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."
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
