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Outside Magazine May 2003

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The Hard Way
Misery Loves Company (Cont.)

TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR mountain-bike relay racing is the brainchild of Laird Knight, 44, founder of Granny Gear Productions. "I still have a scar on my hip, acquired when I was five," offers Knight, by way of credentials. "I crashed while riding my bike at night, with one hand holding my handlebar and the other holding a burning stick of wood that I'd pulled from a backyard fire."

Inspired by his teenage obsession with 24-hour motorcycle races and his stint in the eighties as a National Off-Road Bicycle Association (NORBA) race organizer, Knight staged the inaugural 24 Hours of Canaan in the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia in 1992. Thirty-six four- and five-person teams competed. That seminal mud bash spawned a booming series that today includes the 24 Hours of Snowshoe, Moab, Tahoe, and, debuting this year, Temecula, California. Organized by Granny Gear with the help of hundreds of volunteers, these events draw upwards of 5,000 riders in more than 1,200 teams; there are also dozens of smaller all-night races across the continent. Indeed, 24-hour relays have become one-day Eco-Challenges for serious mountain bikers: a sadistic combination of solitary suffering and intense teamwork, stamina and sprinting, mental and physical exhaustion—all played out over wildly challenging terrain.

24-hour races have become one-day eco-challenges for mountain bikers: suffering and teamwork played out over challenging terrian.

Of course, it's more than just pain and misery, which becomes apparent the minute we roll into the base area at Northstar-at-Tahoe ski resort: It's a Woodstock for mountain bikers. There's rock-and-roll wailing from giant speakers and big white tents and gear booths in the trees along the start of the course. There are vans and RVs and dozens of little tents in the camping area with bike stands sprouting like saplings, guys fiddling with their brakes and lying in the grass drinking beers with their teammates, and women cyclists trick-riding their bikes down steps.

"I think it goes back to the core values of mountain biking," says Knight of the event's cultish appeal. "Sportsmanship, camaraderie, and fun. Mountain bikers are such a gritty, hardcore, nonwhining group. They have character, and in dangerous situations they bond together."

The Tahoe course is one of the most technical in the Granny Gear series: an 11.2-mile loop that starts at 6,330 feet, gains 1,600 feet through open ski slopes and woods, then caroms back down. This year's 104 teams are organized into more than a dozen classes—from solo pro riders to two-person, four-person, five-person, and all-women squads. Racers ride a lap, pass the baton to the on-deck rider, and then recuperate until it's their turn to ride again. The team in each category that completes the most laps started between noon on Saturday and noon on Sunday wins goodies from the $15,000 grab bag of gear and prizes; sponsored pro teams vie for a $5,000 purse.

"The relay aspect is critical," explains Knight. "If you're racing for yourself, when it gets tough the thought of quitting will go through your mind. You start finding excuses—not enough sleep, sick, whatever. But when you're part of a team, this never even enters your head. You can't give up. You can't let your team down. People never race harder than they do in a 24-hour."

The riders I talk to tend to agree.

"The camaraderie of 24-hour events reminds me of the old NORBA races," says Bruce Frazier, 36, captain of Sportin' Woodys and a veteran of nine 24-hour races. "Now NORBA is mostly competitive professionals, so this is where the funhogs have gone."

"It's a big ego-buster," says his teammate Brian Starkey, 34. "Anybody can ride a two-hour race in daylight. But night riding—that's good fun."

"Night riding is what separates this race from all others," says Chris Schulze, 31, of Top Tube Johnson and da Saddle Sores. "It's the chance to push yourself to the limit."

Although men still far outnumber women at these events, there are plenty of strong female competitors.

"Funnnn!" exclaims Stray Voltage's Barbara Engel, 45, a windsurfer, mara-thoner, and triathlete. "That's what it's all about. Sleep? Who needs sleep?"

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