I blame Erik.

The 12 Hours of Temecula race wasn't on my schedule for the year.

"Will we see you there?" he inquired.

Innocuous, really, but the exact same words uttered by John Hinke swayed me into driving up to Oregon for the Spring Thaw.

The race was Saturday, June 12. I registered on Thursday.

"Are you allowed to rest? Or do you have to ride your bike the whole time?"

I tried to explain the concept to a non-racing friend. Yes, you can stop as much as you want. But whomever completes the most laps between the hours of 9 a.m. and 9 p.m. wins, so the idea is to keep going.

I've raced a few 12 hours as part of a two person relay team, but I've never done one solo. How long would I last? Would it be miserable? What should I eat?

I offloaded the contents of my refrigerator into a cooler, brought a can of electrolyte powder and a case of Gu, seven gallons of water, spare shorts and socks, nine bananas, six bagels, a quart of homemade espresso.

I was too busy sorting all my stuff and babbling nervously to friends to properly warm up, but no matter. I wasn't planning on setting any land speed records on the first lap. When the hordes headed for the hills, I drifted to the back, forcing myself to temper my enthusiasm.

The course, held in the brushy hills behind Vail Lake Resort, was about eight and a half miles long, featuring long fire road climbs and fast, technical descents. Rocky across the ridgetops, twisty through the bushes, with a few stairstep steep drops to keep you awake.

I knocked off three laps pretty easily, since I wasn't going all that fast and 25 miles is a pretty standard length for me. Lap four was somewhat more difficult. My body was confused. "Hey, aren't you done now?" I've never ridden more than five hours in a row, and even those were punctuated by some serious chatting.

Erik, who unknowingly got me into this, invited me to hang out in the Canari tent. He and Kathy had set it up ever so handily next to the timing table, restrooms, and swimming pool. Friends and members of the Canari Queens, Skuld Racing, and San Diego Trek wandered in and out, tiptoeing around the piles of helmets and shoes.

I stopped briefly after every lap to refill my water bottles. As people realized I was there alone, I was soon relieved of all chores.

Hans, from the Navy Seal team, in between his own efforts, made a special trip to get cold water from his cooler. Someone's husband whose name I never learned offered to lube my chain. Three, THREE guys installed my lights for me, as the race officially ended after dark.

Five laps. Six.

Ok, that's a pretty decent result on a single speed. I was starting to have to push the bike up grades that were visually level, and even when I was pedalling, it felt remarkably like I was standing still.

But it was still only late afternoon, so I headed out again for lap seven, somewhere beyond the pale of fifty miles.

I had made the mistake of eating half a slice of white bread, deviating from my previously liquid diet. I had to stop SO many times and hang my head. "You OK?" people asked as they pedaled by. Uh huh. More or less.

I made myself look around and enjoy the view. Here I am, riding my bike all day, and most people in the world don't have enough to eat. Here I am, soaking in the country air, enjoying these hills, the puffy white clouds, turning the cranks with both legs. There was a gentleman on course with one leg in a brace, pedalling only with the other working leg. One of Hans' team members trained in Afghanistan by riding up and down the air strip. Sixty miles at a time.

It is a luxury to actually volunteer for suffering.

After lap seven, which I finished around six p.m., I allowed myself to actually sit in a folding chair inside the tent. Would I get up again? Hard to say. There were still three hours remaining, plenty of time to walk the whole course once and, if I worked really, really hard, ride two laps.

"I don't know if I can do two more. It's only 17 miles, but that feels like forever." I teared up a little.

"You're just tired. Do a parade lap and hang out with us," someone consoled.

"It's your first solo. If you don't try for both, you'll always wonder what you could have done."

Angel. Devil. Devil. Angel. Which is which?

Here's the thing. Only laps that are finished before nine p.m. are counted. If you ride past the timing table at 9:01, that whole trip around was pointless. I knew I could do one more, but what if I tried do two, and didn't make it back in time?

At the start of lap eight, I rode up the first hill with another solo rider. We discussed the rock and hard place choice of whether we should celebrate with a leisurely spin, or risk pulling in late.

With the bread slice no longer bothering me, I rode away.

As the sun started to drop toward the horizon, many teams and solos had already called it a day. Very few of the hundreds of entrants still out on course. Truly solo now, I enjoyed the sensation of riding with just me and the trails and the twilight.  Oh, but wait, here's Tinker Juarez again.  He passed me three times, on his way to fifteen solo laps.  That's only one behind the winners of the men's pro relay category.

All day I'd been forcing myself not to worry about future laps. "Just get through this climb. Just finish this climb. Fifty more feet and you can rest. Ten more pedal strokes."

If I looked ahead to the twenty or eleven or even three more climbs waiting for me, I was sorely tempted to dip into the pool. Better yet, the beer cooler.

"Stay right here, in this moment, and don't you dare move." Oddly enough, it pretty much felt like I wasn't moving, anyway.

I reached the "Tunnel of Love" downhill for the eighth time. A smooth slot that curved through bushes along a hillside, it required no pedaling. And if I stayed off the brakes, I could fly down the whole thing, swinging from side to side through the ditch, riding high on the banked turns, allow myself a little air on the jumps.

I have a soft spot for campy 80's movies. I crack myself up, and all that. Remember the scene in Dirty Dancing where Patrick Swayze pulls Jennifer Grey onto the dance floor? "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

I got passed over and over that day as I made my slow and steady charge. Pro relay teams, strong solo riders, everybody tore by me at warp speed.

But no matter who was on the hunt behind me up to that point, I dusted them on that section.

"Nobody catches Mama on this downhill."

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

For those brief moments, the line between earth and heaven blurred.

At the end of lap eight, I skipped my customary visit to the tent. No stretching, no high fives, no new water. I checked in at the timing table, made the turn through the chicane, and then went right back out.

Committed, now.

I made it through the trickiest sections before hard dark.

I've only ridden with lights twice before, and it isn't something I enjoy. For some reason, if I can't see the trail, I can't feel it, either. It felt like the whole thing was oiled.

But I was comforted by the sight of other dots of light bobbing around the canyon. Like the first stars emerging in the night sky, the cadre of the faithful hanging on until the very end gave me the inspiration I needed to finish.

I rolled across the line at 8:40 p.m.  Done, and done in.

Nine laps. New course record.

I still can't believe I ate the whole thing. It did take all day, though.