Race Report: 1998 Land Park Criterium

There isn't a whole lot to tell when reporting on this crit. It's been 10 years since I have raced in Land Park, but nothing has changed. You ride around in circles, avoid the inevitable crash, and sprint.

Today went true to form. Even though I have been doing more riding with road racer friends, I struggled a bit with the high pace and spent much of the race towards the back. In the last few laps, everyone was trying to move up and of course there was a touch of wheels. A few guys went down and I managed to avoid the pileup.

On the bell lap I was actually in a good position near the front, but again the pace was too high. I faded by the end of the lap. I took 12th in the sprint out of 37 riders.

Not great, not terrible. Top third is pretty good for me I guess.

Later.

Race Report: 1998 Lighthouse Criterium

The Lighthouse course is about the best a mountain biker can hope for in a criterium. It has a small climb, a fun little downhill and many turns.

I did my best to stay near the front most of the race, but there are always other guys trying to do the same. On the last lap the jostling and jockeying and elbowing was pretty intense, and I was mid-pack hitting the climb. I picked up a few places on the hill and sprinted for the line.

I don't know my exact placing. They only published the top seven.

I figure my finish was somewhere around 10th to 12th, another average result on the road bike.

Later.

Thirty

I am turning 30 in a few days. I couldn't be more excited about it.

The occasion is not altogether unexpected. Many people do actually reach this momentous milestone of age and wisdom. If you need any sage advice, I am your guy. Soon.

Today, however, I am still in my twenties and possibly still a little bit young and reckless. At least, my legs may tell you that as I sit here suffering from fatigue, soreness and cramps.

I have been working full time now for about 10 months. It's been fine, I guess. The stable pay and benefits are nice, and the promise of a pension someday is good. The idea of doing this for 25 more years is a bit daunting if not depressing, though.

The transition from slacker student with a cycling habit to industrious worker has been at times very easy and also extremely difficult. It's been almost a year and I haven't missed a single day of work. Yet during each of those days I probably think of faking sick and leaving for a ride 10 times.

All of these things were swirling around in my head this morning when I woke up. The only logical thing to do (according to my pre-wisdom brain) was go on an ill-advised ride in the hills and heat to prove to myself I still had some life left in these aging legs.

I rode from my apartment in Sacramento up the bike trail to Folsom, into the foothills past El Dorado Hills and Rescue, through Lotus and Cool, and into the canyon. I climbed up to Auburn, rode down the long, gradual descent back into Folsom, and spun back up the bike trail to my apartment. I ended up with 93 miles, a mild heat stroke and a tiny bit more wisdom.

The reality is I am still very much a cyclist, but it's now my side job. There was a time when these two things were reversed, and I rode more hours than I worked. Ah, to be young and fit and fast. Those were good times. My brain still holds tightly to the memories of the young guy who could easily ride 100 miles and still have more left in the tank. I really liked that guy.

It is the 12th of July and today's journey was only my second ride of the month. It's been very hot, and I have been lazy after work. To think I could go out and ride nearly 100 miles in the heat with my current level of fitness was foolish. You might say unwise. Maybe in a few days I will think differently. You know, when that wisdom kicks in.

On the other hand, perhaps testing yourself periodically leads to insight and knowledge. Even though the "thirty" number I am obsessing over is merely a human construct based on the way we perceive time, the ability to measure oneself at these milestones has merit.

Though I struggled today, I proved to myself once again that I still truly love riding a bicycle. And that struggle taught me so much more than resting could have. After a trying week at work, spending a long Saturday in the hills was the cleansing journey I needed.

I have to find a balance between career and private life. Right now the scale is tipping perilously toward the work side. I think piling on some riding weight will help even things out and ultimately assist me in finding a healthy equilibrium.

As I read back what I have just written, I see little bits of wisdom. I can't help but wonder if I turned 30 today.

Later.

1996 Tahoe Fat Tire Festival

The Tahoe Fat Tire Festival happened over weekend. We enjoyed some good riding, but the other aspects of the trip fell short of expectations.

We drove up Friday evening after Doug negotiated the purchase of a car. I became entangled in conversation with a random salesman while Doug and Sonyo were signing the papers, so to end the dialog I pretended to fall asleep when he briefly left to get something to drink. He was disappointed. Then I really did fall asleep. I have no idea how long I was out. I was supposed to be watching the bikes, so I was relieved to find them safe in the truck when I woke up.

After a nice drive listening to some Pixies the whole way, we arrived in Tahoe City a little after eight o'clock, going straight to the motel to check in. Doug informed the desk clerk we would be splitting the bill, and she had no problem with that. Doug whipped out a checkbook and I simultaneously snapped down the Visa (It's everywhere you want to be!). The lady informed me that they don't accept credit cards. I was astounded. A motel that doesn't take credit cards? I handed over 56 of my hundred bucks in spending money. No T-shirt for me at this festival, I guess.

After dumping our stuff in the room, we dressed and hurried off to the Naughty Dog bar where the night ride was supposed to leave from. When we arrived, the place was packed, but nobody knew anything about a night ride. Eventually a guy told us the ride was cancelled, but I think he was just trying to make us go away. Doug and I split a pitcher of beer and called it a night. The highlights of the night (lowlights?) included getting our picture taken (we don't know why) and seeing some dude with a pristine 1986 Whiskeytown Downhill T-shirt. I assume he only wears it for special occasions, or perhaps he has a bunch of them.

Saturday we went to the sign-in at a bike shop, and it was typically disorganized. The dude had trouble finding our names on the list, and the swag bags (a $16 value!) were nowhere to be found. We were later presented with them and the swag was composed of two PowerBars, a Stoker bar (yuck), a sticker, and a small bag made from hemp. Yeah, $16 value. Sure.

Sometime later, we finally took off on the the ride. After a warm-up on the road, we hit a trail that Doug and I raced on a couple years ago. The climb just rolled gradually upwards and was never very steep. At the top of the climb we hit the Tahoe Rim Trail, which we would stay on all the way back to the parking lot.

One of the many rest stops on the day.

At first the Rim Trail reminded me of the singletrack at Mammoth. Then some of it was reminiscent of Georgetown. Then it got ugly. We rode probably the rockiest, most technical trail I have ever been on in Tahoe. We climbed up to the top of this place the locals call "Glass Mountain." It was nothing but loose plates of shale—no dirt to be seen—and when you rode over it, the sound was literally like riding through broken glass. In fact, there was no dirt for miles, just volcanic rock. The last couple miles reminded us of the horse trails around Horseshoe Bar that used to eat our  chainrings, except it was downhill. The dirt reappeared but with big boulders to drop down. The ride was good, but would have been great had we not stopped so much. There were almost thirty people on the ride, and some were not so fast on the technical stuff, so the stops became longer and more frequent on the second half of the ride. I would definitely do the ride again if I could ride with fewer people.

After a short post-ride nap, we porked out on Mexican food. After dinner we headed to Squaw to check out the bike expo, but it was all shut down. The brewfest cost $13, so it wasn't worth it to go in because we only wanted one or two beers. We watched the dual slalom for a while, but it didn't hold our attention for long, so we bailed.

This guy ate it hard and bent his front wheel.

Sunday, of course, we did the Flume Trail. What festival would be complete without it? It was the same route as the race course. I definitely recognized the climb on the back side up to Marlette Lake; it was as steep as I remembered. There were about 15 of us on the ride, and everyone was pretty strong, so we waited much less. I actually surprised myself on the climbs. I was in the top 5 people at the top of all three. Doug and I were also smoking on the downhills. I'm sure some people didn't like all the crazy passes we were making, but it's no fun sucking the Tahoe moon dust. The Sprouts like that clean air out front.

After the first section of the Flume, we took off downhill after a short wait. I ended up passing everyone except the dude leading the ride, who was a very strong Tahoe local, but only because I didn't know where I was going. When we hit the second section of the Flume, he was motoring. I had to give it almost everything I had to stay on his wheel. I was hurting. But what he had on me in pure speed I made up with skill; I was better on the singletrack. He would gap me a little on the straightaways, but I would get him in the turns and technical stuff.

When we stopped, he admitted he couldn't shake me, which was cool coming from a stud expert racer. We gapped everybody by a long way. Anyway, the Flume is a cool ride.

The "festival" was a bust for the most part. The organizers were anything but organized, and many of the activities on the flyer never happened. But we did a couple good rides and learned some new trails on the west side of the lake.

One thing I never realized is even though we always start the Flume Ride down at Spooner Lake, you ride way north, and the Flume Trail is actually a stone's throw from my dad's condo in Incline Village. All this time and it never occurred to me.

I'm going to try to get up to the condo for a couple days between jobs to do some riding, and I'll definitely figure out a Flume route I can do right from the condo. That would be too cool.

Later.

G-Town

I had an epic solo road ride planned for yesterday, but I received a better offer: Georgetown.

Doug Page called me Saturday night to tell me that an ABC ride was happening, and I pretty much drop everything for either an ABC or Georgetown ride. This is both, you say? Hell yes.

It rained Saturday night, so the trail conditions were damn near perfect except for a few mud holes. The traction was just awesome. The new WTB Velociraptor tire I just picked up worked great.

Well, these aren't your classic ABC rides anymore where you ride around for eight hours, take one of Greg's "I know a shortcut" trails, get hopelessly lost, and perhaps bushwhack down a cliff. These new guys rip. No waiting. No bullshit. The old guard—Doug, Greg Edwards and I—were typically bringing up the rear. There were eight of us, and three were on single speeds. One of them wasn't that fast, and he held me up on more than a few climbs. One was pretty strong, but the other one was a freaking animal. He climbed almost everything. Evidently, he took 15th overall at the Shasta Lemurian this year . . . on a single speed. I can't remember his name, but he builds frames for Ventana, so that's what all three single speeders were riding. They are only $400 and look pretty sweet to me.

Isaac Chilton was there too. He's riding a Ventana full suspension, so we enjoyed dicing it out on some downhills. After putting some more miles on the Dean since the last Georgetown ride, I was much faster. I don't think anyone else was as fast as me today. But when I wasn't flying downhill, I just hung hung out in back with Page and Og.

One time when we stopped, Page told everybody that I picked the sweetest lines on the downhills and everybody should try riding behind me. Cool. I guess that's something Steve and I were always good at. We could ride on each other's wheel with the utmost confidence that our partner would pick the right line. When I ride behind other people . . . they seem to just pick a side of the trail and stay there regardless of how shitty the line is. I think we have better "trail vision." If we see a cool line 10 feet away on the other side of the trail, we get over there and make up time. 

Isaac is pretty damn fast too. I saw him in the top three of the expert class all year in the results. He is threatening to get a single speed. My guess is he'll rip on it because he already pushes pretty big gears.

Anyway, about the ride itself. It was even harder than last time. Isaac was kind of leading the ride, and he opted out of the normal Bald Mountain route with all the fire road climbs. He took us on nothing but singletrack, and he included every steep climb he knew. I think he was mostly trying to torture the single speeders, but it was hurting all of us.

It was only 24 miles, but so tight and twisty and rough. It was a ride where you wrestled the bike the whole time, both up and down, and at a high pace. I was wasted afterwards from head to toe.

This morning I am pretty blown from riding four days in a row. I don't believe I have done that since summer vacation.

Later.

Race Report: 1994 Rage N at the Ranch

This was a memorable race because I had somehow worked my way back from being a very out-of-shape guy a couple years earlier to actually winning a race. A little less than two years before this race I placed 64th in the beginner class at a race in San Jose. Now I once again stood on the top step of the podium in the sport class, and it felt pretty damn good. I had last won a race back in 1987, which felt like a lifetime before. It was a full circle that took seven crazy years to complete.

None of my Adventure Mountain Bikes teammates wanted to race this one, so I would fly the colors solo. This also meant I didn't have the luxury of riding in the team van, but they still paid my entry fee just the same. My dad accompanied me to the race instead and took all the pictures. We would later stay in his Incline Village condo for the rest of the weekend.

The race took place at the Donner Ski Ranch just west of Lake Tahoe. The course was one typical of what we encountered in the Tahoe area: big climb, rolling alpine singletrack, descent to the finish. I believe the laps were six miles each and we did four laps.

I warmed up for a while and pulled up to the starting line with about ten minutes to go. A few younger guys turned around and sized me up but said nothing. I put my head down and started to focus on my race when I heard the phrase "piece of shit" come out of one guy's mouth. The other two started laughing. It was then I noticed these guys had all the latest and greatest stuff at the time: Rock Shox, boutique frames and lots of purple and blue anodized parts.

I was on my Team Marin, a bike I actually liked. It was still mostly stock, and quite drab in its silver and black colors, but the Shimano parts were solid and reliable. It even came with a few weight-saving parts like a titanium crank spindle, so it was deceivingly light at only 23 pounds.

One finally had enough balls to turn around and say something to the effect of, "You're never going to survive on that bike, man. This course it brutal." Again, they laughed. He was referring to my rigid fork, of course.

Up to this point I had been riding for 10 years. I had raced and ridden on some of the most technical terrain imaginable. I wasn't concerned about the course or my fork at all.

When the race started I was pretty pissed off. I rode right through the field to the front, fueled by the anger.

It didn't take long before I was all alone. There's always a risk of blowing up when you go hard from the start, but that never happened.

I finished the first lap without encountering anything "brutal" in the least. There were a few boulders and slabs up top, but overall the course was ridiculously smooth.

The second time up the climb was my fastest. I felt really good, and the 7,000 foot base elevation didn't seem to be bothering me in the least.

I slowed slightly for laps three and four, but I still rode strong and there was never really any doubt in my mind. I knew I had a huge lead and a mechanical or crash was my only remaining opponent.

I cruised in for the victory, completing my 24-mile solo breakaway.

One of the guys who laughed at me finished third, so I really enjoyed standing next to him at the awards.

He didn't have a whole lot to say about my shitty bike. In fact he wouldn't even look at me.

When the pictures were developed, I gave a print to Brian at Adventure Mountain Bikes. He actually put it in a frame and it hung on the wall where it stayed until the shop closed a couple years later, which was pretty cool.

Later.

Race Report: Unknown Race, Bay Area

I can't remember the name of this race. It's quite possible I knocked that knowledge right out of my head.

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 in my life in which everything was taken care of for me—registration, race fees, transportation, etc. All I had to do was show up and race. Because of this pro treatment, I don't recall the name of the race or even where it was held. 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.

I cracked the rim on my Team Marin's rear wheel a few days before the race. I didn't have time to fix it, and it was the only seven-speed wheel I had. Consequently, I had to race on my Fisher ProCaliber (six speed), a bike I never really loved.

I brought both my jerseys, but seeing all my teammates wearing their red Adventure jerseys made me feel uncomfortable about wearing the Dean jersey. I didn't want to be different, and not even having a Dean bike sealed it. I never actually wore the Dean jersey in a race because I felt more loyalty towards the bike shop than to Dean.

She's seen better days.

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 pro/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 pro/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 front 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 Giro 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 "tough break" and “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 four. 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 San Francisco Giants ballcap 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 pro/expert race with a broken bike and body. I handed my third place cash to Brian and said, "Let's party."

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.