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.