Race Report: 2004 TBF MTB Challenge #3

Well, I raced today. It was better.

After having my ass handed to me in February, I decided to race in 30-39 sport. I figured, hell, I work 40 hours a week, have two kids, yard work, and a slight beer gut.  If that isn't the definition of sport class, I don't know what is!

Having six weeks to ride my hardtail again and acclimate my body to the specifics of mountain bike racing helped tremendously. 

I was 4th out of 16 starters:

My placing was actually decided pretty early on. I was sitting in about tenth place after a couple miles, waiting for an opening. I attacked from the back of the group of six I was in on the first pavement section so I could be first onto the singletrack climb. 

I hit the climb hard, totally going anaerobic (oh how it hurt), and got a good gap. It was kind of risky, because if I blew up I would have been in trouble. But I managed to hold it until the top, crested strong, rode the downhill well, and that was all she wrote. I never saw those guys again.

I always thought attacking was kind of stupid in mountain bike racing, but I guess not.  It seemed to work pretty well in that situation. At 36 years old I'm still learning new things about myself and racing.

The guy who originally won cut the course was disqualified (Pat Boyle).

Second place protested and won. If you beat second place by 13 minutes on a 20-mile course, they're probably going to take a look at that, you know? Idiot. All that for a freaking plaque? There weren't even any prizes. What's the point? You're 39 years old and cheating?

Anyway, I rode pretty strong, and felt good about my performance. I kept on the gas the whole time except for the last half mile. I made a big effort in the last few miles to close a 45-second gap to about 10 seconds, but he held me off, so I shut it down at the end and coasted in because nobody was behind me. As you can see the gap to third place went back up to 42 seconds at the finish because of it. 

So close to a third-place plaque! I joke but also admit that it would have been cool to podium after all this time.

It was a good day of racing and the 20 mile course was just the right length for my life and fitness level at this time. Another lap at that speed would have hurt.

Speaking of speed, my average was 13.9 miles per hour. I only bring this up to illustrate how much racing and equipment has improved since the old days. In the mid '80s, Joe Murray was winning races averaging a mere 10 miles per hour, and at his peak he was nearly unbeatable. Crazy.

Later.

Johan

Today I took the cross bike out for a spin. I started from Old Folsom with a plan to ride 20 miles or so. I rode towards Granite Bay via the bike trail, dirt roads and singletrack.

When I left the truck, my legs were feeling a bit heavy, as it was my fourth straight day riding. After a couple miles, though, I realized I actually had good legs.

After finishing the climbing up to Beals Point, I really opened it up on the dirt road along the levy, and it felt good. I felt so unbelievably strong. There are those weird days when everything lines up, and you feel invincible. If only you could bottle those unbelievable training rides and save them for race days.

I cruised along at 24 miles per hour for a while on the undulating gravel road. The day before I was struggling to maintain 22 on my road bike on the paved bike trail.

I rode all the way into the singletrack beyond Granite Bay, and I turned around at the planned 10 mile mark because of time constraints. This happened to be at the top of the climb, which worked out nicely.

On the way back down I caught up to a guy on a full suspension bike. He was going a little slow. I pride myself on being a fast descender, but it's pretty bad when a guy on a cyclocross bike is freewheeling behind a mountain bike. Anyway, when it finally opened up to doubletrack, I passed him.

Because I was a little irritated, and had a short rest on the downhill, I put it in the big chainring and opened it up. This is when the experience became otherworldly and why I even bother to write this . . .

It was one of those times when your legs seem to have limitless power. I shifted a few times and kept winding it up. I hit the right shifter again and nothing happened. I looked down to find I was already in my 48x12. The computer said 29.5 miles per hour. On dirt. Singletrack.

I was powering away in the drops, the bushes and weeds flying by my face in a blur—like riding in a tunnel. I was going really fast, but suddenly time slowed down. Everything became fluffy and dreamy, like that time I was given Demerol in the hospital. My body was dumping all the good chemicals into my system and I was high as a kite. And it was awesome.

There is something special about charging down a dirt trail in the drops on skinny tires, floating effortlessly over the bumps like a feather in the wind. It makes you feel like Johan Museeuw in Paris-Roubaix.

It was a cool experience, a short ride that started like thousands of others but ended like an epic. I just thought I would share it.

Later.