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.