One of the most appealing aspects of unicycling is being the very first unicycle to do a given trail, ride or race. Searching online for such a race, I came upon the Black Fly Challenge, a 38.4 mile race through the central Adirondacks, in upstate New York. I’ve ridden that distance, and more, many times, but always on paved roads. The Black Fly course has an ominous reputation, with mostly dirt roads of varying quality and a ridiculous amount of ups and downs, so I knew it was a goal which would test my endurance. After a polite note to the race organizers listing some of my bigger unicycling accomplishments, to allay any fears they may have had of me simply dying somewhere in the Moose River wilderness, they accepted my entry fee.

I began incorporating dirt surfaces and all the biggest local hills in my spring training rides. A local friend, Dana Monteith, who had already done the Black Fly in 2009, invited me to his place in Rensselaerville, and there we rode some loops which included infamous Pond Hill Road, a brutally long dirt road climb, perfect practice for the race. One of my rides with Dana took place after a few days of rain, and it became clear to me that dirt roads become slog-fests when wet. My machine’s fat, knobby tire can handle dry dirt, but, with all my weight pressing my single tire into deep mud, it doubled or trebled the effort it took to climb those hills. This lesson had me doubting if the nearly 40 mile Black Fly track would even be doable if the weather was wet.

As race-day, June 12, 2010, approached, unfortunately, the Adirondacks were cool and rainy all week, and weather forecasts were calling for rain and thunderstorms on race day. The butterflies in my stomach grew to bats. On the two hour drive to Indian Lake early on race morning, as the mist grew to sprinkles and then light rain, I refused to turn on my windshield wipers. If I didn’t acknowledge the rain, maybe I could will it away. No such luck. Arriving in the parking lot, I pulled in next to a bicyclist named Mike, readying his gear, as the rain picked up into the deluge range.

This race is a point-to-point race, and the organizers provide a school bus shuttle to take us and our cycles from the finish line parking area to the starting line, 40 miles to the west, in Inlet, NY. I loaded my unicycle into the clatter of cyclocross and mountain bikes in the back of the bus, trying to ignore the curious, amazed, and skeptical looks from my fellow racers. A few of my bus-mates probed me for why I might have the audacity to attempt riding the Black Fly on a unicycle, and they seemed to remain doubtful, even after I’d listed a few of my toughest rides. With the hammering rain eroding my confidence, perhaps they sensed the butterflies, now vultures and condors, buffeting about in my guts.

On the bus ride to inlet, with the rain growing even heavier, I thought of Bill Murray’s line in the movie “Caddy Shack”, where, in the midst of a biblically torrential storm, he tells the priest for whom he’s caddying, “I don’t think the heavy stuff’s coming down for some time yet.” Shortly afterward, the priest is fatally struck by lightning. As our shuttle ride approached an hour’s duration, it dawned on me that we were expected to traverse this same distance in the next few hours, by cycling on dirt roads and mountains somewhere off to the south. In fact we had even paid money to do so. Just as this thought occurred, a starkly defined lightning bolt punctuated the gloomy clouds out the bus’ front windshield, and my intestinal condors became pterodactyls.

We arrived in Inlet, where unloading my unicycle from the bus earned me a bunch more hairy eyeballs and look-at-this-nut looks. I wheeled the uni under a pavilion and went into the town-hall to register and collect my timing chip. At the table I informed the organizers that I was “the unicyclist”, and, handing me my race packet, they asked me where I was going to put the race number. “In the spokes”, I said. There was brief conferencing behind the race table that it needed to be more visible, but I relaxed everyone by pointing out that I’d be quite easy to recognize, as the only uni.

All this commotion set off another round of bikers’ incredulous murmurs and questions. Fortunately, at that moment, my neighbor, and well known regional cyclist, Gene Primomo, happened along. Gene sees me training and knows about my one wheeled exploits, and quieted the crowd with a quick comment to the effect of “No, Steve’s really going to do it”. A few eyebrows climbed even higher, but I took great comfort from Gene’s confidence in me.

I strapped my timing chip around my ankle and then ran into Dana, from Rensselaerville, and Andy Reed and Doug Southwick, mountain bikers I know from Schenectady races. Outside in the pavilion, I joined the crowd of riders fiddling with their gear, and Charlie Casey, a biker I know from the hill-climb races, came over to chat. He, his teenage son Andy, and his nephew were riding the race for the first time. They wanted advice on which unicycle to buy so Andy can learn, so I waxed on about unicycle brands for a while, glad of the distraction from my anxiety. Then, another unicyclist, Tom Baker, from Glens Falls, showed up. He told me his longest uni ride so far was 14 miles, and, not up to one-wheeling the Black Fly, (maybe next year, Tom?), he would be biking this race. Having so many friends around raised my spirits and calmed me down.

Even better, the rain, which had been pounding down steadily for a couple hours at this point, stopped inexplicably ten minutes before the 10:30 AM start time. Everybody, including me, of course, got on their cycles and started looping around the parking lot. I was suppressing giggles as I was being trailed by a wave of astonishment, with snippets of “…a unicycle?”, “what the…?”, “…riding that…?” and “oh-my-God”. I recently mounted a small bell on the handlebar, (ala New Zealand unicycle buddy Ken Looi), so I mostly answered with a non-committal “ding-ding”.

Then the race organizer, Dave, started megaphoning, setting up for the start, and he asked the tandems and the unicycle to please come to the front of the pack. I wove though the bicycles and surveyed the racers lining the first couple rows at the start line. Grim and determined, intent on winning the race personally, each of them looked ready to eat anyone in their path, and crap out the spokes and cogs in their wake. Squeezing into their midst would have been certain death-by-knobby-tires, and I quickly decided a position off to the side would be more prudent. With similar discretion, two couples on tandems, and a triple tandem with a dad and his two young sons, also took flanking positions.

At three-two-one-go, I waited for the more rabid bikers to crank off, then hopped on my unicycle, still wondering what sort of dirt surfaces awaited us after the first couple miles of pavement. The noise of the cheering crowds lining the streets of Inlet swelled with surprise as they spied a unicycle, and I smiled and ding-dinged my bell, much to their pleasure. Cameras snapped and one fellow racer even made a short video of me as he rode beside me. I shifted my unicycle into its second gear as Route 28’s rolling hills carried us easily out of town, toward the Limekiln Gate and the start of the dirt roads.

Reaching the gate, I was relieved to see that the dirt roads were mostly sandy, and, though wet, at least they weren’t the deep, sticky mud that I had feared. If they had been deep mud, this write-up would be a description of epic struggles ending with a ride in the sag wagon. Rolling off the pavement, my 29x2.3-inch-wide MTB Stout tire floated well on Limekiln Road’s surface, sliding around a bit more than if it had been dry, but it was, in the immortal words of Berkeley unicyclist Tom Holub, “totally doable”. This turned out to be the general consistency of the dirt roads through the race course, so I could now focus on the more manageable difficulties of the Black Fly Challenge, hills and distance.

We didn’t have to wait for hills to appear. Limekiln Road starts climbing right away, not too steeply, but steadily, and I began passing bikers on the ascent, assuaging their chagrin (ugh – passed by the unicyclist!), telling them not to worry.

“You’ll be flying past me on the downhill side.”

“Wait, you can’t coast?”

“Nope – fixed gear.”

We crested this first big climb, and, sure enough, all those riders I had crept past on the uphill flew effortlessly past me, their speed inadvertently mocking my snail’s pace. Rather than coasting downward, I have to fight gravity to keep my speed in check, so I use a brake to drag away some of the effort of descending and save my quads. Hitting a washboard of bumps and then an embedded rock, I squeezed the brake a little too hard, let up a little too much, and, lurching back and forth like a drunkard on skates, I flew off into a forward roll as my uni slammed to the dirt. Fixing a slight twist in my handlebars and answering several bikers’ concerned questions – “Yes, I’m fine, thank you” - I resumed the descent. I was still determined to use the brake, a tricky skill on a unicycle, just maybe not until the next hill.

I knew this ride was long enough that my body would need constant refueling. I was paying attention to my GPS watch, and making sure to eat an energy gel packet every half hour, and wash it down with plenty of water. I was carrying a water-pack, and there were dependable volunteers staffing water stations about every five miles, so my routine quickly settled into a gel and water bottle every station. My own water was enough to supplement this, and I never ran out.

Right after the first hill came a bigger one, with lots of little hills combining to bring us up 500 vertical feet over a couple miles. I passed several bikers again, most of whom had just past me a few moments earlier, and would, in turn pass me again shortly afterwards. We turned left and climbed another few 100-footers, me and the same group of cyclists still leapfrogging, and rolled out onto the Moose River plains, the only flat portion of the race. This was the worst surface yet, with slightly deeper tracks in the wet sand. It was not too bad, but I was having trouble spinning a good pace due to the consequent wobbling.

A couple miles across these sandy flats brought us into some non-trivial hills, which I knew were at the bottom of the biggest climb of the day, up to Wakely Mountain. Many ups and smaller downs brought me past more racers, many pushing their bikes, and the dirt road just kept climbing with little respite for five or six miles. The fatigue in my legs was starting to build but I was determined not to walk any of the hills, and according to my GPS we were nearing 20 miles and the top of Wakely Mtn. Stopping at a water station, scarfing down another energy gel-pack and chugging the bottle of water, I asked the volunteer if we were approaching the top. He told me there was about another three miles. I was crushed to have that much climbing left, but perhaps he wasn’t sure which “top”, because after only about 300 yards we reached a high point.

I knew from my GPS and knowledge of the course map that the subsequent downhills indicated we had crested the race’s highest point. Because the terrain is constantly rolling hills, it certainly wasn’t “all downhill” from there, but the biggest climbs were done. With tired thighs but a happy head, I chowed another gel-pack and forced myself carefully, but purposefully, to use my brake to save my legs for 20 more miles of riding. Of course, I soon hit another set of washboards and rocks while braking, got bucked off, and slid unceremoniously to a sandy halt, once again telling fellow cyclists, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

I was shooting for 10 mph average, and all that slow climbing had to be averaged away somehow. Fortunately, some of the next downhills were hard-packed and of a grade where I didn’t need to slow myself down, but could just sort of float and let my feet and pedals spin fast. Quick glances at my GPS watch showed I was hitting 16 and 17 mph at a few points, and my rough calculations were still on track for a 4-hour finish.

The pack of racers was pretty thinned out at this point, but I stilled leapfrogged with a few bikers on the rolling hills, passing them on the uphills and watching them fly by, without pedaling, on the descents. The terrain undulates remarkably, with no flat riding, but rather continuous 50-foot ups and downs for the next several miles, until, finally, we got to the last 8-miles paved part of the course. I was hammered by now, but thrilled because I‘d finally reached the easy part.

NOT! There were plenty of hills left on the road to Indian Lake. I was now able ride as fast as I could spin my higher gear, nearing 20 mph (that’s too fast on a unicycle), on the downhills, but I’d had enough climbing for the day, thank you very much. My thigh muscles were flickering on the verge of serious, seizing cramps. The Adirondacks didn’t care for my whining, however, and, after every sweet descent, another mini-climb reared up. At about the 34 mile point, after stopping at the last water station, chatting for a minute and eating another energy gel, I re-mounted for the last push.

Rain was now coming down hard again, and I felt quite cold after that brief rest. I entertained stopping and digging out my rain jacket, but that effort seemed too great to undertake. I’m fully aware that hypothermia is generally a bad thing, so I chose to warm myself the old-fashioned way: by sprinting up the next few small hills. Luckily, it worked, and I chased a biker the rest of the way to Indian Lake. I was ever so happy to see the “One Mile To Go” sign, and then, finally, the finish line.

Jaws dropped and voices rose up as I came into view of the parking lot. People who had been shouting encouragement to the widely scattered finishers suddenly all surged toward the street to cheer me in on the home stretch. I checked my watch and realized I’d broken my 4-hour goal, by about a minute. I ding-dinged my little bell all the way down the last 100 yards, then dismounted, my quads feeling very close to disabling, brick-like cramps. After returning my timing chip (don’t lose it or it’s $110!), I remounted and rode down the parking lot to my truck, which contained food (I was pretty sick of gel-packs) and warm, dry clothes.

As an added bonus, the Team Ommegang guys, four of whom finished in the top 11, were parked right next to me. They gave me their own cheers and took my picture as I rode up and hoisted my cycle into my truck bed. Chatting with them was Mike, the first cyclist I’d met that morning. Realizing who they were, (their sponsor, Ommegang, is a brewery in central New York state), I asked politely and was given a nice, cold Ommegang beer, which sure went down smoothly. At the awards ceremony, I didn’t win anything (no unicycle category), but was given a nice mention by Dave, the organizer, and enjoyed a booming round of applause from all the bikers. Many of them may not have realized that what I’d done was possible, and many of them came up and congratulated me. I was beaming, partly from the strong beer, but mostly, from all the attention, which, of course, is another of my other favorite aspects of unicycling.

Overall, I finished 289th out of 319 finishers, with a time of 3:58:41.

My equipment:
Kris Holm 29-inch (KH29) Mountain Unicycle
KH/Schlumpf 2-Speed Internally geared hub
137mm Moment Cranks
MTB Stout 29x2.3 tire
Nimbus Shadow Handlebar, with a V-brake

Main website for the Black Fly Challenge
Results for Black Fly 2010
Tracking and data from my Garmin 205 GPS

Questions - email steveyo(a*t)nycap(d*t)rr(d*t)com