ounce of life out of me. I was overjoyed to be done and I couldn't believe I finished 4th. All of that training, commitment, and preparation had culminated to this finish line moment. This was, by far, the most challenging race I have ever completed.

The artistic blur captures the essence of how I felt crossing that finish line.

THE BIG QUESTIONS

The question everyone keeps asking: Did the altitude tent help? If I’m being honest, I'm not 100% certain, but I think it did. I'd like to believe that I wouldn't have found my second wind if it wasn't for those 7 weeks of head tent sleep and masked workouts.

The follow-up question people are asking: Will I do it again? Meh, ask me again in a few weeks.

For months, maybe years, or perhaps forever, I will look back on this race with pride. I persevered and believed in myself. I fought back when I could have given in to despair.

As I draft this blog on the plane back to Boston, I'm cognizant that I'm returning to my "normal" life, but I feel different somehow. You can't finish a race like this for the first time and not feel transformed. For one thing, I know I’ll never take sea level air for granted ever again.

From an outsider's perspective, everything will fall back into place in a few days, with my daily routines and rituals taking their familiar shape in my life. But I know better. That mountain mud will be with me for a long time. That's the kind of mud that you can never wash away completely.