This was my first race riding for the Adventure Mountain Bikes Racing Team, based in Fair Oaks, California. My buddy Steve worked for Dean Bicycles at the time, and he conned the owner John into giving me a sponsorship. This “sponsorship” only amounted to a Dean frame at wholesale, an ugly Dean jersey and a lifetime supply of decals (many of which I still have). Adventure Mountain Bikes, which didn’t stay in business long, was the local Dean dealer and would be my home base. I became part of their team by default, and they provided a team jersey, parts at cost and race entry fees.
We had a team meeting at a pizza place where I met my teammates. We talked about the upcoming races and decided on a schedule. The first race would be in less than a month.
On the day of the first race we all met at the shop in Fair Oaks, piled into the team van, and headed to the bay area. This was the first race where everything was taken care of for me—sign-up, race fees, transportation, etc. Consequently I don't recall the name of the race or even where it was. I do think the word "scramble" was in the race title.
My Dean frame had not arrived yet, and it had been a few weeks since I was supposed to have received it. In hindsight, this would become Dean’s legacy: cool products with missed delivery dates and poor customer service.
Consequently, I would be racing my Fisher Pro Caliber. I felt weird about wearing the Dean Jersey anyway, since all my teammates were in their red Adventure jerseys. Not yet having a Dean bike sealed it. I never actually wore the Dean jersey in any other race after that because I felt more loyalty towards the shop than to Dean.
This race was unlike anything I had done before or since. There would be a qualifying race where the field would be divided into thirds. The third finishing first would be the expert class, the middle third sport and the last third beginner.
The course was a loop that was split between a high plateau that was pretty much a BMX track and lower ground that was more like a mountain bike course. Before the qualifying race we were goofing around on the upper part of the course where there was a set of double jumps. After the doubles was a small jump at the top of a steep hill leading off the plateau. Missy Giove, some guy in all black and I were the only three people attempting to clear the long doubles. It took a bit of speed coming out of the previous corner to make the long gap, but it was manageable. There was a large group of people milling around the jumps watching us, and admittedly I was showing off a bit.
We lined up for the qualifier and I decided that I really wanted to impress my team. My goal was to be in the top third and race in the expert race. When the qualifier started I rocketed off the line and got out into the lead on the long first straightaway. I hit the first corner hard, rode along the top of the berm, and took a lot of speed out of the turn. I hit the double jump, landed perfectly and kept going. I peeked behind and everyone was taking the “bailout” line around the jump, which probably cost them four or five seconds. I then hit the little jump and sailed about halfway down the 50-foot downhill. I rode by myself on the lower portion of the course, but on the climb going back up to the plateau a couple guys passed me. I rode well for the rest of the race and ended up fifth. I was the only person on my team in the top third, so I think I successfully impressed everyone. Little did I know how much more impressive my main race would be.
After the qualifier we again started hitting the jumps to pass the time. Missy could jump a little bit, but I think the man in black and I were better. Once again, nobody else was attempting the doubles. The more I jumped, the more cocky I became, and the more people came over to watch. On my last jump I carried as much speed as I could out of the corner and hit the jump with a ton of speed. I hurled the bike way in the air, stalled, and pointed the nose down perfectly on the backside of the double. I sped towards the little jump and launched into the nothingness. It seemed like I was in the air for an eternity, completely sailing over the downhill transition and landing on the flat ground below. The sharp and jolting impact collapsed my arms and legs, and I slammed hard to the ground on my left side. My head hit the ground and my helmet literally exploded. I came to a stop after sliding about 10 feet.
Right after a bad crash, the first thing most guys do is lay there for a second to see if all the body parts are still attached and functioning. After deciding this was the case, I stood up. My fork was twisted badly, my rim was bent and the handlebars didn't feel right. Other than that the bike seemed functional. My body however, had seen better days.
I was bleeding from pretty much every joint on my left side—wrist, elbow, shoulder, hip, knee, shin and ankle. My head hurt. I picked up what was left of my helmet and walked my bike back to the team tent we had set up. I tossed the helmet chunks into a nearby trash can and sat down in the shade of the tent. Our team manager, Brian, walked up and looked me over. “Are you OK?” he asked. “Yeah,” I lied.
We sat and talked for a while as I cleaned myself up. Teammates came and went. Guys patted me on the back and said things like “better luck next time.” I was not enjoying the pity. Screw that. I decided I was still going to race.
Brian left to go watch the beginner race. We had two guys racing in it. When it was over, Brian returned to find me working on my bike. I was desperately trying to untwist the bent fork legs, but it was no use. “Sit down, man! We can fix that when we get home,” he said. I told him I was racing, and that I needed a helmet and some aspirin. He looked at me like I was insane.
Brian returned from the van with a bottle of Tylenol, of which I took eight. I definitely had a concussion, and the pain was intense. I needed it to go away.
We loosened the stem so we could at least get the handlebars lined up with the front wheel again. The brake pads were re-adjusted so the front brakes worked somewhat. A teammate gave me his helmet, but it was far too big. I grabbed my Giants hat out of the van and put it on under the helmet. It looked ridiculous, but it worked.
When the start of the expert race came around, my head still hurt quite a bit, but the Tylenol had done an admirable job of dulling it. My body was stiffening up. I knew this race was going to suck.
For some reason, I decided to go with my strategy from the qualifier and try to get the holeshot. I did just that.
Just like in the first race, I found a hole and sprinted to the front. I had the first corner all to myself and made it through carrying a lot of speed. I saw the double jumps ahead of me and thought, “Why not?”
I hit the jump and sailed right over. I didn’t land as smoothly as I did in the qualifier, but it was good enough to get me a big gap. Once again, nobody else attempted the jump. I hit the downhill jump at a much lower speed and rolled down into the lower course. This time nobody caught me on the climb back up to the upper course. On the second lap I too avoided the doubles and rode conservatively from there on out. Even though I was hurting and stiff, I had good legs. I rode well and made no mistakes. Eventually a couple guys passed me, but that was OK. I felt very good about a third place finish, all things considered.
When I walked to the podium during the awards ceremony, my teammates went crazy. I could see they were a little bit awed by the quiet new guy who took third in the expert race with a broken bike and body.
Spirits were high on the way home. We had the music cranked up and enough Taco Bell to feed a small army. My head was still killing me, but I endured the noise. I had succeeded in gaining the respect of my teammates, just not quite in the way I had intended. I abused my body, trashed my bike and ruined a helmet. Still, overall it was a good and memorable day.
AND, I scored this . . . thing:
Bask in the awesomeness that is my trophy. Who doesn't need a contraption made of old bike parts that can hold a mason jar? Nobody!
And if you can't tell, that's the number "3" on the front for my third place finish.
Later.
