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.

Race to the River

For the first time in three years, I decided to forgo the Lowcountry Race Weekend in favor of some off road racing at Harbison State Park.  The Maxxis Race to the River was just the excuse that I needed to sever ties with my old team and start anew.  This year, and hopefully for many to come, I will be racing with the Trek Bikes of Mt. Pleasant--Subaru of Charleston Race Team (more about the team later, just know that we have fun).  New team, new bike, new discipline.

Drove up early Sunday with a couple of friends (Taylor and Ken--also on the team) for the race at 10:00.  It helps going into a race with people you like to ride with;  eases the nerves and provides a little motivation.  It was a chilly morning in Columbia and having arrived a few hours early we decided to check out the trail for warm-up and reconnaissance.  Truth be told, I was feeling really pumped.  Maybe it was the new team, new bike, new discipline going through my head, or maybe I was getting a bit cocky from honing my skills on the local trail.  Whatever it was disappeared as soon as I went bombing into a turn and then into a tree.  Not two minutes in to our leisurely warm-up and I'm in the dirt with Ken and his 29er piled on top of me (all of us laughing hysterically).  Ken said he "thought my throttle was stuck."  I thought I had better take it easy and just follow.  This was mistake number two.

Trying to follow wheels of those way more skilled than you just doesn't work.  What works for them, may not work for you.  I would hit the deck again before our warm-up was over, this time much harder.  (not to be outdone, Taylor did a nice wheelie straight onto his back).  I hit a patch of pine-straw, landed hard on my shoulder, and somehow my leg got stuck in my frame.  Ken was quick to lend a helping hand and some encouragement.  "Let some air out of your tires," he said as he proceeded to do so.  "Just ride your own race.  Ride your bike."  By this time air had left my tires and my sails.  I limply rode back to the car where all illusions of victory escaped me.  While I sulked and waited in earnest for my race to get underway, Ken was busy texting our (my) adventures.  "Hey Geoff," Ken blurted, "Mike says 'Shut up and pedal'."  If that's how it's going to be...

The race started with a lot of doubt and not much fanfare.  The key to this race (I was told) is to be the first onto the singletrack (which apparently means "trail in the woods").  Knowing this, I half expected there to be an all-out crazed dash from the road to get there.  Not so.  I think three-quarters of the field was content with just surviving.  "Well if you guys don't want those places, I'll be more than happy to take them," I thought. So I did.  I charged into the woods in fifth place and quickly overtook fourth. Third place was just ahead of me on the trail, but he was much better than me on technical sections and would slip away.  No matter, I had two chasers to worry about.  They would yo-yo behind me for another mile and a half, until suddenly, they were gone.  Having shed my two pursuers, I could finally focus on riding my own race.

I felt good.  I could see third place in the distance and, although unknown to me, the technical sections were gone.  As I slowly gained on him, I kept checking for chasers and reciting friends' words of encouragement in my head;  "Shut up and pedal."  "Just ride your bike."  Soon I was on him.  I soft-pedaled behind him up a climb and thought,  "I could just ride this guy to the finish and smoke him in the sprint."  No, this is a race.  Someone might catch me.  I need to ride my own race.

I waited for us to crest the climb.  The whole time this guy had been using a huge gear and now that we were in a flat clearing, he was spinning like mad (that's the thing I noticed about some MTBers, they use really high cadences even when not necessary).  I shifted into a bigger gear and laid it down.  As a road cyclist, this was my terrain and I was quickly out of sight. Now I was the hunted and my chaser would catch me on the trail on several occasions (he was much better technically than me).  I knew as long as I stayed upright that I could distance myself from him in a clearing or in the finish; and outside of a few dicey moments, that is largely what happened. First out of the woods, I sprinted for the finish; I had worked too hard to lose my place now.  The result:  third place by one second--much to the chagrin of Taylor (second in his race) and Ken (who finished eighth) who were cheering me to the line.  I think I could get used to this kind of fun.

There will be Mud

Like King Arthur pulling his sword from the stone, I too have pulled this from my local bike shop; This is X-caliber (Jealous?--You should be.  Don't hate it because it's beautiful).  Due to my obsession with all things self-propelled and two-wheeled (except recumbents) and wanting to try something new, I decided to finally pull the trigger.  Nothing could be more foreign.

Aptly dubbed a 29er, this thing has massive twenty-nine inch wheels (the standard bike is a twenty-sixer), freakish hydraulic breaks, and feels and sounds like a tank.  It is everything a road bike isn't:  huge, heavy, and dirty. What a road bike packs in simple elegance, the Gary Fisher X-Cal makes up for as a monstrosity.  Rolling over and crushing everything in its path, 29ers leave everything in their wake--like standard MTBs (mountain bikes for short), me (X-cal proved a bit too much to handle and dumped me on several occasions during our first outing), and hopefully the competition (we shall see next week).

What else?  This bike allows me to feel free in ways a road bike cannot.  I actually feel limited when I'm on the road with it, but not off of it.  With it, I can go almost anywhere yet despite this, and despite the lack of cars to contend with, it has its cruelties.  Being so close to nature, you would think that you would have time to enjoy it.  Not so.  The trail requires almost constant attention and delivers almost constant battering.  Where road cycling offers much time for introspection, mountain biking requires quick reaction times to avoid trees, holes, roots, and gnarly snakes. Differences aside, they are both fun.  I think I could get used to this.

Relativity

Around 1905, Albert Einstein was busy laying the groundwork on a theory that would change physics forever.  A theory that changed humanity forever. Through the development of his theory of Special Relativity (and later, General Relativity), Einstein was able to explain some of the mysteries of our universe and has since been proven correct.  To put briefly, his revolutionary theory changed the way people (physicists) thought about space and time (and many other things for that matter).

I make the distinction for physicists for a reason; relativity is a difficult concept for most people to grasp because it is not concrete, intuitive, or conceivable. Relativity's effects are more confined to the realm of nearly massless particles moving near the speed of light whereas Classical (or Newtonian) physics deal with objects of any appreciable mass (a moving human being falls into the latter category).  It impacts our lives by dictating the laws of the universe and the vast majority of us, 99.99% of us, will never directly observe it.  However, an interesting consequence of relativity is time dilation.  Basically stated, time dilation requires that as speed is increased, time slows down relative to a stationary observer (that is, the slowing down if time is not evident to the traveler).

To be sure, Einstein's equations still hold true and reduce to classical equations when applied to humanly achievable speeds.  So, if relativity is more applicable to the macro scale of the Universe or on the subatomic quantum scale, why am I spending so much time thinking about it?  Because I've been riding my bike; that's why.

Riding my bike provides me with a mental and physical outlet; cycling has allowed me to draw parallels and antitheses to relativity.  Recall that a moving object's length and time both contract with respect to a stationary observer.  Here's the parallel:  to a cyclist pulling at the front of a paceline (or at least for me) these relativistic ideas cross my mind: "If I go a little bit faster, I can make it from here to there sooner...spend less time at the front...end this misery now..."  It is as if time and distance are being shortened.  Though these thoughts are easily proven by classical physics (as speed equals distance per time), in my mind they are relativistic in nature.  Therein lies the undoing of my cycling induced physics lesson; time dilation and length contraction are not apparent to the object in motion.

These perceptions are only in my mind because I have put them there and not because they are actually occurring or are even measurable at such terrestrial speeds.  Obviously that won't stop me from thinking about it. Sometimes the mind's perceptions become reality.

Blythewood sans Roubaix

Sans me too.  Anymore the latest craze in bike racing promotions is to add a dirt section to your race and slap the word Roubaix (pronounced roo-bay) at the end of the name.  Named after perhaps the most prestigious one day classic, Paris-Roubaix, it implies a race of shear agony and suffering; the result of a few hundred kilometers of racing over multiple cobbled sections. For Blythewood-Roubaix it implied the twist of a few dirt sections around a seven mile loop.

Implied is the operative word.  It seems that the Blythewood city engineers forgot to tell the race organizers that they'd be paving over their dirt section; and it seemed that no one told me that racing, despite not riding for nearly two months, wasn't the brightest idea.  Oh well, I was going; you've got to cut your teeth sometime and there's no better way to gauge your fitness than racing.  Two hours, some wrong directions, and four bottles of urine later, I was ready to race.

The hours leading up to a race are tenuous--sometimes antsy.  You want to make sure you stay well hydrated, but get it all out pre-race.  You become very adept at pissing in bottles.  Nerves also play a role, but strangely as I was warming up, I didn't feel that nervous.  Perhaps I was too busy feeling the gusting wind in my face or the nagging pain in my knee.  Whatever the case, the race was about to unceremoniously begin.

Without much trouble the pack reached 36 mph on the first lap. The course was surprisingly non-technical (which was a good thing considering the forty-man field), but did include some nasty little climbs.  Staying near the front is always key, but never more so than at the base of these climbs. You could easily find yourself in oxygen debt, legs seizing, and off the back in no time at all.  This was the first of s aeries of things to cross my mind.  The others being:  "Wow, my knee doesn't hurt so bad anymore," and "I guess not riding for those three months really wasn't too bad after all," to "I'm losing places like a rock."

In retrospect, it had happened so quickly.  I lost place after place until finally I found myself trying to grasp the last wheel of the field.  The Phil Liggett play-by-play would have sounded like "he's blown his engine" or "the field has had one look at him and said 'well are you coming or not' and the answer--not".  I had blown up spectacularly.  I rode another lap and a half alone until getting lapped by the CAT 1s and called it quits.  Normally I would have stubbornly rode the extra miles under the guise of the "at least I didn't quit" mantra, but not today and I didn't even feel bad about it.  Instead I left with a few takeaways; until I imploded, I had felt pretty good, my knee had stopped hurting, and I could still make it home in time for dinner with the family.  These are the important things.