November 6, 2006 (Costa Rica) – I arrived in San Jose, Costa Rica on Tuesday (Oct. 31) and if not for the all of the paraniod misinformation I might have been able to relax and enjoy the trip. I met some other North Americans on the plane… and so began La Ruta 2006.
Exiting the airport into the hot humid Costa Rican heat wasn't so bad except that the exit area was congested with nearly 2 dozen or more taxi drivers all lobbying for our attention. Fearing for our lives we elbowed our way out with bike box in hand and luggage in tow.
Two days later at a small beach-side hotel in Jaco, on the west coast of Costa Rica, we began our journey, "our personal growth experience". It began at 3 am with a wake up call, breakfast and a fairly on-time roll out into the dark misty jungle morning at 5:45 am.
14,850 feet was the projected climbing for the day, with this amount of elevation gain I am forced to pace and relax. A fine plan, but as we al well know, the "best laid plans of mice and men” are oft to go astray. At 4km in we hit our first wall - 45 minutes of granny gear climbing, into red clay mud and soon deep into the jungle. I was caught up in the excitement of being with a nice group, and so knew I was taking myself out of my planned pace, ahh well…
By 8:45 am we were three hours into the first day and I was deep into the hurt locker - hoping it wasn't going to be the projected 7 hours. I reached 'melt down', total heat exhaustion - it was 9:15 am and I was lying on the side of the trail.
I fixed my front brake, hoping that was a partial reason for my more than partial paralysis. I slowly walked and pedaled my bike through the next section of jungle known as the 'national park' - truly we were in an area of uninhabited jungle. Many competitors passed me by and between my bouts of bitter self-loathing I managed to re-group some of my shattered "inner growth experience".
Nearing the 6-hour mark I embarked onto a small climb, that became a big climb, that became a massive climb and then became an 'out of category climb', Oh my god, it went on forever. Fortunately I was at the point of walking and so were my five new best friends, equally ambitious Italians, Costa Ricans and yours truly, the Canuck.
It is amazing to be totally spent staggering up a jungle ridge line, with local support staff surrounding their riders and a litany of curses running constantly through one’s head. But as I am a positive person, who plans for crazy adventures, I had planted some local currency on my person. At the very top of this most massive climb, I offered to buy my walking companions a coke. It was gratefully accepted. So at a small shanty with a corrugated tin roof, open sides ann cow pooh all around, we looked back at the incredible view, over the national park, over 1/3 of Costa Rica and we relaxed - but for a moment - and relished the journey to date. Faded were the troubles to get here, present was the comaraderie of shared suffering.
The coke kicked in and hour 7 rolled by (12:15 pm) and the heat was climbing. On the course profile it read 25 kms to the finish all downhill, well there was a small bump at the end. I climbed over the highest point of the day feeling maybe not a second wind, but a weak gust under my fragile wings. I had renewed hope that I would make the most of this experience and survive.
My companions and I separated over the last bit of climbing and further separations on the descent left me alone. It was a crazy fast descent through Costa Rican villages, back roads, around horses, cows and dogs, a bit on the insane side, but I like the unpredictable nature of racing in other parts of the world, not so controlled as good old N. America. Feeling positive I pushed up a few rollers and ran out of gas, period, empty. The coke had run it's course and I was 10-15 kms from the finish, on a false flat gravel road.
Ouch, like I can't describe, I nearly cried. I did use my granny gear, and even walked until I heard some other racer coming up behind me, and then pride made me mount my trusty steed once again. We were rolling around a ridge, each corner looked exactly like the last and there was no end to the corners. The locals were giving distance to the finsh but it was always changing, and finally I arrived, somewhere around 8 hours. It was the longest, biggest ride I have ever done in my 18 years of cycling on one of the hottest days I have ever seen.
At the finish I collapsed. My head was pounding, my stomach was in knots and I couldn't stop sweating. I knew from all of my experience that I was physically in trouble. In my head I had booked my flight home, I was outa here. No more Costa Damn Rica. But hours later at happy hour with Tinker Juarez, four beers in I figured "what the hell", lets just suit up tomorrow and see what happens.
Dre
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Photo: Mattio
Andreas Hestler (Rocky Mountain/Business Objects) survived Stage 1.
Photo: Mattio
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