Race Report: Knickerbocker 50

It’s been a while since I typed the words “race report.” It feels quite nice.

Saturday was the Knickerbocker 8-hour/50 miler, which took place in Cool, CA. Since my first couple attempts at 8-hour races were not very successful, I opted for the 50 mile option in the Beginner/Sport Single Speed class. I’m OK with being a sport class racer, but I hate the fact that “beginner” is part of the class name. I have been racing for a long, long time, so I am no beginner. However, by no means am I an Expert/Pro anymore, which was my only other option for racing single speed.

I broke one of the cardinal rules in racing by making a big change to my bike the night before the race. I had been running a 34x20 (1.7 : 1) gear for the past few months, but last time I rode the Cool course the gear was a bit tall for my liking. I called around looking for a 21-tooth freewheel, so I could run a 34x21 (1.619 : 1), but this podunk cow town was fresh out. I had to switch out my cranks to get a 32-tooth chainring on there, which gave me a 32x20 (1.6 : 1) gear.

I went to bed that night and had a tough time sleeping. It had been 21 months since I last toed the starting line, and my wrist was still a question mark. I had not stressed the joint like it would be in this race. I was concerned about my wrist, my fitness, the distance, the cramps . . .

One thing that helped greatly was my buddy Doug deciding to come out and race. I felt a lot better about my chances of finishing the race with a partner to ride and pace with.

On race morning it was a bit cool and breezy. Reports from the course all said the same thing: super dry and dusty.

The course would be a 12.5 mile loop that we would ride four times, each lap with about 1750 feet of climbing.

We started with a Le Mans start, which means you run to your bike. I really hate having to run in cycling shoes, but the intent was to spread out the pack before hitting the trail in an effort to make the dust more manageable. I don't think it helped much. The dust was pretty bad for the first couple miles.

After that things spread out a bit and the dust was manageable, but still ever present. Doug and I settled into our race pace, which was a pretty comfortable tempo that never really taxed me much aerobically.

Lap one was pretty uneventful. There was more singletrack than when I last raced there in 2007, so I was actually enjoying the ride. We walked up the steep climb out of Knickerbocker Creek. I ride this climb during regular rides, but there's no reason to do it in a race; you can go just as fast walking and not destroy your legs.

The climb out of Salt Creek was great. My gearing choice was perfect and I was very comfortable on the climb all day. When we crested the top I was actually kind of surprised how easy the lap was. I felt confident I could finish the race.

Not too far into the second lap I had a twinge in my calf. I could not believe a cramp was coming on already. I upped my fluid and fuel intake and hoped for the best.

The second time up the Salt Creek climb the cramps really started to creep up. They weren't full on cramps, but I could feel them lurking. When we arrived to the start/finish area, I gorged myself on energy drink and gels. After lubing our bone-dry chains, we rode off for lap three, and I felt uncomfortably full.

On the third lap my triceps started cramping, so I tried to stay seated. Doug was spending much more time in the saddle on the climbs, so I tried to do the same to give my arms a break. At the rest stop, which was mid-lap, I again fueled up with a small cup of sports drink and a gel. On the third trip up Salt Creek my legs wanted to blister it, but I was still barely holding off the cramps, so I rode a nice tempo. Even so, I was passing quite a few people. It's a weird feeling to have really good legs and not be able to use them because of cramps.

Before the fourth lap, I drank about 30 ounces of sports drink and ate another gel. We soft pedaled much of the first half of the fourth lap because both of us were on the verge of cramping. At the rest stop they gave us some Endurolytes, which are capsules filled with electrolytes. I don't know if it was the capsules or just the fact that I was smelling the barn, but on the fourth trip up the Salt Creek climb I felt great.

After that we rolled down to the finish and it was over. I felt pretty fresh, and were it not for the cramps, I really felt like I had another couple laps in me.

Doug killed it. He consistently pulled away from me (and others) on the downhills with the rigid fork, and he climbed really well even though his 32x19 gear might have been a little tall for 7000 feet of climbing. I certainly couldn't have pushed that big gear.

We ended up first and second in Single Speed Sport. This may sound more impressive than it was since there were only four people in our class. Still, I think we both rode well enough to be near the top even if there were many more entrants in our single speed class. Had we entered the regular sport class, we would have finished 5th and 6th against the geared riders. Not bad.

We had a cold keg of microbrew waiting at the finish, which tasted pretty damn good after the effort. It was a fun day and it felt great to finally get back out there and do some racing.

On to the pictures. Me after the race:

Doug bringing it home right after me:

"Are you talking to us?"

Talking to Roger as he refuels for his next lap with a PBR:

Roger describing how he passed me like a rocket:

Tinker wins the overall Leave No Trace series title:

Tinker attempts to run over me with his new scooter:

Todd and Roger mugging for the fans:

It was a great day filled with friends, family, single speeds, racing and simply being immersed in the cycling community again. After 21 months of wondering if my wrist would ever reach a point when I could do this again, I finally had my answer. And it was an emphatic yes.

Later.

Race Report: 2007 PCRS #2

It was a dark and stormy day . . .

I kept an eye on the Doppler radar all day hoping for a break for the Wednesday night race, but the rain came in steady waves. At about 2:00 I decided not to race. Who wants to go race in the mud for what amounts to a training session? Not me.

Jenn arrived home from work around 4:10 and something told me to go race. However, I wasn't ready. I rationalized that the very dry, dusty conditions of the previous week might mean less mud. Besides, the sky was clearing a bit and my driveway was actually drying out.

If there was a little mud, I didn't want to ride my geared hardtail and deal with the maintenance after the race. My Karate Monkey single speed was the logical choice—cheap, simple and bombproof. Although the gearing was a bit low for the flat course of Prairie City, and the tires fat and heavy, I didn't have time to make any changes.

After quickly throwing together my gear, I headed to the race, gulping down a granola bar and a Gatorade on the way. Ill-prepared as always.

As soon as I hit the highway, it began pouring. My last check of the radar revealed only spotty activity in northern California. I guess I was just in one of those "spots."

When I arrived at the race, the parking lot was a quagmire. I sat there for a minute with the engine running, and nearly went home. Letting out a heavy sigh, I turned off the ignition. Something made me stay.

I registered, dressed, and went out for a warmup ride. Immediately mud began flying up all over me and my bike. Horrible conditions already, and hundreds of racers pounding the trails would only make it worse. The week before I rode three warmup laps, but this time I did one. It just wasn't worth it to warm up at the cost of coating the bike in 20 pounds of mud. On the positive side, my legs felt outstanding.

I rolled to the start and hoped the rain would stay away.

As we lined up for the start, the rain started coming down again. The racers groaned in unison. The race organizer announced that because of the rainy start, double-points would be awarded per series rules. Racers cheered and clapped.

As my 40-49 Sport class staged, I decided on my strategy: go hard until I detonate. I had never raced a single speed before, and I really had no idea how I would fair against geared riders. Because of my 8th out of 36 finish in the first week's race, I didn't see myself as a contender for the overall title. I decided to experiment with these races—trying different bikes, gearing, warmup techniques and nutrition products.

We took off and I spun my brains out on the slight downhill. I wanted to be towards the front for the first climb, as I knew from the preride that someone would fumble on it. We flew down the fireroad and I killed myself to keep up with the geared riders. As we settled in I counted four guys in front of me. A quick look behind revealed . . . nobody. We had a big gap and had essentially made a selection in the first half-mile. The hairpin turn came and two guys took it too wide. I went up the inside, took a few hard pedal strokes and crested the steep hill. The fat Exiwolf tires passed their first traction test on the smooth, slick river rock. I heard a tire slip behind me, followed by someone saying "shit" as they hit the ground.

I sat in third place for a while, happy to ride behind two guys who I knew I would eventually pass. The trails were wet and very slippery, with exposed river rock everywhere. Already we were encountering a lot of traffic from younger Sport racers who started minutes ahead of us. Many riders were struggling mightily in the bad conditions.

The rain continued to pour over us and the conditions kept deteriorating. I stayed on my guy's wheel, and we steadily plugged away, weaving through traffic. Already bikes were strewn about as mechanical issues and crashes took their toll.

We passed through the start-finish area where people tend to slow down, so I hit the accelerator and passed some riders, including the guy I was following. I could tell that the mud was working on people's psyche; they were going into survival mode. With each person I passed, I grew stronger. Now in second place, I continued to pursue the leader.

Lap two saw conditions getting even worse. The mud was deep and sticky in some places, yet very slick in others. My gearing couldn't have been more perfect. I spun along comfortably, yet ate people up.

In the middle of lap two, I closed in on very large woman clad from head to toe in tight black Lycra. Her tights couldn't quite contain her ample body, and I got a good view of her mud covered ass spilling out the top. Sometimes ninjas should just admit they were born sumo wrestlers.

She heard me approaching behind her and attempted to pull to the side so I could pass. As she did, she lost traction and fell heavily to her left. Immediately she began to wail. "My shoulder's dislocated!" she screamed. To me this expert diagnosis seemed a bit quick. I stopped and asked what I could do, and she asked me to untangle her from the bike. I tried to remove her foot from the pedal, but the mud was everywhere, and I couldn't break it loose. She screamed again in my face, "Just take the fucking shoe off!" I grabbed hold of her meaty ankle and wrenched the shoe off.

Meanwhile, racers were flying past.

She then asked me to roll her upright. When I tried, she screamed at me once again. "Not like that, dammit! Didn't I just say my shoulder is dislocated?" At this point, my sympathy ran thin. She showed me where to place my hand, and I rolled the big, doughy woman upright. As she righted herself, another woman pulled up and asked if everything was OK. I said, "Yeah, stay with her until help comes." I grabbed my bike and took off. Cold-hearted I suppose, but she was blaming me for falling over and I wasn't anywhere near her. Anyway, it's RACING.

About 60 seconds and 25 people passed by, which was going to make achieving a good result more difficult. But I took off and simply tried to keep it straight and apply even, steady power to the pedals. Most of the carnage I saw was from people panicking, pedaling in squares, and jerking the bike around. Smooth and steady was my mantra. Smooth and steady.

I began picking people off one by one, and by the climb leading to the start/finish, I had my guy back in my sights. I rolled up to him, rested a bit, and accelerated hard past him. As I crossed over the line, a woman said "first 500" to the guy in front of me (meaning 40+ Sport) and "second 500" to me. I caught up to the guy and said, "Are you winning?" He said, "I think so." So I dropped him. Easily.

The third lap saw me passing many, many people, and not a single racer passed me. It was great. I made my way through much of the Expert class and single speed class. There was one mud bog, about 100 yards long, where everyone was walking. I made it through on the first two laps, but by the third lap it was unrideable for me also. Mud packed up the tires and piled around the frame. After scraping it out with my hands, I kept going. Towards the end of the third lap I finally made a mistake and went down hard in some river rocks. I banged my right knee, but it wasn't too bad.

At the finish, I was pretty sure I had won. However, it wasn't until the results were posted the next day that I knew for sure—first out of 27.

Now I just had to go home and freshen up a bit.

With the double points awarded for a rain day, I took the lead in the series by two points.

It turned out to be a race people would talk about for years, and one I will always remember.

Later.

Race Report: 2002 Sacramento Cyclocross #2

After struggling with cyclocross technique in my first race, it was clear I needed to work on my dismount. I went to a local park in the following days for a few practice sessions after work. Here I repeatedly dismounted and remounted, slowly becoming smoother and faster. Although the practice drills came at the expense of "real" training time, I felt like my fitness was adequate enough in the first race. No, it was the utter and complete lack of skill that hurt me. I came away from all the practice with a number of bumps and bruises; it's not easy to repeatedly jump off and back on a bike at high speed. However, my dismount improved significantly. I felt ready for my second cross race.

Like the week before, the race was held at Granite Bay, but on the "south course." This course was flat and fast with less sand, running and dismounts—all the things that gave me problems the week before.

My buddy Ed came out to watch me race. Depending on how a racer is wired, this can be good or bad. Some guys don't care for the pressure of racing in front of friends or family. For me, it's always provided a big psychological boost, especially in multi-lap races. Every time I pass by a familiar face or hear my name, I always feel a surge of power. It's no coincidence that most of my good results have occurred when someone accompanied me to a race.

Even more important than the boost a friend or loved one can give you on a good day is the effect their presence can have on a bad day. During those horrible races when you are dying out there, when you may feel like quitting on yourself, you can still find the motivation to race for them. After all, they made the trip out to see you, so the least you can do is put on a good show. Even as a lowly amateur racer this is your job and your duty. Nobody wants to watch a half-assed effort from you.

I dressed and went out for a warm-up. I felt good. Really good. As the Euros say, "I had good sensations in the legs."

Feeling good after my warm-up laps.

Whenever I feel like Superman before a race it makes me feel a little uneasy. I start wondering if what I am feeling is real. Questions bounce around in my head. Do my legs feel good because I didn't ride much during the week? Did I lose fitness? When the race starts will everyone ride away from me?

Confidence is a constant battle for a bike racer because racing is such a crap shoot. You can have absolutely perfect preparation leading up to a race and still feel like crap on race day. Conversely, you can come into a race undertrained, sleep deprived and hungry and have a great day. Because of this there is always nervousness before a race. As racers we never know what we are going to pull from the big box of chocolates.

As I rode up to the starting line, I saw many of the same guys from the week before. I made note of the racers who beat me the previous week. I lined up in the second row behind a guy who I knew started fast. When the gun went off, he jumped quickly ahead and I was right on his wheel. We exited the first corner 1-2 and powered away on the first straightaway. Coming into the first set of barriers I decided to see how much good all the pracice did for me. I braked late, hopped off, ran hard through the barriers, and passed the guy as I slipped smoothly back onto the bike. I felt pretty good about the dismount. All I needed to do was nail nine more barriers and I was home free.

My reign at the front of the race was short-lived. Near the end of the first lap a skinny little guy passed me. It really pissed me off. How the hell did this 90 pound guy catch me? And why was he pulling away?

I chased that guy for the rest of the race. I gave it everything I had because I wanted to win, and the win was so tantalizingly close. He dangled up in front of me, a shimmering phantom seen through eyes floating in vast pools of lactic acid. Each time I closed to within a few feet, he would look back and put in a big effort to gap me.

Chasing hard.

What I didn't realize, because of my battle at the front, was how much damage we were inflicting on the field. We were leading by MINUTES by the end.

Charging through lapped traffic.

On the last set of barriers, on the last lap, I made one last attempt to pass. I mistimed the dismount, though, and clipped the first barrier with my foot. I fell hard and slammed into the second barrier.

Through the dust I watched the win fade into the distance. I would have to settle for second. I stood up and assessed the damage to bike and body—nothing but a little torn handlebar tape and flesh. The huge gap back to third place allowed me to ride easy and limp in to the finish.

After posing for a quick post-race picture, I made my way to the truck and cleaned up.

After changing clothes, I rode over toward a van on which they were posting results. As I approached, Ed informed me that the guy I was chasing was only a junior and that I had won my class.

Wait, what? I won?

In the weeks to follow I would learn the junior racer who beat me was no ordinary kid. Adam Switters was, in fact, a young star in the making. The next year he would race on the U.S. Junior National team in the World Championships.

With the maximum points for the win, I took the lead in the series. Yelling Guy, whose name I learned was Alex, took a disappointing 8th place.

Later.

Race Report: 1994 Rage N at the Ranch

This was a memorable race because I had somehow worked my way back from being a very out-of-shape guy a couple years earlier to actually winning a race. A little less than two years before this race I placed 64th in the beginner class at a race in San Jose. Now I once again stood on the top step of the podium in the sport class, and it felt pretty damn good. I had last won a race back in 1987, which felt like a lifetime before. It was a full circle that took seven crazy years to complete.

None of my Adventure Mountain Bikes teammates wanted to race this one, so I would fly the colors solo. This also meant I didn't have the luxury of riding in the team van, but they still paid my entry fee just the same. My dad accompanied me to the race instead and took all the pictures. We would later stay in his Incline Village condo for the rest of the weekend.

The race took place at the Donner Ski Ranch just west of Lake Tahoe. The course was one typical of what we encountered in the Tahoe area: big climb, rolling alpine singletrack, descent to the finish. I believe the laps were six miles each and we did four laps.

I warmed up for a while and pulled up to the starting line with about ten minutes to go. A few younger guys turned around and sized me up but said nothing. I put my head down and started to focus on my race when I heard the phrase "piece of shit" come out of one guy's mouth. The other two started laughing. It was then I noticed these guys had all the latest and greatest stuff at the time: Rock Shox, boutique frames and lots of purple and blue anodized parts.

I was on my Team Marin, a bike I actually liked. It was still mostly stock, and quite drab in its silver and black colors, but the Shimano parts were solid and reliable. It even came with a few weight-saving parts like a titanium crank spindle, so it was deceivingly light at only 23 pounds.

One finally had enough balls to turn around and say something to the effect of, "You're never going to survive on that bike, man. This course it brutal." Again, they laughed. He was referring to my rigid fork, of course.

Up to this point I had been riding for 10 years. I had raced and ridden on some of the most technical terrain imaginable. I wasn't concerned about the course or my fork at all.

When the race started I was pretty pissed off. I rode right through the field to the front, fueled by the anger.

It didn't take long before I was all alone. There's always a risk of blowing up when you go hard from the start, but that never happened.

I finished the first lap without encountering anything "brutal" in the least. There were a few boulders and slabs up top, but overall the course was ridiculously smooth.

The second time up the climb was my fastest. I felt really good, and the 7,000 foot base elevation didn't seem to be bothering me in the least.

I slowed slightly for laps three and four, but I still rode strong and there was never really any doubt in my mind. I knew I had a huge lead and a mechanical or crash was my only remaining opponent.

I cruised in for the victory, completing my 24-mile solo breakaway.

One of the guys who laughed at me finished third, so I really enjoyed standing next to him at the awards.

He didn't have a whole lot to say about my shitty bike. In fact he wouldn't even look at me.

When the pictures were developed, I gave a print to Brian at Adventure Mountain Bikes. He actually put it in a frame and it hung on the wall where it stayed until the shop closed a couple years later, which was pretty cool.

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 starting climb, up and down in the middle, descend at the end 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 had never experienced it before, nor have I 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 with the intensity of an old lady on a leisurely ride to the market, I was somehow producing elite racing speed.

I crested the climb, reaching the highest point on the 20 mile course. All I had 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 it, 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.