The Ogre 24

It happens over beers at the Wolf, as so many good things do. Dan mentions he tried to put together an Ogre 24-hour team with some TCSAR buddies but they couldn't do the race as a co-ed team because they didn't have a woman. I swore long ago I would never do the 24 because it always involves water and sleep deprivation but for some reason this time the idea creeps into my skull and bounces around in there. Dan does water stuff - he has the equipment and knowledge, so I can just be a passive byfloater. And while I reliably fall apart during the Ogre, that's always with Cy, and there's something to be said for doing an adventure with people who are not your main source of emotional stability. You have to keep the bad attitude inside. 

I pour another beer from the pitcher and tell Dan I want in. Cy raises an eyebrow. 

We start a text thread with the two Jackson boys. It comes to light that Ian doesn't even own a bike, Steve doesn't own one that's appropriate for the race, and Dan has only recently purchased a Surly, but is not really a cyclist. I propose a test run where we bushwhack from Teton Canyon to Spring Creek, ride Aspen, then take gravel roads back. It's a pretty good indicator of the Ogre, and I feel optimistic, ish. 

The race starts at 2 p.m. on a Saturday, a time frame that lends itself to a lot of dicking around. We make piles, allocate piles, pack piles, put glow sticks on our watercraft, pare down our first aid supplies, attend to one poorly maintained borrowed bike, prepare for the different transition areas and different disciplines. Then all of a sudden it's noon and we have to go to check-in and start studying our map. (The venue is a block from Dan's house and we're the only local team competing, which certainly counts for something.) 

We start with a neutral rollout along the bike path to 5500 and I caution the boys not to crash - there are a lot of really sketchy bikers in the pack. Then the race starts and after pacelining down the gravel road and wading with bikes through the confluence of Fox Creek and Teton River we've taken the lead, weirdly. We're the first team to arrive at Henderson Canyon, drop our bikes, and start trekking. There's a trail network here that's not on any map so I make some navigation guesses based on familiarity. We are being watched online, theoretically, our little dots moving in real time, and I wonder if our friends and family can see that we're doing well. I'm filled with the optimistic glow that happens literally every year when I mistakenly entertain the idea that the Ogre can be won in the first couple of hours. Before I remember that winning teams have the ability to somehow walk with laser focus from one checkpoint to the next instead of dithering around trying to find the orange flags in the woods. 

We hike up through wildflowers and down steep ravines grabbing checkpoints (and a moose paddle) and for the first of many times, I'm grateful that Ian and Dan can handle the navigation because I never learned how to read a compass and can't associate small physical landmarks with their paper counterparts - minor highpoint, periodic creek, steep ridge, etc. I know the area better than anyone and am moving fast, and that's good enough for me.

After a long interlude (during which time we encounter several enraged grouse) of trying to find a tricky checkpoint in the inaptly named Lizard Lake, we run down out of Mahogany across half the valley to the South Bates river access. The sun is setting, I'm playing pop music on my phone, we're passing tons of people. I'm not even mad about the road miles. 

After inflating our duckies and donning PFDs and dry gear (thanks Sarah) we get on the river and paddle a frenzied quarter mile upstream to snag a CP dangling from a willow on the bank. Once we point it downstream I begin to realize how unpleasant this endeavor will be. Twelve miles of nonstop paddling down slow moving water in the dark and cold, covering far more ground than necessary because of the river's incessant meandering, Ian and Steve speeding away in their boat because I'm not a good paddler, and the river is sooooo boring and my gloved hands and sleeves are soaked quickly and with every pass into the water my paddle squeaks against the rubber kayak and is very annoying and embarrassing. 

Two eternal hours later we take out at Packsaddle where many teams are recovering, shivering in front of the fire, drinking coffee, facing the long night ahead of them. After everyone's hands stop shaking we deflate and pack up our kayaks and schlep them into the Uhaul, change into warm clothes and socks, and strap on our bike lights. We depart around midnight. The race director said he was stuck there until 5 a.m. waiting for people in basketball shorts on stand up paddleboards to recover from the first blush of hypothermia and start biking.

We begin the not insubstantial climb from the river bottom back into the Big Holes, up gravel roads and double track to the cirque of Relay Ridge. It's a long ride, with several extended breaks to accommodate the mixed pace of the group. Once we reach the cirque, we drop bikes and start wandering around. There are quite a few CPs up here but we decide to be kind to ourselves and only shoot for a few of them, enough to allow the sun to rise so we don't have to ride downhill in the dark. At first morning light I have a donut and a can of iced coffee, which everyone is deeply envious of. 

I tell the boys that if Abby and Jason are awake, they're probably watching the livetracker and are happy to see that we're at a stunning overlook of the whole valley and the Teton range at sunrise - that's the kind of race directors they are. 

After a couple of scenic CPs on cliff bands and nearly an hour of flustered searching for one last flag in a sinkhole (which turns out to be a very big obvious sinkhole that we manage to overlook for too long) we head back to our bikes and point it downhill, accidentally blowing by a few intersections before making it down the steep technical final section to the Horseshoe-Packsaddle road. No injuries, no mechanicals. Shocking. 

We eat lunch next to a creek, slap on bug spray and not enough sunscreen, and I promise to lead them out for the rest of the ride - it's the Horseshoe Canyon network, which I know well, and I'm still feeling pretty good. It's nice being an asset and not at all a weak link. We catch a few more CPs and Dan, who is deeply unflappable and hasn't struggled at all during the race, admits to me that riding singletrack after twenty hours in motion is really taxing his concentration and bike skills. It's a moment that I hold onto to share later with friends, most of whom can count on one or two fingers the number of times they've seen him crack. 

I feel grateful for the many many many hours of hard mountain biking I've done. It's a huge advantage to be able to ride on autopilot when dealing with cumulative fatigue. 

The sun is fierce as we do the final unpleasant pedal from Horseshoe to Driggs (not via the most direct route of course because adventure racing). After what feels like five hours of spinning circles down gravel roads and listening to my increasingly noisy drivetrain, we arrive in town and collapse in the grass at the finish line. 

Even though our team name is In It For the Après, our après is shortlived and subdued - a beer each before Steve and Ian drive back to Jackson and I take a nap. 

The next day I feel surprisingly chipper, not really sore at all except for my shoulders. Dan agrees it just feels like the aftermath of a big ski day in Grand Teton National Park. 

We have 24 CPs total. The winning team, which includes two children who have done the Ogre several times and seem to be impeccable navigators, got all 31 CPs. We place fourth in our category and fifth overall out of 30 or so teams. Not too shabby for a group made up of two non-cyclists, one non-boater, and three non-adventure racers. 

This is the only event I keep coming back to. Playing the oldies: 

2016 Ogre 

2017 Ogre 

Cy and I also raced in 2018 and 2019, and did the Covid navigation challenge (poorly) in 2020.