Race Report: 2002 Sacramento Cyclocross #5

I skipped race number four, which was held up in Grass Valley. I just didn't want to drive that far. Since only four of the seven races count towards the final points, I figured I could take the weekend off and save some gas money. Unfortunately, I learned from my Rio Strada teammates that the Grass Valley course was very hilly and technical. According to Curtis: "You would have killed it up there, dude!"

Oh well.

Race five was in Vacaville at Peña Adobe Regional Park. This was the district championships, which meant very little for us lowly C racers. There is no championship for us, but districts did bring out more racers for a bigger and stronger field to compete against.

I felt good about the race because I won a mountain bike race here back in the day. I hoped for a similar result in the hilly terrain.

The day was cold, damp and foggy. I don't usually do well in the cold, so I overdressed and warmed up longer than normal.

At the gun a guy named Mark Schlicting (far right) took off and we never saw him again. This race would be a battle for second place.

The course was up and down, mostly dirt, with a few dismounts, including a sadistic set of barriers running up a very steep hill.

I made it up the steepest hill every lap, but it hurt. A lot of people had to walk this one.

Eventually it ended up being a group of three: Me, Alex and Skyler.

Alex, AKA Yelling Guy, was a wheel sucker. It was only my fourth time racing with him, and I had never seen the back of his helmet. For over two full laps he was there. A couple times I flicked my elbow for him to come around and do some work, but he refused. It was clear I was his focus.

After checking my computer for elapsed time, I knew we would probably get the bell lap next time through the start-finish. There was a place coming up where we would exit the dirt and hit a sharp downhill turn on pavement. I would attempt a move there.

Because of the dampness, our tires were covered with dirt and sand, making the asphalt corner very slippery. I accelerated down the hill as long as I could and braked very late. I leaned into the turn as much as I dared and felt my tires breaking loose, but I let them continue in a somewhat controlled slide as I carved the turn.

As I exited I peeked back to see if I had created a gap, and I had. Alex had just entered the turn and was likely trying to match my speed. His tires broke loose and he went sliding across the road on his ass. Skyler also went down and followed Alex into the ditch.

Like any seasoned racer, I saw the chaos and accelerated. I went through the start-finish and indeed heard the bell ringing. Thankfully. Only one more time up that awful wall of a hill.

I gave it about 90% for the last lap, hoping to keep a little energy in reserve, and kept looking back to make sure Alex didn't catch me. Towards the end another guy did start catching up, and I gave it a little more gas to hold him off. I finished in second place, only four seconds in front of him.

With nine points for finishing second, I maintained my lead in the series. Alex and Skyler finished fourth and fifth.

Later.

Race Report: 2002 Sacramento Cyclocross #2

After struggling with cyclocross technique in my first race, it was clear I needed to work on my dismount. I went to a local park in the following days for a few practice sessions after work. Here I repeatedly dismounted and remounted, slowly becoming smoother and faster. Although the practice drills came at the expense of "real" training time, I felt like my fitness was adequate enough in the first race. No, it was the utter and complete lack of skill that hurt me. I came away from all the practice with a number of bumps and bruises; it's not easy to repeatedly jump off and back on a bike at high speed. However, my dismount improved significantly. I felt ready for my second cross race.

Like the week before, the race was held at Granite Bay, but on the "south course." This course was flat and fast with less sand, running and dismounts—all the things that gave me problems the week before.

My buddy Ed came out to watch me race. Depending on how a racer is wired, this can be good or bad. Some guys don't care for the pressure of racing in front of friends or family. For me, it's always provided a big psychological boost, especially in multi-lap races. Every time I pass by a familiar face or hear my name, I always feel a surge of power. It's no coincidence that most of my good results have occurred when someone accompanied me to a race.

Even more important than the boost a friend or loved one can give you on a good day is the effect their presence can have on a bad day. During those horrible races when you are dying out there, when you may feel like quitting on yourself, you can still find the motivation to race for them. After all, they made the trip out to see you, so the least you can do is put on a good show. Even as a lowly amateur racer this is your job and your duty. Nobody wants to watch a half-assed effort from you.

I dressed and went out for a warm-up. I felt good. Really good. As the Euros say, "I had good sensations in the legs."

Feeling good after my warm-up laps.

Whenever I feel like Superman before a race it makes me feel a little uneasy. I start wondering if what I am feeling is real. Questions bounce around in my head. Do my legs feel good because I didn't ride much during the week? Did I lose fitness? When the race starts will everyone ride away from me?

Confidence is a constant battle for a bike racer because racing is such a crap shoot. You can have absolutely perfect preparation leading up to a race and still feel like crap on race day. Conversely, you can come into a race undertrained, sleep deprived and hungry and have a great day. Because of this there is always nervousness before a race. As racers we never know what we are going to pull from the big box of chocolates.

As I rode up to the starting line, I saw many of the same guys from the week before. I made note of the racers who beat me the previous week. I lined up in the second row behind a guy who I knew started fast. When the gun went off, he jumped quickly ahead and I was right on his wheel. We exited the first corner 1-2 and powered away on the first straightaway. Coming into the first set of barriers I decided to see how much good all the pracice did for me. I braked late, hopped off, ran hard through the barriers, and passed the guy as I slipped smoothly back onto the bike. I felt pretty good about the dismount. All I needed to do was nail nine more barriers and I was home free.

My reign at the front of the race was short-lived. Near the end of the first lap a skinny little guy passed me. It really pissed me off. How the hell did this 90 pound guy catch me? And why was he pulling away?

I chased that guy for the rest of the race. I gave it everything I had because I wanted to win, and the win was so tantalizingly close. He dangled up in front of me, a shimmering phantom seen through eyes floating in vast pools of lactic acid. Each time I closed to within a few feet, he would look back and put in a big effort to gap me.

Chasing hard.

What I didn't realize, because of my battle at the front, was how much damage we were inflicting on the field. We were leading by MINUTES by the end.

Charging through lapped traffic.

On the last set of barriers, on the last lap, I made one last attempt to pass. I mistimed the dismount, though, and clipped the first barrier with my foot. I fell hard and slammed into the second barrier.

Through the dust I watched the win fade into the distance. I would have to settle for second. I stood up and assessed the damage to bike and body—nothing but a little torn handlebar tape and flesh. The huge gap back to third place allowed me to ride easy and limp in to the finish.

After posing for a quick post-race picture, I made my way to the truck and cleaned up.

After changing clothes, I rode over toward a van on which they were posting results. As I approached, Ed informed me that the guy I was chasing was only a junior and that I had won my class.

Wait, what? I won?

In the weeks to follow I would learn the junior racer who beat me was no ordinary kid. Adam Switters was, in fact, a young star in the making. The next year he would race on the U.S. Junior National team in the World Championships.

With the maximum points for the win, I took the lead in the series. Yelling Guy, whose name I learned was Alex, took a disappointing 8th place.

Later.

Race Report: 2002 Sacramento Cyclocross #1

The story of my first cyclocross race actually starts a year earlier in 2001. I was out riding my single speed near Granite Bay on a nice fall Sunday when I happened upon a cross race. I sat and watched for a while and thought to myself, I was made for this.

Over the years I have had my best results on shorter mountain bike courses of the rolling variety. I can typically climb with good power in short bursts, and recover quickly. I am also above average going downhill. Put me on a course with an abundance of these two elements and I have a chance of success.

With a little Internet research, I found out that the last race of the season was the following week at Negro Bar. I put a rigid fork and narrow tires on my mountain bike. I stripped off all the unneeded stuff—water bottles, bar ends (illegal in cyclocross), pump—just like all the guys I saw the week before. It was only five miles from my apartment to Negro Bar, so I figured the ride over would be a good warm-up. About halfway there I flatted . . . with no pump. By the time I walked home it was too late to fix the flat and make the race.

Fast forward to late the next summer and the memory of watching that cyclocross race was still fresh my mind. I decided to jump in head-first. I bought my racing license and started looking for a bike. I found the perfect used bike in a classified ad on the NCNCA web site:

Unfortunately, the bike was in Reno. I negotiated for the matching front wheel, a lower price, and a meeting point in Incline Village. My buddy Bill drove up with me and we took the opportunity to eat at our favorite sushi place and hit the casinos before meeting the seller. I bought the bike and everything was in place for my first race.

*****

I swapped out the tiny Crank Brothers pedals for my trusted Time ATAC pedals and traded out the wheels for my old road racing wheels. A new set of tires completed the package.

Although I considered myself an expert cyclist in many respects, I swallowed my pride and attended the free clinic before the race. This was a good move on my part. Conducted by longtime Sacramento cyclocross supporters (and National Champions) John and Linda Elgart, it was a great 30 minute introduction to cyclocross. My dismounts and remounts were definitely bad even after the clinic, but at least I learned the proper technique.

The last question was what division to race in. Cyclocross racing is broken up into three main divisions—A, B and C—with A being the fastest guys. I thought I had plenty of fitness to compete with the Bs, but absolutely no technique. I talked to Linda and she assured me that it wasn’t sandbagging to start in the Cs because the division was created for first-year riders.

When the time came, I lined up for the C race and looked around. There were a number of guys kitted out like me, a few guys on mountain bikes, a couple guys on single speeds, and a few juniors. I really didn’t see anyone who I thought could compete with me.

We took off and I wasn't aggressive enough. The course started on the asphalt parking lot, and after 100 yards or so, we turned right onto narrow singletrack. I hit the dirt trail in 15th place or so. We went down the trail for a while, took a few corners, and approached the first set of barriers. I hit them well and passed three guys as we ran and jumped through the set of three. Then we hit a short section of asphalt and turned again onto the dirt. Then we had a 24-inch diameter log to jump over, then more trail, then a set of two barricades. On a long section of asphalt I passed a few more guys.

After the road section we hit a dirt downhill followed by a climb, followed by a sandy hill we had to run up. Man, that deep sand made the legs burn. Then after a remount there was another hundred yards of dirt uphill to the finish line. After one two-mile lap I was thinking, "I have to do this FIVE more times?"

It didn’t take long for me to realize that cyclocross was hard. Really hard. It hurt in new and excruciating ways. Even in the shortest mountain bike race there is some pacing involved, and even a few opportunities to rest on downhills. Cyclocross? Um, no. There is no rest. My assumption of crossers not carrying water because it’s too heavy, or that it gets in the way when shouldering the bike was completely wrong. No, it’s just that you can’t drink water when you’re hyperventilating.

On lap two I passed some more guys and settled into a group of three. I was leading on the asphalt section when the guy behind me yelled, "Fucking go!" This wasn't a gesture of encouragement. He was frustrated with my slow speed. I yelled back, "Come around if you're so fucking fast!"

He did not.

During lap three we were all still together. I attacked from third position on the long road section and rid myself of the yelling guy. The other one I had a hell of a time shaking. We kept passing each other over and over.

At the end of lap five I decided to give it all I had, so I took the downhill really fast, hit the climb hard, and ran as fast as I could up the sandy hill. It killed me, but I got enough of a gap that I broke his will, and he gave up. I cruised the last lap with comfortable gap for fourth place. Yelling Guy took sixth.

Speed and handling skills kept me near the front of the race, but I lost time to the leaders every dismount. The last dismount on each of the six laps was the worst: the uphill slog through deep sand. Every lap I watched guys elegantly dismount and run away from me with long, smooth strides while I plodded through the sand like a pack mule. My running would have to improve.

I won a hat, water bottle and socks. Not a great payday, but it felt nice to place again after all these years.

One thing that has improved with age is my mental toughness. Pitted against a guy with similar physical ability, I think I will beat him because I am simply willing to hurt more.

My new bike, though old and used and abused, worked well.

Later.