Race Report: 1987 Black Diamond Coal Climb

I would love to say that my first race as an expert was a dream come true—that I triumphed mightily at the next level and was showered with kisses from pretty podium girls. This was not the case. For guys like me there is no fairy tale. I was not blessed with great genetics and muscles. It took over two years of hard work to go from from finishing at the very rear of my first sport race to finally winning. And it quickly became apparent I would need to grind and battle like that once again to be successful in the expert class.

The Black Diamond Coal Climb took place in Clayton, California in what's considered the East Bay, not far from Mount Diablo.

This map on the back of the entry form really cracked us up. It predates the animation used today by Google Earth by decades. Coincidence? Menlo Park isn't that far away . . .

A note for youngsters: Part the the bottom frame is missing because in olden times that's the portion of the entry form we mailed in to register for a race.

The course was difficult. Not only was the profile very jagged, but much of the course surface was soft. We encountered gravel, sand and soft dirt. I had already suffered from similar conditions in Mammoth the year before, and I would suffer again.

As someone who believed he was a good climber and descender, when I first saw the course profile I was excited. However, eventually I would learn that not all climbs were built the same. I excelled at two kinds of climbing. The first was rhythm climbs that were not too steep where I could get up to speed and keep it there. Second, I was especially good on rolling climbs where I could go hard, recover, and go hard again. I could seemingly repeat that process over and over.

Conversely, I wasn't very good on very steep climbs. And as previously mentioned, soft surfaces killed me. Add the two together and you get a long, tough day in the saddle.

The Bay Area races were unique. When we raced in the mountains, the climbs were typically traversed using switchbacks, so the grades weren't crazy. In the Bay Area trails typically went straight up these hills. I don't know what the total elevation gain was for this course, but just adding up the main climbs on this map yields 3240 feet of gain in 19 miles. And I can assure you, there were many, many more short, steep grunts that do not show up on this elevation profile.

The first climb was a six-mile slog averaging about 3.8% in grade. It was slow and awful, and it killed my will to live. I seriously said out loud that I would never race again. I don't have any pictures of my own, but I found this one below that illustrates what we were dealing with quite well.

Photo: mountainbikeroots.com

We crested the first climb and hit the first descent that had more awful little climbs mixed in. It really didn't feel like we were going down nearly as much as we were climbing. When we finished the second climb I was still racing, but after a short descent we hit the third climb and I went from race mode to survival mode.

I don't remember much more about this race beyond the continuous steep grades and misery. There were no race results sent to us for this race, nor were they printed in NORBA News, but I don't need them to report that I was pack fodder. I do remember that Steve and I both suffered and disliked the course. We likely rode together because misery loves company.

Here are a few more pictures from the race because I don't have much more to say.

Photo: mountainbikeroots.com

Photo: mountainbikeroots.com

Photo: mountainbikeroots.com

As I look back on these races a clear pattern emerges. The triumphs are recalled quite easily while the pain is quickly forgotten. I think as an athlete you have to do that with the bad results in order to focus on the next challenge.

It was only a week after I felt like Superman in Vacaville, but that day I was merely a pretender. After only one race as an expert I was already questioning my ability. Hopefully the familiarity and success I had experienced in Annadel Park would lead to better things at the Rumpstomper.

Later.

Race Report: 1987 Vacaville Fiesta Fiasco

After fourth place finishes in both the Back Country Ridge Romp and Shasta Lemurian, and my surprise win in the Rockhopper, I was feeling good about my chances in Vacaville. So good in fact that I told my friend Steve that I would win that day. It would be the only time I would ever call my shot and predict a win.

There were people questioning my decision to race sport, and quite frankly I was getting sick of the questions and hearing the "sandbagger" comments. I had gone from being an OK racer in 1986 to having some early-season success in 1987. I wasn't sure whether I was even good yet. After a childhood of being small and struggling to be great at baseball, I definitely lacked some confidence. My hope was that I would perform well, turn expert, and lay that sandbagger BS to rest.

The Vacaville course was one I enjoyed. The previous year Steve and I took fifth and sixth place in the sport class. Interesting to note: This flyer says Sport would do three 2.3-mile laps. However, my race was four 4-mile laps. (You can see my dad snapped four downhill pictures from different places.) I can only assume there was pushback from the pros who probably weren't going to waste their time with a race that didn't even reach 10 miles.

I have said many times that you just never know what will happen on race day. Sometimes your training and preparation can be perfect, and yet you have bad legs. You know it as soon as you start warming up. Other times you might go into a race hungry and without sleep, and have great legs. Then there are times when everything goes perfectly and the planets line up for you. After your first few pedal strokes during warm-up you know there is magic in the legs. On that day I felt like Superman as we warmed up in the parking lot before the race. The pre-race jitters that characterized every other race I had ever done were not there that day. I was calm, confident and relaxed.

As we rolled to a stop at the truck, I turned to Steve and said, “I am going to win today.” He looked back at me and said, “Yeah?” I nodded.

Steve was already racing expert at this point, and his race would be after my sport race. I finalized preparations, and with about 15 minutes left before the race, I cracked open a Pepsi and drank it.

When I rolled up to the start, a lot of guys were already staged. Normally you want to get a good spot on the front line, but I didn’t care. I found a spot near the back.

The starter counted down and we were off. I quickly spotted holes here and there and made my way toward the front.

Within a couple minutes I was already in the lead and pulling away. It seemed too easy.

We wound around the park, and when we hit the first big climb I had a big lead. However, about halfway up the climb I took a peek back and saw a guy motoring up to me. As he blew past me at the crest of the climb, I looked down and saw that he only had one gear.

Single speeds were not just rare in 1987, they were practically nonexistent. Paul Sadoff from Rock Lobster crafted his first single speed in 1987, and I know Ibis wasn't far behind, but most people didn't even know they existed until about 1995. We did, because our friend Bob Edwards was one of the single speed pioneers. Anyway, this guy was actually on a converted 26-inch BMX cruiser, and he had just cruised right past me.

The first downhill was steep and fast. I knew I could make up time if I hit the descent hard, so I decided to leave my fingers off the brake levers and just hold on. I quickly made it back to the single speed guy and rode his wheel all the way down.

At the bottom the course flattened out for a while, and I passed him back. We then hit the second climb and he took the lead again. This time I stayed close and rode with him to the top and back down the descent. He was turning a big gear and I just didn’t think he could maintain the pace we were on.

On the second lap I passed him going up the first climb. Again, I descended the hill and did not touch the brakes. My brain fought hard for self preservation, but I willed my fingers to stay clamped to the grips and not grab the brakes. As I bombed past my dad towards the bottom, I heard him yell out, “Slow down!” I smiled to myself as I blew through the finish line. Like my own brain, he was trying to keep me from killing myself.

For the rest of the second lap I steadily pulled away from the single speeder. Going up the first hill on the third lap I went as hard as I could to put some space between the single speeder and myself. Once again I let go of the brakes all the way down the other side. After the race I would learn that the single speed guy crashed into a boulder behind me and broke his collarbone.

I rode the rest of the third lap as hard as I could. When I came through the finish area to start the last lap I had a huge lead. I decided to ride smart. The only thing that could stop me was a crash or flat tire. I rode the rest of the race at a conservative tempo and enjoyed the ride.

I crossed the line for the win, and I was able to hold my hands in the air for the only time in all my races. It was quite an awesome moment.

There were other wins, of course, and more second places than I care to remember. But mass starts, mixed classes and lap traffic always made it difficult to know if I really won. The last thing you want to do is raise your arms in victory and find out you took third.

My finishing time of 56:47 was a little less than 14:12 per lap, and this was while purposely slowing significantly my last lap. Adding another lap would have put me at 1:11 and fourth place in Expert, less than two minutes behind the winner. Is there any guarantee I could have turned another lap at that pace? No, there are too many factors involved. However, I felt so good that day that I really do believe I could have won the Expert class.

The awards ceremony was cool. My dad was there, as well as a number of friends. I made quite a haul in swag, but the parts were nothing I could use on my Ibis. The highly coveted Salsa quill stem was of no use since Ibis was already using clamp-on stems. I also scored a set of IRD cantilever brakes, but my Ibis had roller cams. I sold all of it before leaving the race.

This would be my last race in the sport class for a while. I decided to turn expert for my next race.

Later.

Race Report: 1987 Rockhopper

After back-to-back fourth place finishes in my last two races, I lined up for the Rockhopper with a fair amount of confidence. I was returning to this race for the third time, and I felt like the course suited me.

I spent quite a bit of time on my road bike leading up to the Rockhopper as my hand continued to heal from the Shasta race. The Rockhopper course wasn't super technical, so with a little athletic tape and a pad I made it through just fine.

Like most courses, this one followed the basic climb, up and down, descend model. The first climb was up a fairly mild gravel road to spread things out. I went hard to gain as many places as I could so I was with the fast guys when we turned onto the singletrack.

In the middle section of the course I rode well. This was the only place on the course with technical terrain, and I held my own riding with some of the fastest guys in the sport at the time. I was in the zone and the bike seemed to just gravitate toward all the best lines without any thought.

When I hit the last climb I was feeling exceptionally strong. I started climbing at a good tempo. After a couple minutes, I thought maybe I could do a little more. I shifted to a harder gear and stayed there for a while. Again, I felt good and decided to go harder and shifted again. About a third of the way up I again felt like I had more in the tank. Another gear. When I got on top of that gear and maintained it for a while, I still felt great, so I tried to shift again. And I couldn't.

I peeked back at my freewheel and realized there were no more cogs. I was shocked. Somehow I was ripping up this climb in my 34x13 and it wasn't enough. I eased the chain onto the big chainring and shifted up a couple cogs, then attacked the climb out of the saddle for a bit. When I got on top of the gear I resumed pounding away in the saddle. And it was then that quite possibly the strangest experience of my life happened.

As I ripped up this climb in my big chainring, my mind left my body. Suddenly I was looking down from above, watching myself effortlessly climb at an unreal speed. A surge of euphoria took over me. I can best describe the feeling as a combination of the best hug I've ever had along with the time I had Demerol injected into my IV in the hospital. I was floating on a fluffy cloud, warm and safely in the embrace of the racing gods, and pain was only a distant memory. And then it was gone.

It lasted only a few moments, and then I was back to my customary perspective behind the handlebars as the scenery sped by in my periphery.

I am a man of science. I don't believe in angels, ghosts, wizards or monsters, nor magic or evil spells. Yet this strange event happened and I can't explain it. I never experienced it before nor since. Perhaps it was as simple as severe oxygen debt, or an overdose of lactic acid. Maybe a huge surge in endorphins. It's possible that reaching the very darkest depths of the pain cave is where one finds true peace. I don't know.

Safely back in my body I continued the climb with what felt like very little effort. Climbing at old lady intensity, I was somehow producing elite speed.

I crested the climb, reaching the highest point on the 20 mile course. All that was left was the four-mile downhill run to the finish. A gradual decline on a gravel road, suddenly I felt like I was working hard. This is the plight of the skinny bike racer. I was always pretty good going up and down steep trails, but when things flattened out I often struggled.

I felt like I had a real shot at a podium finish so I emptied the tank of what was left. It felt strange to fight so hard to maintain my speed after experiencing such an effortless climb. I tried not to panic when I looked back to see racers gaining on me.

I zeroed in on the rider up the road and buried myself to catch him. It's always better to focus on the prey in front of you rather than the predator behind. Be the lion.

When I caught the first guy I rode his wheel for a few seconds to recover, then hit it hard to blow by. If you look strong when you pass, guys are less likely to put up a fight.

I repeated this process a number of times and picked up a few places while relinquishing none to my pursuers. I finished feeling like I did well. I funneled into the finishing chute where an official ripped my number strip off and added it to the pile in his hand. Another person handed me a mineral water as I exited the chute.

I returned to the finish area after I changed clothes and was not completely surprised to find my tag near the top of the finish board. I had done well overall. I checked and re-checked the board to see if there were any sport class riders above me. There were not. I had won.

Back then the Rockhopper was a big deal for us. Although MTB racing was still in its infancy, the race had already reached a legendary status.

I wasn't nearly this dusty. That's why you fight hard to get to the front.

It was always cool to see your name in a magazine.

Even though it was "only" a sport class win, the competition was tough. Sport was the largest class (73 riders) and often the sport class winner had a very respectable time compared to the experts and pros. Unfortunately I never received any overall results, and the ones provided didn't list my finishing time. But I do remember my tag was pretty high on the board, maybe in the top 20.

Results from NORBA News. Steve took 12th in Expert and Bob won Single Speed.

Along with being a race, the Rockhopper was also a party. Nobody left after the race and the beer flowed. The awards ceremony was crowded and raucous.

When my name was called, my friends, ABC teammates and other acquaintances went crazy, and it felt good. I looked out at the small sea of racers, the water I was usually swimming in, and decided I very much like the dry land of the podium. I wanted to keep winning.

My prize? A shirt.

It's a weird award for sure. I have never worn in but I also can't seem to get rid of it. This shirt has seen a lot of different closets over the years.

After the awards the questions started: When will I turn expert? I knew an upgrade was coming, but I wasn't sure it was time. One win could simply be a good day. Should I win again, that would pretty much seal my upgrade fate.

Later.

Race Report: 1987 Back Country Ridge Romp

The Back Country Ridge Romp was a race put on by our friend Don McEnhill in the Sly Park area. This was the venue for not only our first race back in 1985, but for many of our mountain bike training rides since then. Steve and I met Don at Back Country Bicycles, a shop in Pollock Pines where he worked. We rode with Don a number of times in the months leading up to this race as he finalized the course. We knew it well by the time race day came.

This was only two weeks after messing up my hand at the Lemurian, and it wasn't healed yet. Fortunately I knew the course wasn't terribly rocky, so I taped up my palm and I don't remember it bothering me that much.

I had a "Rule of 100" for judging how hilly races were, meaning the breakeven point for a "hilly" race was about 100 feet of elevation for each mile. Anything less I considered flat. This course had 3500 feet in 25 miles, so I considered this a climber's (and descender's) course.

Even with all the climbing, this was a very fast course on mostly fire roads. We took off from the start and it felt more like a road race than anything. We just put our heads down and pedaled. Joe Murray won averaging over 16 miles per hour, which was pretty fast at the time. Steve and I were never more than a few seconds apart the whole race. It's one of the few races when we were very evenly matched.

I honestly don't remember much from the middle of the race, but the last third of the race is still pretty clear. There was a group of five or six of us riding wheel to wheel and absolutely pinning it on the final long, rolling downhill. It's so fun when you get into a group up front and everybody trusts each other enough to paceline on a downhill. I was inches from Steve's rear wheel with 100 percent confidence that he would pick the right lines.

We finished up the downhill and all that was left was the flat road leading back to the campground. Steve put in a short effort at the end to gap me by three seconds at the finish.

We took 18th and 19th overall.

That netted Steve 7th in Expert while I was 4th in Sport. Handmade trophies and plaques were definitely a thing back then.

A number of our ABC mentors and teammates finished behind us.

It was pretty cool for us to slip inside the top 20 and only be a couple minutes outside the top 10 with the big boys. Still, I wasn't satisfied with another fourth place.

Off to the Rockhopper next week where I hoped to keep improving.

Later.