Athens to Atlanta - the inside story 1998

or, how I saw the light on the road to Piedmont Park.

By Gillian Clarke

The annual 86 mile Athens to Atlanta roadskate is an event with a seventeen year history which verges on mythology.  No other in-line event attracts so many people to skate so far for so little material reward.  No other event has such a reputation for friendliness and goodwill, for appalling crashes, for requiring such sheer physical endurance.  No other event does such a cool video.  I had to try it.

My elaborate training plan, drawn up after Christmas dinner 1997, fell apart rather quickly in the face of real life.  Instead I settled for skating as often as I could, with big chunks of interval training as a substitute for hills (not a particularly good substitute, as it turned out), and weekly long skates up to 65 km.  I also practiced eating while skating, something I took  to heart after first hand experience of "bonking" at the NY100 race last year.

I tinkered with my skates endlessly, re-moulding the boots and moving the frame around.  Last year I suffered badly from bruised ankle bones, so I was desperate to find a good solution.  A big part of my problem is that my ankles pronate (flop inwards) when I'm tired.  I tried the recommended drill of skating with loose laces to strengthen the ankles, but developed scary pains in my shins and achilles tendon, and gave up.  Maybe I'll do this next year.  Finally I discovered that the cosmetic-pads-down-the-socks trick protected me from most of the damage.

My biggest fear was having to brake, from high speed, for red lights, railway crossings, etc.  My T-stop is weak, and didn't improve much with practice.  I had dreams where I careered out of control into oncoming traffic.  A Miller heel brake fitted my frames, but I couldn't get much stopping power out of it.  On a trial run my leg cramped with the effort of braking and I could barely slow down.  Gloom and despondency ensued.  For a couple of weeks I just avoided thinking about the problem.  One day I realized that my frames were positioned quite far back on my skates, putting the brake well out behind.  I moved the frames forward one position, all of half an inch, and suddenly I could brake properly.  Major relief.

So, event day dawns and here I am in downtown Athens, Georgia, with 811 other people on skates.  Everyone has their own story about preparing for this day.  125 are completely new skaters, recruited by "Team in Training" to raise money for the Leukemia Society.  I'm suddenly nervous and snappy with Dan, who is driving the support van.  He gives me a hug.

At 7:30 prompt I feel myself being sucked forward by the crowd, then suddenly we're off.  Everyone is whooping and cheering as we pick up speed, a tidal wave of noise and spandex surging through the quiet Sunday morning streets.

The Georgia countryside is pretty, green and lush and wreathed in early morning mist.  We skate on rural roads, past farms and churches.  Right away there are hills, and the mass of skaters begins to string out as everyone finds their pace.  My heart is racing, from excitement and the first 2-mile climb.  I feel exhilarated.  I pass four crashed skaters and a woman in a plastic grass skirt who is vomiting. 

Groups of skaters form and dissolve.  I talk with skaters from California, Texas, Montreal, Ohio.  Team in Training have a support guy on a motorbike.  He pulls alongside and delivers advice in compressed bursts, like haiku: eat now, drink water, be strong, left turn ahead; then he's gone in a puff of exhaust.  The Team in Training skaters coach each other: be strong, stay centered, looking good.  It's all a little scary. 

It rains gently for a while, just enough to make the road slick.  We watch the countryside wake up; people going to church, dog barking, cows grazing.  The rain stops and it begins to get hot.  

I reach checkpoint three in 3 hours 45 minutes.  This is the finish for the half-distance event, at 38 miles, and skaters are celebrating.  My ankles are tired but I'm otherwise OK.  I find the crate of supplies which Dan brought here earlier, and sit down to eat a Powerbar and change my socks.  Under the same tree is a woman called Robin from California.  Her skating partner has stripped the threads in an axle, due to a fall, and now he has a locked wheel.  We try to fix it, but can't.  She isn't sure if she wants to continue, but talks herself into it.  We skate as a pair, and she talks about the fitness business, marathon running, life.  She's strong and I'm getting tired, so I mostly agree with her and draft.  She pulls me up the hills and I stabilize her going down: her 4-wheel skates tend to wobble.  The hills are getting bigger.

There is water at 50 miles, and now fewer people are taking water without stopping.  We sit down for a break.  We meet some skaters we've talked to before, and a loose group begins to form.  By checkpoint four (56 miles) we have a group of seven, including a Team in Training member, Tara, and her support crew of two tough women on a tandem.  They are sensible and funny, and make everyone feel safer.

Shortly after checkpoint four we enter Gwinnet county, and suddenly there are no police on duty at intersections.  This is unforeseen and scary.  We haven't had to stop for red lights until now.  All my brake fears resurface.  Also the traffic is getting denser and nastier.  We are harassed by trucks.  We decide that we can only survive as a group, and begin to wait for each other at the tops of hills.  Tara is tiring and has trouble with the steeper hills.  She has only owned skates for a matter of weeks!  She  raised several thousand dollars for the Leukemia Society and her bike crew are totally  committed to getting her to the finish.  A woman called Lee has only registered for the half distance but is skating the whole way with her friend Jeff "because he'll go too hard and kill himself if I don't".  A guy called Chris is beginning to cramp badly and needs to stretch after each hill.  My legs are weakening, and my ankles are sore, but the regular stops are giving me time to recover.

Gwinnet county goes on forever.  There is no water station between checkpoints four and five, though we were expecting one.  Water begins to run out, and bottles are shared around.  Tara is showing signs of heatstroke, and her crew are concerned.  Around mile 65 I begin to get leg cramps, little shivery twinges that threaten worse.  I eat Powergel and drink water.  I walk up part of a couple of hills.  

We safely negotiate the hill with the railway tracks at bottom.  The bike crew think that was Silver Hill, but we are actually still several miles away.  We climb one hill after another.  Stone Mountain is approaching and the hills are definitely steeper.  Some of the faster skaters have gone ahead, but we have collected some slower ones.  The group continues to hang together, though our speed is way down. 

We leave Gwinnet county and get a huge boost.  The police are back!  We all thank them profusely at every junction.  I feel served and protected.  There is just enough emotional energy to get us to the top of Silver Hill, at mile 70. 

At this point you need to know about Silver Hill.  It is the steepest descent on the course, and runs for nearly 2 miles.  In past years speeds in excess of 50 mph have been recorded, and there have been some major  crashes.  During the pre-race meeting, "Henry's Rant", Henry Zuver explained how the police had belatedly realized that this was occurring in a zone posted for 25 mph - and raised the speed limit for cars!  This year they had a policeman on the hill with a radar gun and a display board to show your top speed.  Go for it!  Not an attitude you would find in Canada.

Anyway, here I am at the top of Silver Hill, remembering all I have read about it and nervously checking my brake.  The others are taking a long time to get there.  One guy goes, and I can't take the waiting any more.  I start to roll, leaning on my brake.  Silver Hill is twisty, so you can't see how much more is to come.  By the beginning of the steepest central section, I am loosing control of my speed, and there is a left turn coming up.  I decide to do the sensible thing, and brake as  hard as I can, jump the curb onto grass and gallop to a stop.  A nice safe bail-out, still upright.  The guy ahead of me does the same thing, and together we side-step gingerly down the steepest section.  After that you can see the bottom of the hill, and it looks safe.  I step back over the curb - and my stiff legs give way and I fall on my ass.   At least I can now say I fell on Silver Hill....  I record a pathetic 25 mph on the speed clock and wave to the cop.

Checkpoint five is a mile past Silver Hill, and we regroup there.  A brief crisis when we discover they have no water, only cherry flavour Gatorade.  Water arrives.  I suck down my eighteenth Powergel.  People are dropping out.  A sag wagon passes, heading for the finish.  One of the passengers is Susan, the 65 year old woman who has finished the full distance for the last three years.  This is sad.  We wave. 

Only eight miles to checkpoint six.  This can be done.  We are becoming painfully slow.  Chris is still cramping, and pronating worse than I am.  Tara has started sweating again, which is healthy, but she is obviously beat.  Lee is chugging on doggedly, as if with tunnel vision.  Her friend Jeff hands out Advil and speculates about what is happening in his boots.  We all encourage each other in a way I could not imagine doing seventy miles before, in a previous life.  We are now officially "Team Not-Dead-Yet", and a force to be reckoned with.

Checkpoint six.  Eight miles to the finish.  Lee puts her head down and skates right through.  Jeff follows.  I hesitate, weigh the odds and go with them.  I want to get this over.  Tara and her crew take a break, and the group splits up.  

The last eight miles are long.  We enter Atlanta along DeKalb, a long, dingy industrial zoned street.  The surface is rough and potholed, and my ankles are very unhappy.  The three of us take turns leading and pointing out hazards: holes, debris, gratings.  My brake is burned out, and I fall again at a red light, unable to stop properly.  I bang my elbow on the curb, same place as I banged it on Silver Hill.   I am getting an egg-shaped bruise.  Lee and Jeff are locals, and know the route.  This helps.  The police have gone away again, because we have been skating more than the nine and a half hours allowed.  The course is officially closed. 

The route takes a funny hop through a sidewalk cafe, and the finish in Piedmont Park is in sight.  We enter the park, and some people are actually cheering.  We hold hands to finish together, which is not easy because a truck is loading up under the finish line banner.

We made it.  We hug each other.  Dan appears and we hug.  Photos are taken.  Gradually everyone finishes, and we all hug.  Chris finishes.  Tara finishes, to a hero's welcome.  Lee lies on the grass and wonders if she has the energy to vomit.  Jeff says he's going to a party, with or without the soles of his feet.  Chris probes a blister as big as the Ritz.  I can't imagine being so happy again.

GAC October 6th 1998

Bio

I grew up in Scotland (mostly in the Hebrides) but moved to Canada in the 80's for a "temporary" work posting and never went back.  I discovered inline skating - and the newly-formed Toronto Inline Skating Club (TISC) - in 1992.  Despite a basic lack of talent I got a huge kick out of it, and eventually picked up enough nerve to begin racing in 1997.  Since then I have completed about 20 marathons and done the NY100 twice and A2A four-and-a-half times, and have fooled about with some track and indoor racing too.  I love the wonderful, open-hearted and often deeply strange people you meet on the North American inline "circuit".  I am currently the president of Toronto Inline and the slowest skater in the club.  I'm 43 and looking forward to being a "grand master lady" in a couple of years.

My motto is: I may not be fast, but I always finish.

Toronto Inline Skating Club - http://www.torontoinlinespeed.com/

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