Race Report: Cohutta Cat 2019

At the beginning of October, after a visit to Waffle House before the start of the Bikepacking Summit, I was riding in my coworker Matt’s Sprinter van along with Lael Wilcox and Rue Kaladyte back to Mulberry Gap, where the Summit was held this year.

“I’ll be back in Georgia in a month and I’m going to ride this race called the Cohutta Cat.” Lael said. “You should do it, too!”

I have a gravel bike, but nothing with tires wide enough to handle the amount of singletrack on that route. I’d been talking with a local framebuilder, but didn’t expect to have the bike ready in time.

“That’s no problem, we’re the same size. You can borrow one of mine!” Lael said.

I thought about the bikes she had to offer, as compared to the steel Salsa Vaya that I’ve used to do everything from a TABR attempt, to the Huracan, to daily commuting. Recently I’d replaced the carbon fork with a heavier steel on. I’d also been putting in fewer miles than I’d like these days. Since this spring I’ve been working the first salaried, full-time office job that I’ve ever had, in a city new to me, and longer rides had been pushed to the back burner for a few months. I felt excuses quickly piling up, but cut them off before they gained any more momentum. I decided to take her up on the offer.

So, on Halloween, Lael and Rue came by the office and dropped off Lael’s Tour Divide bike, a Specialized Epic kitted out with Hope componentry, drop bars, and eTap shifting that allows drop bar shifters to run a wide-range, 10-50 cassette. It’s one of the only current market options for mixing drop-bar shifting with MTB-range cassettes. Plus, it’s electronic shifting, which is easy on the hands once you’ve been riding for days on end.

I unboxed it, threw the bike together on the stand, and strapped the few bags I’d want onto the bike, along with a sleep system and all the winter riding gear I own. It was a balmy 70 degrees, but the temperature steadily dropped as I drove up to Amicalola Falls for the night. I fell asleep in the back of my van, rocked by winds that pushed temperatures down close to freezing overnight.

The next morning, perhaps eight of the fifteen that signed up for the event lined up next to the falls. I’ve still been figuring cold weather clothing out, after spending most of my twenties living on the Georgia coast. I’d expected it to feel warmer, but stood shivering. Rue stopped taking pictures and offered me a puffy down vest. I took it, and ended up wearing it for a majority of the race.

We rolled out in the clear morning light. Quickly we were funnelled onto a forest access road. I rode with Lael for a few moments, but she eventually pulled ahead. I took an easy pace, getting the feel on an unfamiliar bike, but one close to exactly what I’d build for myself, given the chance. Miles peeled away and I realized I hadn’t seen anyone in a few hours. These are the moments I enjoy most about these races, drinking in the quiet, solitude, and surroundings.

Rolling in to Blue Ridge, I looked down and realized that the rear light was missing from its mount. I wandered around from bike shop to bike shop, eventually calling ahead and locating one at Mulberry Gap. Well, guess I better reach there before the sun goes down, as I planned to ride well into the night.

The next few miles crawled along a steep ridge before joining a familiar section I’d ridden earlier that year. I stopped along Wolfpen Gap Road when I saw two familiar white goats. I stopped to greet them, but they were more interested in my Clif bar than being pet, so I kept moving. The course kept winding through familiar gravel roads, eventually leading to the base of P2, a section of the Pinhoti trail that dumps you out near Mulberry Gap. I had fun on this section, getting the feel of how the Epic would handle on some rootier Georgia singletrack.

Kate, Palmer, and Andrew were there in the office when I rolled up the driveway to Mulberry. It was 5pm, and evidently I’d only missed Lael by half an hour. I thought about my wet clothes and the cold ahead, and decided to stay for a while to dry out and eat a hot cooked meal. I spread most of my layers in front of the wood stove in the Barn and saw that the mastermind behind the Cat, Daniel Jessee, had arranged some trail magic with snacks and a cooler of drinks in the corner. I downed a fair share as a pre-dinner snack and leafed through the Cohutta Cat patches. I picked the goofiest one from the pile, a snot-green cat with a pot leaf on its chest, giving the middle finger. It seemed like something a middle-schooler would have scooped up from a Hot Topic.

The remainder of the racers and Mulberry Gap visitors piled in during dinner, and it sounded like most of the riders were deciding to stay the night. As I warmed up, this seemed like an increasingly inviting option, but felt the need to roll on. I knew that Graham Skardon, a single speed rider I’d seen at nearly every race I’ve done, would be headed out after dinner. He tends to ride at a chiller pace, but rarely stops to sleep, which is a really effective tactic on races of this length. We bundled up, topped off, and headed out the door at 7:30 into the dark. I immediately envied the pogies I saw strapped to his bars as I walked out into the cold.

From Mulberry Gap was a series of steeper sections of the Pinhoti Trail. Eventually, we found ourselves on the way up to Fort Mountain State Park. After the route got increasingly steep and chunky, I nearly missed a turn until Graham pointed out a switchback over my shoulder that was nearly invisible in the dark. I ended up HAB-ing up the last quarter mile to the road, up a rooty hiking trail that looked questionably rideable in the best of conditions.

At this point I felt the weight of a mandatory bedtime weighing down on me— my clothes were wet, I was cold and my body had had its fill for the night. I parted ways with Graham at the state park campsite and found a retaining wall to tuck myself behind to lessen the wind. I got five solid hours of shivering, half-conscious sleep tucked into a bivy and bag, which was better than I expected. If you’re too comfortable during these races, it makes it pretty hard to get up and rolling in the morning.

Looking at the route, I was at mile 90. The next on-course resupply was mile 185, at Ducktown. I had written down a gas station on my cue sheet a mile off-course about ten miles down the road. Off I went. The descent off Fort Mountain got me cold, but I warmed up again by forced “canine intervals”-- sprints past a handful of houses with loose hound dogs. Soon enough, I saw the gas station’s sign peek over the top of a hill, and I rolled in as they were loading up a hot case with their breakfast biscuits. I ate a greasy egg & cheese, drank a few cups of hot coffee and stuffed the frame bag with a variety of gas station snacks.

I cut back on course and started climbing again immediately. The fall sun rose through the trees, throwing warm gold across the foliage. I wound up gravel for miles, into the Cohutta wilderness. I saw very few cars, and passed a man and his dog hunting some squirrel. The dog followed for a while at a polite distance, curious as to what I was riding.

Eventually the course took another series of forest roads closed to vehicle traffic. I heard a few shots echoing from unseen hunters. I made a point to turn my rear blinky and front light on, and to let the hub of my bike buzz quite a bit. Better safe than sorry. The hunters remained unseen, their shots likely echoes from a few valleys over. As I pushed around the gate at the end of the overgrown road, I looked down and saw a flash of color. I picked up a small patch that read: “I TRIED MY BEST”. Ha! I pocketed it, figuring it was likely a patch from a rider passing through earlier.

The next stretch was fun and fast, making it to a horse camp called Cottonwood patch to eat a lunch of Pop-tarts and Fig Newtons and to refill water. Several groups had their horse trailers set up here and were riding on the horse trails nearby. One of their blue heelers ran up and greeted me, happy that someone was down on their level to pet them.

More winding miles of gravel led eventually to another section of closed forest road. This part was pretty wet, with large rocks hidden by fall leaves. As it zig-zagged around the edge of a mountain, each inside turn was punctuated by a washed-out gully. Then, the course made a sharp turn straight up one of the gullies. I spent a good fifteen minutes pushing straight uphill. I reached the top of the rise and found myself in the middle of a wide dirt ridge road. I stood in the sun and allowed myself a few minutes to rest and feel the “don’t wannas” (pronounced duwannas) before moving on.

The rest of the afternoon was winding through much of the same. I took a catnap in a patch of warm sun, leaving my helmet on as a mid-ride pillow. I got up and pushed over the last major climb of the day, up and over a shoulder of Peavine Mountain, before a satisfying descent and ripping down Thunder Rock Express with more speed and less grace than I would have liked.

I rolled into the Thunder Rock campground, my main morale checkpoint of the day. This was a handful of miles west of Ducktown, a small highway crossroads town that I’d ridden through before. I knew that it was only fifteen miles away, but I felt the creeping decline in spirits that came along with a big calorie deficit from riding in the cold. It was time to take a little break before making the final push of the day. I leaned my bike outside of the bathrooms and grabbed a Snickers bar. The bathrooms were large and heated and I made myself at home. I slipped off my soggy shoes and both pairs of socks and wolfed down the Snickers as I dried my socks under the hand dryers. A curious camper or two poked their heads in and decided that it wasn’t the best time for them to shower. Ten minutes later, my socks were passably dry but very toasty. Good enough. My feet enjoyed a warm minute and then I slipped my cold, wet shoes right back on again.

The next half-dozen miles flew by as I rolled up along the Ocoee River. I flew up the trail, seeing fresh, wet tire tracks after every puddle. I enjoyed the carrot, imagining Graham had just passed through, though I knew the cold weather meant such tracks took hours to dry out.

The next ten miles were the Brush Creek trail, right outside of Ducktown. I must have taken my sweet time on those trails, because it was late when I reached the highway. After 9pm! Next to the open road and the river, the temperature dropped quickly. I realized that I’d counted on the motel in Ducktown having an office open late. I started to panic a little at the idea of sleeping outside a second night with temperatures in the 20s.

I rolled up and saw the familiar golden Shell station sign as I crested the hill. I leaned my bike outside of the gas station and walked in, remembering that this was the de facto motel office.

“Do you have any rooms available, and are there any restaurants open in town?” I immediately asked. I got a yes and a no in return.

“It’s 9:30 on Saturday, everything’s closed, but I can make you a pizza,” the attendant said.

“Please, and put all the veggies on it that you have,” I returned. I’d already grabbed a bear claw off the shelf and was eating it. “And I’ll take this, too,” I said around a mouthful of pastry.

“Oh cool, you’re veggie like me, yes? I’ll load it up,” rejoinded the attendant. I nodded and smiled, and he smiled back. I’ll hazard a guess that there’s not a huge vegetarian population in rural Tennessee.

An hour later, I’d eaten most of the pizza, showered, and had my kit drying in front of the heater. I decided to get a good five hours’ sleep after the subpar sleep the night before. I wasn’t as far as I’d like, only 180 miles in after two days’ riding, with 120 to go before the finish. I curled up, thinking that I’d likely see another night in the cold before the end of the race and wanting to soak up all the warmth I could.

I woke up groggy but very warm. After a few minutes, I’d gotten dressed, packed, and had a nutritious breakfast of a gel, Pop-Tarts, and a caffeine pill. It took me a while to realize why I felt well-rested: I’d forgotten that it was Daylight Saving’s time the night before.

The pre-dawn ride proved to feel the coldest of the ride, probably just due to the warm motel room I’d left behind. Cold country dogs chased me again, and I was happy to sprint ahead of them to keep us all warmed up on such a chilly morning. I was glad when the road turned to gravel, leading into another long wooded climb as the sky lightened once again. More beautiful than the sunrise was the idea of passing through Blue Ridge for a second round of breakfast.

That morning held more dogs than ever, with me wasting over a liter of water combined on a persistent German Shepherd, some floppy-eared hound pups, and later making friends with a pair of goofy Aussie shepherds.

I finally turned a corner and saw the “Blue Ridge City Limits” sign. I made a beeline to the Waffle House, and walked in and grabbed the last open seat in the place. I quickly ordered breakfast and downed three or four cups of coffee to warm up. After the usual hash browns and waffle, I ordered a few biscuits for the road. I was grateful to have something besides packaged gas station food to eat later.

I found I finally had some signal. I spent a few minutes catching up on social media. My partner and many friends were off racing a double-header cyclocross weekend in Athens, Georgia, and I watched videos of friends kitted up speeding through the middle of a local brewery. I flipped back to the route of the Cat and checked out what I had ahead. Not bad-- early morning and I had only ninety miles to go. I realized I had no good reason to spend another night outside, and resolved to finish before sleeping, whenever that turned out to be. I left the warmth of WaHo with a bag of food and in much higher spirits.

I saw a rider out on a morning road ride and waved, but mostly kept my head down and sped along the smooth pavement while I had the chance. Then a turn or two and I was on the short gravel road that led to the Toccoa River suspension bridge. This was a mandatory HAB section and bizarrely crowded with tourists, unlike anywhere else on the course. I was heckled by a few with a New Jersey accent to “ride it anyway!”. I laughed and kept walking down the rooty trail and across the bridge.

A few miles later and I was riding on rolling forest roads without a car or tourist in sight. I realized I’d already ridden seventy miles, over half of the mileage I needed to cover that day.

I didn’t see much else in my notes for the rest of the course. I shrugged and kept following the track. To my delight, the roads soon led to part of the Jake Mountain singletrack system, where I’d ridden with my friends Kim and Diane before. I felt like I was back on my own home turf. I hadn’t realized it beforehand, but the next twenty miles were on the gravel I’d ridden most up in north Georgia, winding around the Bull and Jake trail system. I breathed a sigh of relief as the track turned left immediately before the ascent to Winding Stair, a notoriously steep and rough gravel climb.

The afternoon passed quickly and I reached the final water stop marked in the course notes. It was a larger creek crossing, and I filtered two bottles of water that still tasted largely of creek. I ate an improvised dinner of bars and the last of my Pop-Tarts, and waited out the shakes. My body doesn’t like to multitask when it comes to eating and keeping warm, so it was one or the other the whole weekend. I saw the next handful of miles was singletrack, so I turned on my helmet light and plugged a battery pack into my headlight.

I was getting a bit tired, so once again the next few miles of twisty singletrack descent were a bit slower than I’d like. I found myself hyper-conscious of riding on a borrowed bike, and wanted to make sure I returned it in one piece. There were a few rooty sections with drops larger than I expected, but I found that the Epic handled these beautifully.

Finally, I was out of the last singletrack of the route, onto gravel once more. I rode a mile or two down this road and found myself on paved roads, past Nimblewill Baptist Church. I thought for a moment of a friend’s cabin not five miles down the road to the left, but realized I had only ten miles to go in the race.

The next few miles were rolling and paved, then the road turned and started up the final climb. I had dealt with a slightly bent hanger for most of the ride, not enough to notice while in the stand. However, it made the best climbing gears unusable, so I was left to either mash up or granny-gear up climbs. I had twelve hundred feet to climb in four miles, and it was already dark, so I granny-geared it all the way to the top. Shortly I felt tires touch pavement and rolled back into the park. On the boardwalk atop the falls, I leaned the bike against the railing and sat down.

All done.

I’d made it, and true to form, the end of these races are often anticlimactic. I sat where I was for a few minutes and texted my partner:

“I fuckin did it.”

I got up, rolled the bike fifty yards to the parking lot, and went to sleep in my van, tired and happy.

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I do wanna thank a handful of people for making the race what it was--

Lael, for lending me a bike so that I could race in the first place

Rue, for throwing me a vest so I didn’t freeze my ass off completely

Chris, for the borrowed sleeping bag

Graham, for being a riding partner for a few hours

The crew at Mulberry Gap, for their amazing hospitality

Daniel, for organizing the race in the first place

Jacob, for sending me a few days of encouraging texts I didn’t see til Sunday night