18 Hours on the Farm

Marisa Peacock
8.25.05

I think I have that gene, similar to the one that makes men think that they can hold down mattresses on car roofs with one hand. It would easily explain why I accepted my teammate’s invitation last week to participate in 18 Hours on the Farm—an eighteen-hour mountain bike ride in Goochland, Virginia. Sure I’d be apart of a four-person team! Sure, I own a functional mountain bike! Yet, it’s not like I ride enough to classify myself as technical rider. Despite this, I found myself saying, “Yeah, I can do this. It will be fun.” I was half right. It was fun. In that perverted way, like beating yourself up in a parking lot is fun.

Ninety degrees and 100 percent humidity later, my teammate, Don and his two buddies Taylor and Keith, and I set up camp at the boy scouts retreat and recreation center. We decided on the lap order in which we would ride; I was riding second. Three guys and a girl, the pseudo name to which we would be referred from then on (not to be confused with three mules and an ass or three experienced and one beginner, other monikers assumed by our competitors) began our adventure at four o’clock. And what an adventure it was.

Don finished his first lap in little over fifty minutes or so, leaving me with enough time to contemplate my mattress gene, but too little time to plan my escape from the farm. At five o’clock, I was triumphantly passed the sacred bracelet and set off on the fire road—strong emphasis on the word fire, as the sun’s rays seemed to bore down with a vengeance. I held my own, but let myself be overtaken by a number of riders (this little fact was later concealed when the guys would be talking about how many riders they passed on their laps). I kept a steady pace, tackling the hills well, but taking the time to walk/run/carry/throw my bike down the scary down hills and log towers. As I neared the last hill before the finish line, I was greeted by Don, who inquired at length, and with no small amount of concern, about my ride. Did I get a flat? Have a mechanical? After realizing there was nothing to explain my apparent tardiness on the trail, we sort of shrugged and I continued on. Despite my seemingly long lap, I finished my first lap in about eighty minutes, on par with what other females were riding.

While I happily accepted my time, Taylor to whom I passed the magic bracelet, seemed less than amused. He finished his first lap in forty-five minutes

Don rode his next lap around eight o’clock, finishing an hour later and thus forcing me out on the darkened course. I forgot the little adapter part that would have mounted my bike light to my helmet, so I rode with my light strapped firmly to my handlebars. While waiting in the exchange area for Don to finish his lap, I asked a fellow competitor if riding on the trails at night was scary. I was expecting a friendly reply and words of encouragement along the lines of, “No, it’s not bad at all out there, you’ll do fine!” Instead, he was brutally honest. “Yeah, it’s really scary out there. You can’t see much.” Gee, thanks.

However, with both headlight and moonlight, there was enough light provided to make riding comfortably and hardly scary at all. It wasn’t the darkness that was taxing, it was that it was Saturday night and I was alone crashing my way through the trails. In an effort to spare the toads and other wildlife that were playing on the trails, I allowed many a tree to catch my fall, as well as some rocks, and the occasional bush. By the end of my seemingly never-ending lap, I joined up with a few other lost souls and commiserated in our frustration, exhaustion and desire to just finish already. About two hours after I started, I finished. Again, Taylor was not pleased. I, on the other hand, reveled in my survival and went to take inventory of my legs and other necessary body parts.

We fell apart during the night. Taylor suffered from extreme heat exhaustion during his second lap and couldn’t settle his resting heart rate below 120. As he took time to recover, Don started and finished his third lap. It was nearing one in the morning and it was up to me to carry the now three-person team to glory—unfortunately, for them I decided against it. In a state of mutual exhaustion, Don, Taylor and I took a brief hiatus from our ride and slept. During our slumber, Keith, the madman that he is, rode a few more laps. By morning, Keith and Don had each completed four laps, while Taylor and I each had ridden two. Taylor decided around seven-thirty that he’d ride one more lap. Crap! If Heat Exhaustion Man was going to ride another lap, that would mean I’d have to ride another lap. Stupid mattress gene!

So, at eight-thirty in the morning I set out on the last lap of the day/race. I felt rested, but mentally I was unfocused, resulting in less than stellar riding. I became cautious and timid in my riding, not wanting to risk anything---as I was driving myself home! At one point, I found my bike crashing into a tree, propelling me forward and slamming my bike seat HARD into my right butt cheek. It knocked the wind, what little there was left, out of me. I yelped alone in the woods until I courageously got back on my bike and rode on until I hit another tree and banged my shin. Thankfully, the pain in my shin was enough to distract me from my sore bottom.

Soon enough (but ironically not soon enough) I finished the lap and I quietly celebrated my victory. Amazingly, Three guys and a girl finished fourth, beating the pants off of Enjoy the view! I can’t say I was a strong asset to the team, except for lending my chromosomes to our team name, but I had fun. In that perverted way, of course!

Happy trails!

Rowing Coach and Cycling Athlete

Marisa Peacock
8.23.05

Before I began cycling competitively, I was a collegiate rower. After college, I coached a few years at the high school level, before taking a brief hiatus from the sport to focus on cycling. Recently, however, I began coaching an open masters sculling group. Now I find myself balancing life between the two sports and dual roles as coach and athlete.

When I started cycling, I carried over a lot of the training that I had learned as a rower. I would take “power tens” in my mind; challenging myself with each pedal stroke, taking me closer and closer to my competitor. I raced like a rower on a bike. Technique was integral; strategies were important and practice was paramount. Now, having been off the water longer than I’ve been on a bike, I am approaching rowing from the perspective of a cyclist. I expect my rowers to endure longer at higher stroke rates, in bad weather, in adverse conditions. Unlike cycling, there are no boat changes, no stopping to swap out oars or earpieces to channel expert advice in rowing. Once a rower shoves off from the dock and paddles to the starting area, she is alone. Alone to coach, motivate and challenge herself. Hopefully, if I’ve done my job well, she will adapt to her conditions and race confidently and strongly.

Before my ride to work, I am out on the water coaching. Most of the rowers are older than I am and are as competitive and driven as elite athletes. With only an hour of water time each morning, four days a week, the rowers desire a hard workout and technical feedback. Many will race this fall, where the average race is 5000 meters. A head race is a race against time, much like a time trial. Like cyclists, alone with their machine, they are challenged by the elements: weather, water and their mind. It is my goal as a coach to not only improve their physical strength, but their mental strength as well.

My rowers are enthusiastic and passionate about their sport; however they lack the direction to apply what they learn in practices to racing. I can relate. As a cyclist, I am roughly the same kind of rower they are. Without mentorship, I lack the direction to make me a better competitor. However, like my rowers, I hope that what I lack in experience I will make up for in spunk and enthusiasm. By coaching again, I am becoming a better athlete myself.

Last week, an installation of new docks left us stranded on land. My rowers reluctantly endured workouts on the erg—the dreaded (but useful) equivalent of the indoor trainer. I assigned erg workouts that emphasized parts of the race: the start, the body, the move and the sprint to finish. We would take it apart and then put it together again and again. As a coach, I emphasize the importance of having a plan—although, as a cyclist I rarely have one.

At the end of the week, in an effort to diversify their workouts, I presented my rowers with a Spinerval workout. Poised on spinning cycles, the athletes sweated it out, occasionally amused by the absurdity of Coach Troy, the overly-excitable host of the video series. Remarkably, the workout emphasized the components of rowing that I had worked on during the week: maintaining a high cadence while remaining strong. Shifting into harder gears was comparable to rowing at a higher stroke rating (strokes per minute). Not only did the Spinerval workout add variety and give them a much-needed day off of the erg, it solidified the connection between my roles as a rowing coach and cycling athlete. By providing direction for others, I have begun to effectively translate my rowing strategies for my rowers to my own training strategies on the bike.