The Prizefighter

I have no business riding a mountain bike, much less racing one.  Just to prove it, I entered the 6-hour Grind on the Greenway endurance race in Fort Mill, SC.  Situated just south of Charlotte on the Anne Springs Close Greenway, the Grind featured a ten-mile loop of twisting, rooty and rocky singletrack, 800-feet of elevation gain per lap, two tunnels and a swing bridge.  Ah yes, I would become intimately acquainted and nearly decapitated by said swing bridge (on a practice lap no less).  Thankfully it would be my only run in with that bridge, but not my only crash; I had too many of those to count.

The first came not a quarter mile from the start when they guy in front of me went down on a patch of flagstones.  I ran right over his bike and then landed on him for good measure.  I could see that this would be the overwhelming theme of the day.  Thankfully Taylor was waiting for me at the next turn.  Though he wanted to ride together and be a good teammate, I told him to go on and not wait.  We rode about half of the first lap together before getting separated by crashes and slower riders.  At the end of the first lap, despite the many bumps and bruises, I felt pretty good. I was four minutes behind Taylor and was sure I wouldn't see him again.

It was then to my surprise that midway through the second lap I found Taylor hunched over a flat rear tire aside the trail.  "Taylor!"  I said excitedly.  "Dude, I just about emasculated myself," he said.  "You okay?" I inquired.  "Yeah, I just gotta fix this flat."  He didn't want me to wait.  I passed him a tube and some CO2 and rode away.  I was feeling pretty invigorated by this.  I knew that he'd likely catch me and we could ride together again. Having company on the road or trail can do a lot to boost morale, but ironically I wouldn't see him again until I was on my death march.  We passed like two ghosts in the night.  I pitted to top off my water and grab some food and Taylor did the same; somehow we missed each other.

I was averaging just under an hour per lap, and at this rate, I'd log six very respectable laps.  Very respectable and not very realistic.  My hands we numbing and I hurt--in fact, I looked like Freddy Kreuger. (And since we're on the topic of bad 80's horror films, let me tell you what it's like getting chased down by some pro mountain bikers.  All you hear is the rustling of branches behind you, shadows zipping through the woods, and then they're on you.  Some Texas Chainsaw Massacre shit.)  I had crashed more times than I could count, each one taking with it some flesh and some confidence until I started to doubt what I was doing.  But know this:  I got up every time; each time slower than the previous, mindlessly yet instinctively throwing my leg over the bar, clipping in, and pedaling like some punch-drunk old boxer.  My pace had dropped off significantly and I needed a break.

After a quick break and half a PB&J, I set off on my fourth, and unbeknown yet to me, my final lap.  The short rest helped immensely, but things were going terribly wrong.  My body had rejected the food I just attempted to eat and, despite drinking nine liters of water, I hadn't peed yet.  In fact, I had no urge to piss, my kit was all salted-up and I couldn't drink any more.  I was toast after a quarter-lap.  Slogging away as if in quicksand, head throbbing, and hallucinating; the classic bonk.  I sought out a nice log to lay on, propped up the bike and tried to gather myself.  After reassuring about ten passers-by that I'd be okay, I got back on my rig and continued on in earnest. Futility, stupidity, and survival.

I managed to pass Taylor heading in the other direction.  "I'm done bro," I said, drooling on myself.  I finished my fourth lap in four hours thirty minutes--plenty of time for a fifth and possibly the start of a sixth, but it wasn't meant to be.  I've never felt so horrible on a bike before.  I turned in my timing chip and spent the better part of the next half-hour shivering and dry-heaving in the fetal position next to Taylor's car.  All of that for twenty-sixth place and some good times.

Fever is Contagious

After many months of trying, I was finally able to make it out on the road bike with my wife.  It seems like every time we tried, something else was always stopping us; illness, the move, lack of babysitters.  Whatever the reason, there were no excuses this time.

I was really stoked to finally get out and ride with her.  Big deal if she didn't know what a dérailleur was, she was getting more excited about riding and was really pumped about her new Gary Fisher Piranha.  She had also been getting out to ride around the neighborhood and get more comfortable with a road bike and its handling.  K-P was understandably nervous about riding on the road, but I kept telling her that she was built for the bike and she would kill it.

I thought a nice 26-mile out-and-back would be a good starter.  Twenty-six miles is a particularly long ride for the first time on a road bike, but KD-Rock never complained (she usually runs farther than this).  From the get go she was a natural; always looking comfortable on the bike and with all the killer instinct of cyclist.  I planned on keeping the pace easy for the first ride, but we averaged 21 mph on the way out and I was even baited into a little sprint at the end.  Headwinds abounded on the way back, and our pace waned, but neither of us let that ruin an enjoyable time .

What meant the most to me was why she did it; for me.  I'm pretty sure that my wife would give about two craps about cycling if it weren't for me.  This is what makes her selfless and great.  Wanting to have an interest in something I love, she sacrificed her time to spend time with me on the road.  Good conversations, an appreciation for each other, and some revelations and insight about the people we love the most.  The ride came to an end too soon and I couldn't wait to go out again.  "When are we going again?"  she said.  Music to my ears.

Walterboro

Last Wednesday marked the third race in the USA Crits Speed Week series and race number three of the year for me. Conveniently located an hour away in Walterboro, SC, attendance is a must for an otherwise bleak schedule in this area. This race happens to be one of my favorites, though not for my own race, but for the pro races that follow.  Race organizers, piggy-backing on these pro races, have consistently improved turnouts to make a fun and festive event. There aren't many places where average Joes like myself can rub elbows with the likes of "B-list" pros like Hilton Clarke, Karl Menzies, Rahsaan Bahati, and six-time national champ Tina Pic.

This was my first criterium of the season.  I hate crits.  Add to an already nervous time, a bunch of idiots going way too fast, taking stupid risks, and at efforts way too hard and you have a crit. Thankfully Walterboro was only hard and fast--lacking the nerves and idiots.  The nerves were taken care of by my water company.  Following a few laps around the course, I had every intention of hitting the trainer for a hard warm-up, but apparently, Mt. Pleasant Waterworks had every intention of trying to burn my house down.  That day they managed to leave me without any utilities and were now setting fire to a few of my major home appliances.  No time to worry about a race when you've got that going on.  Thanks Mt. Pleasant Waterworks!

Nervousness and lack of warm-up aside, Charleston Bicycle Company was about to take care of the rest.  It's a little intimidating when twenty riders, in a field of fifty-five, are of the same team.  To give credit where credit is due, CBC put on a good race and exercised great team tactics.  About two laps in I spotted a move by CBC that would establish a pecking order within the race.  I knew I had to go with that move. What I didn't know was what it was doing to the rest of the field.  A gap was opening up behind me and it was all I could do to stay tacked onto the back of the lead group of ten.  Every time I pushed it, I felt like I was going to throw up and shart at the same time.  Yes, shart. Maybe quesedillas weren't the best pre-race meal choice.

Things would settle down, but CBC had already finished the script.  They communicated as a team without even speaking to each other and rode really well.  I was happy to have finished tenth though I always look back on what I would've done if I could've done it.

Afterwards I stuck around to watch the spectacle that is the pro race. Herded at the start line like cattle, $10,000 machines beneath them, the pros zipped around the streets of Walterboro and into the darkness at 30 mph.  Fearless and phenomenal--definitely an event worth checking out.