To SAG or Not to SAG

Draft October 2, 2022

I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
‘Til the Death Ride brought me down
(Modification of Landslide by Fleetwood Mac)

Alone in the SAG van, totally gassed having biked down the Alpine Lake turnaround, almost 34 miles from returning to Markleeville, my decision was whether or not to take the SAG or try to ride my way back. SAG stands for “support and gear,” but it also is shorthand for the “SAG wagon.”

Saturday, July 16, 2022, was the first official Death Ride (DR) since 2019. Eight years after my 12th DR in 2014, I was once again headed up predawn Monitor Pass. Also in the dark, Nick Peterson, now 70, was finally in his first organized DR. We both had registered before DR had shut down in 2020 (Covid) and 2021 (fire). Each year we rode the route weeks later with vehicle-support by Kristen (my wife, who did parts of the 1992-93 DRs) and Kristine (Nick’s wife with son Nicholas). We had spent three Springs training in hopes of an official DR, and I was in my third year of having turned 70. Our friend Peter DeMarzo, in his 50s and a multiple DR veteran since 1999, was alongside. My initial full DR was in 1991, followed by two consecutive DRs. 1999 was my fourth, joining Peter, his wife Kaui, and my riding pals Andres and Bill, all first year riders. Brian Preston did his first DR as I did my then last in 2014. In 2019, Nick, new to road biking, and I rode just Carson Pass, no longer a DR summit. That single ride culminated now into the 2022 DR, first organized in 1982.

Nick, Peter, and I met twice atop Monitor Pass. We separated going up Ebbetts Pass. Summiting, my legs felt shot after 55 miles and 9,400 feet of climbing, more than any of my recent training rides. Slumped into a chair at the summit’s rest stop, my choices were to descend back down Ebbetts Road’s 21 miles mostly downhill to Markleeville. Or continue west 13 miles to the Alpine Lake turnaround, only to somehow return where I now was, again with the same 21 miles remaining. I felt done. Unsure of which way to go even as I took my bike to the asphalt roadway, I joined a cluster headed off to Lake Alpine, not knowing if I would have enough left to make it back.

The five-mile descent to Hermit Valley was rip-roaring fast and there I met Peter, having already made Lake Alpine and back (and who would soon finish). Nick arrived with a spare cleat that I needed to the rest stop mechanic to fix my shoe. After a torturous climb up to the Mosquito Lake crest, I arrived six miles later over-cooked at the hot Lake Alpine stop. The DR volunteers were extremely attentive, and a cold, wet paper towel compress placed on my forehead immediately helped. John, in charge of the SAG wagon, give me a chance lie down in the van, starting the engine to operate the air conditioning, slightly cooler than outside. He also asked if I wanted a ride.

Stepping out of the van, I found two of our group sitting in chairs where I had sat: Garrick Hileman and Matt Johnson, both at opposite ends of their 40s, each riding his first DR. Matt, with a doctorate related to sports nutrition, studied my flushed face. It didn’t require a coin flip—his assessment matched my own. I needed a ride. My goal of a 13th full DR crashed.

At that point, I was the only one accepting of a SAG. John used a step-ladder to place my bike on the van’s roof with the front wheel stored inside. One-by-one, other riders began appearing, also requesting a spot in the van. The eight remaining roof-racks painstakingly filled over the next half-hour. A would-be tenth passenger appeared. Feeling recovered, I changed my mind and surrendered my spot inside the jammed van. Front wheel reassembled, off I went, no more SAG for me, for now.

The climb out and along the undulating ridge road were not difficult for me before dropping into Hermit Valley. But biking the relentless five miles back up Ebbetts Pass was something else. I joined other bike-walkers in bright late afternoon sunshine, occasionally riding in slow motion the slighter grade portions. When I finally reached the Ebbetts Pass summit, I stretched out, helmet-off in the shade. As I was the only immobile biker, volunteers quickly spotted me as they were packing up unused supplies and trash. I was in the used-up category as the few remaining bikers passed by.

Once more my choice was to SAG or not to SAG. Even though it was downhill back to Markleeville, that still seemed too much. I agreed again to take a van ride, ending my hopes once more of receiving this year’s pin signifying all passes ridden.

I informed the small contingent kindly assisting me of my undergoing treatment since September of last year for metastatic liver cancer, expressing what I had overcome to make it at least this far. But it was my legs, not my liver, that had exhausted me. A volunteer with a satellite phone texted Kristen waiting at the finish in the isolated shade of Bob Mack’s booth canopy, letting her know that I was taking the SAG wagon. By now Matt and Garrick had both arrived, telling her I had joined the van at Lake Alpine, no longer true.

Having spent the last half-hour in recovery and with no van arriving, I once more flipped the switch to No SAG. Putting my bike to road, I left behind a surprised Kathy, almost my age and who had been checking on me. Waving to her, I was riding once more with the van and its passengers somewhere behind me. Shaking, I took the beginning downhill curves in the lengthening shadows, no other bikers in sight. Minutes later and warmed up, I was cruising in the reflecting sunlight along the East Fork of the Carson River. Inside the clubhouse at the finish, race director Becky awarded me the day’s last pin, my 13th. 100 miles, 14,000 feet.

So, twice I chose to SAG and twice I chose Not to SAG. Is there a lesson here? I don’t know. Every Death Ride I’ve done remains special, including this one at age 72.