Hermano: Digging Deep in the Mendocino Highlands

By Jonathan Lee

I have seen firsthand how road racing in the US seems to have come of age and then headed over the hill. The caliber of competition at racing has increased but without a commensurate growth in participation.

For me, racing has become incredibly hard, despite an improvement in my fitness, and has lost a lot of the simple enjoyment and novelty it once had. Many of my ilk are turning to "adventure rides" and gran fondos to chase down the pleasure of a serious challenge, but also the camaraderie and relative ease of undertaking that racing has, in large part, lost.

My brother, David, does not race bikes. He never did and has no plans to start anytime soon. He suffers from ankylosing spondylitis (AS), a cruel form of degenerative arthritis. It is an extremely painful malady, one that slowly fuses the bones of those who bear its grim burden. Successful treatment for this disease is, of course, extremely expensive and, in my brother's case, it is not covered by insurance. Our family has been trying to raise the $15,000 to pay for the initial battery of treatments. We had small donations that got us started, but AS is a degenerative, potentially lethal disease. Time is of the essence. We needed something bigger and we needed it quickly.

There are numerous benefit rides out there, everything from a hastily tossed-together weeknight hammerfest, to the grandeur of Levis GranFondo, which I consider to be the most well-run ride/event currently in the US. Thankfully, I had the organizers of Levi's event in my own backyard. I went out on a limb and asked if they would help put this thing together. They get requests like this often; I knew it was a longshot. Thankfully, route maps were spread out on the table before the word "yes" came out of their mouths.

The Hermano had been born: a 73-mile ride scaling over 10,000 feet of elevation deep in the Mendocino highlands between Oregon and San Francisco. For you math fans, that's scaling 1,000 feet for every 7 miles ridden. It was to be a timed route with a 80/20 mix of asphalt to dirt, all on roads where riders would vastly outnumber motorized traffic. We'd travel through deep green woods, emerge onto emerald hilltops, look down upon the ocean, and trace back through secluded ridges and valleys before returning home.

We opened registration and the riders started to trickle in. We were committed and we had less than three months to put it all together.

Angels began popping up in every direction. Angie Gibson donated tons of her time and money mobilizing community resources to actually host the ride. Carlos Perez, the boss of Bike Monkey, didn't even hesitate to lend operational support to produce the Hermano. Levi Leipheimer took an average route and tweaked it into something hideously, beautifully exquisite. Shatz Bakery, Raley's Market, Lagunitas Brewing, Marmot, Rally Point Wines, and Arnot Roberts Winery donated food, beer, prizes, and wine. Volunteers signed up to drive SAG vehicles, staff rest stops, haul kegs, grill beef, and register riders.

In the blink of an eye, we found ourselves on the last Sunday of March. Just over 100 people were lining up in outside of Boonville, California, a bustling metropolis of 1,035 citizens whose remote valley setting has spawned its own language (Ed. note: Boontling, look it up). The challenge of the day had kept away a huge crowd, but we were all just fine with the local hard men and women who represented that day.

The guys lining up were the same ones that I tried to put to the sword over the last 12 years of racing and training. Here they were, paying a different type of dues, putting aside their dogged race drive to ride this inaugural benefit for my brother. I became humbled and honored in the short interval before the start gun went off.

We were ascending nearly immediately and I knew we wouldn't stop climbing and descending until we hit the coast nearly 24 miles later. The first eight miles took an hour and I was already starting to feel like I was on the ropes. People around me were talking happily, much to my astonishment. Levi and Brian were cracking jokes. Shane, Duncan, Roger, and George all kept tempo on the front, along with my mates from the Capo Test Team. We made a quick dive into the first rest stop, snagged a fast bite, and we continued on our way.

The descents were gifts of forested, swoopy turns, punctuated with plummeting, high-speed straightaways. I was pleased to look down and see 60mph at one point. Shane mentioned calmly that he hit 61. I managed a low growl.

We hit the coast and flew through Point Arena, the westernmost point of our day. Our departure from that town was on a long, eight-mile false flat. I whined to my teammate Charlie, that he was pulling too hard. My other teammates tolerated my complaining and helped me stay on the group. Javier and Shawn, no longer content to nestle within our group, headed off in pursuit of Levi and a few others that had recently flown the coop.

We turned east onto Fish Rock Road and dropped from the coastal ridge into the Gualala River canyon. The second rest stop of the day was, by now, required. We stuffed our faces with bananas, Coca-Cola, and bacon. Yes, that's correct. Bacon.

Here was where the gravel began. Over 4.5 miles of straight up up up, with a road surface just loose enough to force you to stay in the saddle. My 36x28 gearing choice was terribly wrong. I began to lose sight of my Capo brothers. My cadence dropped to 45 rpms. My vision started to blur. Colors flashed different hues. I knew what is happening and that I was in deep trouble. I prayed. I often pray during races/rides actually, but this time there was desperation in my prayers. I got worse. Each mile was steeper than the previous one.

I knew that if a vehicle of any sort would drive past, I would block the road and crumple into a heap, pleading to be taken to food. There was no doubt I would have dropped out right then if I had seen a way out. But I did not.

I struggled to the top of the climb. I rode on, now alone. Almost a half hour passed before I heard voices coming up from behind. It's Shane and George, playing the long game, gobbling me up. They passed on either side, each saying something nice and cheery until they looked into my face. They instantly were both offering me food and water. Shane handed me a full water bottle which I drained into my gaping maw. He gave me a bar which was more delicious than any cookie dough my mother ever made. I planted the whole thing into my face and 70% made it past my lips and teeth. 30% went up a nostril. I don't care.

Shane and George rode on as we started the gravel descent. I caught my Capo brother, Nick, with his second flat. I stammered "I'm doomed" and was going to ride on as I pass him. He understood fully.

Soon after, I passed Shane and George, also fixing a flat. I stuttered something inane to them as I passed. I happened upon two of my teammates, Charlie and Alex. They too were fixing a flat as I rode by. They soon caught me and smoothly took over in front of me, helping me get past the next rough sections and climbs.

I'd been on the bike long enough now to fully bonk, then recover again. I'd never done that before.

We hit the last rest stop. They told us that we are about 45 mins from finishing and it was mostly downhill from here. They told us that Levi and Brian have already finished. Our first recon ride of the Hermano route was just over five hours. Those two did it in four.

We headed out into what is one of the most beautiful valleys I have ever seen. Part Norman Rockwell painting, part Pendleton Wool billboard, part Marlboro ad, it was California as only my forebears would have known it. In a hundred years, I was convinced that little had changed in this corner of the world. It was heaven.

We hit Hwy 128. Only 8 miles of undulating road lay between us and the finish. The cars move fast here, so Alex and Charlie took the front and rotated fast, checking back to make sure I'm hanging tough. We saw the finish and they hit it full gas. They're only a 100 meters from the line before they slowed considerably, then pulled over to let me finish first.

At that point, there was nothing to do but limp into town and take residence in the redwood grove at the Mendocino Fairgrounds. There was beer, tri-tip, Coke, and sweet sweet shade. We finished in 4:38. Alex and Chris could have easily come in 20 minutes before that, but they were happy nonetheless and I'm thankful for their charity.

More riders filter in, some shattered like me, some not, most dazed, but all smiling and high fiving. The final finishers clocked in at almost 7.5 hours in the saddle. They're smiling too, incredibly.

My brother doesn't ride a bike. His athletic exploits are a memory to him now, but I hope that on that day, he could feel our collective breaths as we pushed our bodies up to and beyond their limits. He would understand our suffering and be thankful for what people gave. He'll never meet most of these riders, but he understands that each of them want for him what they chased themselves that day: a full life, rich in health, and free of any disease that would keep the wind from blowing in our faces.

We are blessed. We aim to pass this blessing onto David. That's the spirit of the Hermano.

Jonathan Lee is a Cat 1 racer in Northern California. He is a co-founder of the Red Peloton cycling team. He volunteers, coaches and promotes cycling endeavors throughout Sonoma County. He and his wife Lauren are expecting their first child on October 5, 2015, which is going to make riding Levi's Granfondo on October 3 very interesting.

Contributions to Dave Lee's fund can be made via his Giveforward page here

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