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.
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.
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.
