Every race has moments of regret unless you actually pull off the win. If you come in 30th, that can be chalked up to simply having a bad day or poor fitness, and it's easy to move on. As you creep up towards the podium, the "what-ifs" become tougher to deal with. This particular race was one of those tough ones to deal with.
If you have ever been to the Redding area you know it gets very hot, and it doesn't cool down much at night. For whatever reason the start of the race was at 10:30 a.m. In only my third year of racing in this area I knew this was too late in the morning. People were going to die.
The Skyway course was basically a long, difficult climb followed by a rolling middle section and a long, punishing descent back to the finish near the Shasta Dam.
Right off the start I was feeling pretty good. I climbed with a group of sport class leaders for a while. As the climb went on, the heat really cranked up. I could see that it was already affecting some of the guys around me.
Back in those days I loved the heat, and riding in it was no big deal. I was young and rail-thin, a snake in the desert pursuing my suffering prey.
Towards the middle of the climb we started absorbing experts and pros who were having difficulty with the heat and the steep grades. I knew at that point I was doing well and maybe even leading the sport class.
As I neared the top of the climb there were racers stopping to the side of the trail. Some dumped water over their heads while others sought shade. Every time I passed someone suffering I grew stronger.
The middle part of the course was fun but uneventful. I remember riding by myself for the most part and not really gaining or losing places. There's probably a little bit of a dark spot in my recollection because the horrible memories of the coming downhill completely overshadowed them, burned into my psyche like it was only yesterday.
I hit the last downhill relatively sure I was in the lead. With descending arguably being my greatest strength, I really felt like I had this one in the bag. Every race adds to your knowledge base, and in this one I learned that nothing is a sure thing.
The trail was mostly chunky andesite rock from Mount Shasta's volcanic past. In fact, there was very little soil at all for the entire downhill—just miles of rock.
Almost immediately I noticed my hands sliding around inside my gloves. Due to the extreme heat, sweat had been running down my arms right into my gloves for a couple hours. They were soaking wet and the leather was extremely slimy.
Soon my left hand, which was doing the majority of the braking, started bothering me. I was getting a hot spot on the edge of my palm between the thumb and forefinger. This wasn't totally uncommon; the occasional blister was part of the game.
The pounding was intense. The trail was rocky as hell and there was no relief. When the pain became too much, I stopped—a very rare occurrence for me during a race. I flexed my hand for a bit while a couple guys passed me. I told myself not to worry; they were likely experts.
I continued going down, albeit a little bit slower, trying to use the rear brake as much as possible. At this point a little blood was flowing out onto my middle and first finger, making things even more slippery as I desperately tried to brake.
I stopped for a second time and dared to take a peek inside my glove. There was a crescent shaped laceration and it looked deep. I was a little shocked because I thought it was a simple blister. All I can figure was my hands were very wet and pruned up, and the soft skin simply split. Meanwhile, a few more guys passed me. At that point I didn't care much until I saw one of them was Jimmy Deaton.
Listen, I understand that Deaton was a fast downhiller. He won Mammoth five times, won a world championship, and he's a member of the Mountain Bike Hall of Fame. But I had ridden with Jimmy a couple times and I was no slouch on the downhills. On a technical trail on cross country bikes, I believed I was every bit as good.
I took off after him and not only held my own, but caught up to him after a few turns. The pain was intense but I refused to let him go. I stayed right on his wheel for a couple minutes, but ultimately it was the pain that did me in, not his speed.
I stopped for the third and final time. I took off my glove and the wound shocked me. It was now a larger half circle and the flap had folded back. The skin was so thick. Under it was what appeared to be uncovered muscle. I saw stars. My hand itself was white and wrinkled up like I had been in a bathtub for hours. I put the flap back in place and continued down the hill as best I could. A number of riders had flown by.
I eventually crossed the line 33rd overall and took fourth place in the sport class. Jimmy beat the first place sport rider, so if I could have stayed near him I would have been OK. If I hadn't stopped at all I would have cracked the top 20 and easily won the sport class. But I didn't. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.
Steve finished behind me in 52nd due to a pretty nasty crash. Someone dislodged a large rock that rolled right in front of him, taking him out. Crashing on those rocks did some damage, leaving him bloodied and bruised.
That spot on my hand eventually healed, although the resulting scar tissue still bothers me on occasion to this day. Luckily suspension forks and disc brakes have helped with the punishment our hands used to take.
It was yet another lost opportunity to score that elusive first win. Still, I knew I had the motor to make it happen even if my hand had failed me. Next up was the Back Country Ridge Romp in Pollock Pines.
Later.
