1996 Tahoe Fat Tire Festival

The Tahoe Fat Tire Festival happened over weekend. We enjoyed some good riding, but the other aspects of the trip fell short of expectations.

We drove up Friday evening after Doug negotiated the purchase of a car. I became entangled in conversation with a random salesman while Doug and Sonyo were signing the papers, so to end the dialog I pretended to fall asleep when he briefly left to get something to drink. He was disappointed. Then I really did fall asleep. I have no idea how long I was out. I was supposed to be watching the bikes, so I was relieved to find them safe in the truck when I woke up.

After a nice drive listening to some Pixies the whole way, we arrived in Tahoe City a little after eight o'clock, going straight to the motel to check in. Doug informed the desk clerk we would be splitting the bill, and she had no problem with that. Doug whipped out a checkbook and I simultaneously snapped down the Visa (It's everywhere you want to be!). The lady informed me that they don't accept credit cards. I was astounded. A motel that doesn't take credit cards? I handed over 56 of my hundred bucks in spending money. No T-shirt for me at this festival, I guess.

After dumping our stuff in the room, we dressed and hurried off to the Naughty Dog bar where the night ride was supposed to leave from. When we arrived, the place was packed, but nobody knew anything about a night ride. Eventually a guy told us the ride was cancelled, but I think he was just trying to make us go away. Doug and I split a pitcher of beer and called it a night. The highlights of the night (lowlights?) included getting our picture taken (we don't know why) and seeing some dude with a pristine 1986 Whiskeytown Downhill T-shirt. I assume he only wears it for special occasions, or perhaps he has a bunch of them.

Saturday we went to the sign-in at a bike shop, and it was typically disorganized. The dude had trouble finding our names on the list, and the swag bags (a $16 value!) were nowhere to be found. We were later presented with them and the swag was composed of two PowerBars, a Stoker bar (yuck), a sticker, and a small bag made from hemp. Yeah, $16 value. Sure.

Sometime later, we finally took off on the the ride. After a warm-up on the road, we hit a trail that Doug and I raced on a couple years ago. The climb just rolled gradually upwards and was never very steep. At the top of the climb we hit the Tahoe Rim Trail, which we would stay on all the way back to the parking lot.

One of the many rest stops on the day.

At first the Rim Trail reminded me of the singletrack at Mammoth. Then some of it was reminiscent of Georgetown. Then it got ugly. We rode probably the rockiest, most technical trail I have ever been on in Tahoe. We climbed up to the top of this place the locals call "Glass Mountain." It was nothing but loose plates of shale—no dirt to be seen—and when you rode over it, the sound was literally like riding through broken glass. In fact, there was no dirt for miles, just volcanic rock. The last couple miles reminded us of the horse trails around Horseshoe Bar that used to eat our  chainrings, except it was downhill. The dirt reappeared but with big boulders to drop down. The ride was good, but would have been great had we not stopped so much. There were almost thirty people on the ride, and some were not so fast on the technical stuff, so the stops became longer and more frequent on the second half of the ride. I would definitely do the ride again if I could ride with fewer people.

After a short post-ride nap, we porked out on Mexican food. After dinner we headed to Squaw to check out the bike expo, but it was all shut down. The brewfest cost $13, so it wasn't worth it to go in because we only wanted one or two beers. We watched the dual slalom for a while, but it didn't hold our attention for long, so we bailed.

This guy ate it hard and bent his front wheel.

Sunday, of course, we did the Flume Trail. What festival would be complete without it? It was the same route as the race course. I definitely recognized the climb on the back side up to Marlette Lake; it was as steep as I remembered. There were about 15 of us on the ride, and everyone was pretty strong, so we waited much less. I actually surprised myself on the climbs. I was in the top 5 people at the top of all three. Doug and I were also smoking on the downhills. I'm sure some people didn't like all the crazy passes we were making, but it's no fun sucking the Tahoe moon dust. The Sprouts like that clean air out front.

After the first section of the Flume, we took off downhill after a short wait. I ended up passing everyone except the dude leading the ride, who was a very strong Tahoe local, but only because I didn't know where I was going. When we hit the second section of the Flume, he was motoring. I had to give it almost everything I had to stay on his wheel. I was hurting. But what he had on me in pure speed I made up with skill; I was better on the singletrack. He would gap me a little on the straightaways, but I would get him in the turns and technical stuff.

When we stopped, he admitted he couldn't shake me, which was cool coming from a stud expert racer. We gapped everybody by a long way. Anyway, the Flume is a cool ride.

The "festival" was a bust for the most part. The organizers were anything but organized, and many of the activities on the flyer never happened. But we did a couple good rides and learned some new trails on the west side of the lake.

One thing I never realized is even though we always start the Flume Ride down at Spooner Lake, you ride way north, and the Flume Trail is actually a stone's throw from my dad's condo in Incline Village. All this time and it never occurred to me.

I'm going to try to get up to the condo for a couple days between jobs to do some riding, and I'll definitely figure out a Flume route I can do right from the condo. That would be too cool.

Later.

G-Town

I had an epic solo road ride planned for yesterday, but I received a better offer: Georgetown.

Doug Page called me Saturday night to tell me that an ABC ride was happening, and I pretty much drop everything for either an ABC or Georgetown ride. This is both, you say? Hell yes.

It rained Saturday night, so the trail conditions were damn near perfect except for a few mud holes. The traction was just awesome. The new WTB Velociraptor tire I just picked up worked great.

Well, these aren't your classic ABC rides anymore where you ride around for eight hours, take one of Greg's "I know a shortcut" trails, get hopelessly lost, and perhaps bushwhack down a cliff. These new guys rip. No waiting. No bullshit. The old guard—Doug, Greg Edwards and I—were typically bringing up the rear. There were eight of us, and three were on single speeds. One of them wasn't that fast, and he held me up on more than a few climbs. One was pretty strong, but the other one was a freaking animal. He climbed almost everything. Evidently, he took 15th overall at the Shasta Lemurian this year . . . on a single speed. I can't remember his name, but he builds frames for Ventana, so that's what all three single speeders were riding. They are only $400 and look pretty sweet to me.

Isaac Chilton was there too. He's riding a Ventana full suspension, so we enjoyed dicing it out on some downhills. After putting some more miles on the Dean since the last Georgetown ride, I was much faster. I don't think anyone else was as fast as me today. But when I wasn't flying downhill, I just hung hung out in back with Page and Og.

One time when we stopped, Page told everybody that I picked the sweetest lines on the downhills and everybody should try riding behind me. Cool. I guess that's something Steve and I were always good at. We could ride on each other's wheel with the utmost confidence that our partner would pick the right line. When I ride behind other people . . . they seem to just pick a side of the trail and stay there regardless of how shitty the line is. I think we have better "trail vision." If we see a cool line 10 feet away on the other side of the trail, we get over there and make up time. 

Isaac is pretty damn fast too. I saw him in the top three of the expert class all year in the results. He is threatening to get a single speed. My guess is he'll rip on it because he already pushes pretty big gears.

Anyway, about the ride itself. It was even harder than last time. Isaac was kind of leading the ride, and he opted out of the normal Bald Mountain route with all the fire road climbs. He took us on nothing but singletrack, and he included every steep climb he knew. I think he was mostly trying to torture the single speeders, but it was hurting all of us.

It was only 24 miles, but so tight and twisty and rough. It was a ride where you wrestled the bike the whole time, both up and down, and at a high pace. I was wasted afterwards from head to toe.

This morning I am pretty blown from riding four days in a row. I don't believe I have done that since summer vacation.

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: Unknown Race, Bay Area

I can't remember the name of this race. It's quite possible I knocked that knowledge right out of my head.

This was my first race riding for the Adventure Mountain Bikes Racing Team, based in Fair Oaks, California. My buddy Steve worked for Dean Bicycles at the time, and he conned the owner John into giving me a sponsorship. This “sponsorship” only amounted to a Dean frame at wholesale, an ugly Dean jersey and a lifetime supply of decals (many of which I still have). Adventure Mountain Bikes, which didn’t stay in business long, was the local Dean dealer and would be my home base. I became part of their team by default, and they provided a team jersey, parts at cost and race entry fees.

We had a team meeting at a pizza place where I met my teammates. We talked about the upcoming races and decided on a schedule. The first race would be in less than a month.

On the day of the first race we all met at the shop in Fair Oaks, piled into the team van, and headed to the bay area. This was the first race in my life in which everything was taken care of for me—registration, race fees, transportation, etc. All I had to do was show up and race. Because of this pro treatment, I don't recall the name of the race or even where it was held. I do think the word "scramble" was in the race title.

My Dean frame had not arrived yet, and it had been a few weeks since I was supposed to have received it. In hindsight, this would become Dean’s legacy: cool products with missed delivery dates and poor customer service.

I cracked the rim on my Team Marin's rear wheel a few days before the race. I didn't have time to fix it, and it was the only seven-speed wheel I had. Consequently, I had to race on my Fisher ProCaliber (six speed), a bike I never really loved.

I brought both my jerseys, but seeing all my teammates wearing their red Adventure jerseys made me feel uncomfortable about wearing the Dean jersey. I didn't want to be different, and not even having a Dean bike sealed it. I never actually wore the Dean jersey in a race because I felt more loyalty towards the bike shop than to Dean.

She's seen better days.

This race was unlike anything I had done before or since. There would be a qualifying race where the field would be divided into thirds. The third finishing first would be the pro/expert class, the middle third sport and the last third beginner.

The course was a loop that was split between a high plateau that was pretty much a BMX track and lower ground that was more like a mountain bike course. Before the qualifying race we were goofing around on the upper part of the course where there was a set of double jumps. After the doubles was a small jump at the top of a steep hill leading off the plateau. Missy Giove, some guy in all black and I were the only three people attempting to clear the long doubles. It took a bit of speed coming out of the previous corner to make the long gap, but it was manageable. There was a large group of people milling around the jumps watching us, and admittedly I was showing off a bit.

We lined up for the qualifier and I decided that I really wanted to impress my team. My goal was to be in the top third and race in the pro/expert race. When the qualifier started I rocketed off the line and got out into the lead on the long first straightaway. I hit the first corner hard, rode along the top of the berm, and took a lot of speed out of the turn. I hit the double jump, landed perfectly and kept going. I peeked behind and everyone was taking the “bailout” line around the jump, which probably cost them four or five seconds. I then hit the little jump and sailed about halfway down the 50-foot downhill. I rode by myself on the lower portion of the course, but on the climb going back up to the plateau a couple guys passed me. I rode well for the rest of the race and ended up fifth. I was the only person on my team in the top third, so I think I successfully impressed everyone. Little did I know how much more impressive my main race would be.

After the qualifier we again started hitting the jumps to pass the time. Missy could jump a little bit, but I think the man in black and I were better. Once again, nobody else was attempting the doubles. The more I jumped, the more cocky I became, and the more people came over to watch. On my last jump I carried as much speed as I could out of the corner and hit the jump with a ton of speed. I hurled the bike way in the air, stalled, and pointed the nose down perfectly on the backside of the double. I sped towards the little jump and launched into the nothingness. It seemed like I was in the air for an eternity, completely sailing over the downhill transition and landing on the flat ground below. The sharp and jolting impact collapsed my arms and legs, and I slammed hard to the ground on my left side. My head hit the ground and my helmet literally exploded. I came to a stop after sliding about 10 feet.

Right after a bad crash, the first thing most guys do is lay there for a second to see if all the body parts are still attached and functioning. After deciding this was the case, I stood up. My fork was twisted badly, my front rim was bent and the handlebars didn't feel right. Other than that the bike seemed functional. My body however, had seen better days.

I was bleeding from pretty much every joint on my left side—wrist, elbow, shoulder, hip, knee, shin and ankle. My head hurt. I picked up what was left of my Giro helmet and walked my bike back to the team tent we had set up. I tossed the helmet chunks into a nearby trash can and sat down in the shade of the tent. Our team manager, Brian, walked up and looked me over. “Are you OK?” he asked. “Yeah,” I lied.

We sat and talked for a while as I cleaned myself up. Teammates came and went. Guys patted me on the back and said things like "tough break" and “better luck next time.” I was not enjoying the pity. Screw that. I decided I was still going to race.

Brian left to go watch the beginner race. We had two guys racing in it. When it was over, Brian returned to find me working on my bike. I was desperately trying to untwist the bent fork legs, but it was no use. “Sit down, man! We can fix that when we get home,” he said. I told him I was racing, and that I needed a helmet and some aspirin. He looked at me like I was insane.

Brian returned from the van with a bottle of Tylenol, of which I took four. I definitely had a concussion, and the pain was intense. I needed it to go away.

We loosened the stem so we could at least get the handlebars lined up with the front wheel again. The brake pads were re-adjusted so the front brakes worked somewhat. A teammate gave me his helmet, but it was far too big. I grabbed my San Francisco Giants ballcap out of the van and put it on under the helmet. It looked ridiculous, but it worked.

When the start of the expert race came around, my head still hurt quite a bit, but the Tylenol had done an admirable job of dulling it. My body was stiffening up. I knew this race was going to suck.

For some reason, I decided to go with my strategy from the qualifier and try to get the holeshot. I did just that.

Just like in the first race, I found a hole and sprinted to the front. I had the first corner all to myself and made it through carrying a lot of speed. I saw the double jumps ahead of me and thought, “Why not?”

I hit the jump and sailed right over. I didn’t land as smoothly as I did in the qualifier, but it was good enough to get me a big gap. Once again, nobody else attempted the jump. I hit the downhill jump at a much lower speed and rolled down into the lower course. This time nobody caught me on the climb back up to the upper course. On the second lap I too avoided the doubles and rode conservatively from there on out. Even though I was hurting and stiff, I had good legs. I rode well and made no mistakes. Eventually a couple guys passed me, but that was OK. I felt very good about a third place finish, all things considered.

When I walked to the podium during the awards ceremony, my teammates went crazy. I could see they were a little bit awed by the quiet new guy who took third in the pro/expert race with a broken bike and body. I handed my third place cash to Brian and said, "Let's party."

Spirits were high on the way home. We had the music cranked up and enough Taco Bell to feed a small army. My head was still killing me, but I endured the noise. I had succeeded in gaining the respect of my teammates, just not quite in the way I had intended. I abused my body, trashed my bike and ruined a helmet. Still, overall it was a good and memorable day.

AND, I scored this . . . thing:

Bask in the awesomeness that is my trophy. Who doesn't need a contraption made of old bike parts that can hold a mason jar? Nobody!

And if you can't tell, that's the number "3" on the front for my third place finish.

Later.

Race Report: 1992 Dash for Cash

I made my triumphant return to racing in the fall of 1992 after a four-year layoff. Although the race wasn't a triumph in terms of results, it was a life-affirming event. Once again, bike racing would change the course of my life.

The race was held in Grant Ranch, a large regional park east of San Jose. I knew from my previous experience with Bay Area races that I was in for a long day of repeated short but steep climbs.

From the time I quit racing in 1988 to earlier in 1992 I had gained 50 pounds. While nobody would call someone 5-11 and 185 pounds fat, I was certainly not the highly trained racing whippet I was before. Basically I would be starting back at ground zero, so I entered the beginner class. When I saw that they were paying down to 20 places, I thought for sure I would be scoring some CA$H.

Because of the weight gain none of my old jerseys fit anymore. Needing a place to carry my tools and spare tube, I had to improvise. I took the largest of my old jerseys and cut the sleeves off, which allowed me to stretch it over a tee shirt. 

The race itself was a couple hours of pain and misery. I had been riding all summer, but much of that was on the paved bike trail. Even when I did go mountain biking, nothing in the Sacramento area really compares to how they build trails in the Bay Area. If there's a hill, the trail will typically go straight over it rather than traversing at an angle or switching back.

My lone goal in this race was not walking any of the climbs. This is not always the way to go faster or race more efficiently. I remember a few occasions when I was dying on a steep climb, refusing to give in to hoofing it, while people were walking next to me expending much less effort. Sometimes pride comes at a price.

I actually felt good about how I climbed that day. The course was no joke and overall I felt pleased with my performance all things considered. But I did pay a price. My brain raced like I did in the old days but with a body built more for pie eating contests. I have raced many times over the years, before and since, but this was the only time I ever flopped on the ground in exhaustion at the finish.

At this point I probably don't need to say there was no CA$H added to my bank account. I managed a lowly 64th out of 189. In the beginner class. How the mighty had fallen.

Still, the fire had been rekindled, the missing piece of my life rediscovered. I didn't know it at the time, but there would be many, many more races in my future. The second act to a play that I thought was long over had been written. I would never be the star I dreamed of in my youth, but every great play needs supporting actors. And sometimes even those guys in supporting roles get their day in the sun.

Later.

Race Report: 1988 Coors Omnium

After competing in my first road race and enjoying it, I went all-in and built a new road bike. For my second attempt on the road, I was looking for a course that would cater to my strengths, but a race that absolutely did no such thing found me first.

My friend and coworker Don was making his annual pilgrimage to the Coors Omnium held in and around Chico, California. He suggested I go with him, but I was apprehensive. With only one road race under my belt, a stage race seemed like a big jump. Still, he convinced me to go with him. Although I had only been riding with him for a matter of months, and I had barely ridden my new bike, I decided to go for it.

Saturday came and the weather was horrible—windy, rainy and cold. I didn't want to race in those conditions, but when Don called to see if I was ready to go, he excitedly told me how awesome it was going to be. And like an idiot I believed him. He rolled up in his shitty car about 15 minutes later. We took the wheels off my shiny new bike and threw it on top of his in the rear of the car.

I hopped into the passenger seat and immersed my feet in a sea of trash: fast food bags, candy wrappers, soda cans, dirty clothes, receipts, race entry forms, old race numbers, etc. He threw the car in gear and burned out as we pulled away from my house. I am sure my mom felt like I was in very good hands.

I was not.

We drove through Roseville and hopped onto Highway 65 heading north towards Chico. I don't remember the exact model of the car, a Mercury Bobcat, maybe a Lynx, but I do remember it was a piece of crap. The steering wheel had a bunch of play and the brakes weren't great. As we continued north, the rain fell harder and harder.

The painfully slow windshield wipers were no match for the volume of water hitting the glass. I couldn't see much in front of us, but Don was nonplussed. He was rocking out to the music, eating Wacky Wafers by the handful, and barely paying attention to the road. We were on an undivided two-lane highway and Don was hauling ass.

We hydroplaned just outside of Wheatland. The car turned sideways to the right before he corrected our wayward trajectory. Don just laughed, but I was only two years removed from a serious car accident, so I didn't find it amusing at all. On a couple occasions he dug around in his duffel bag behind his seat or rummaged through the glovebox. We came inches from hitting other cars head-on multiple times.

It was absolutely terrifying.

Somehow we reached Paradise, the venue for the road race, mostly alive. The rain continued to pour down. Paradise received a total of 1.45 inches that day, and I think most of that was during my road race.

I registered for the race and only then found out the details. First would be a morning road race followed by a time trial in the afternoon. The next morning would be a criterium in downtown Chico. As a category 4 racer I would be doing 60 miles in the road race. Cat 3s would race 80, and Don's Pro/1/2 race would be 100 miles.

We lined up for the road race and I really had no idea what was going on. I had raced mountain bikes quite a bit at this point, but road racing was very different. I was used to receiving a course map and an elevation profile, but all I really knew about the course was the distance of 60 miles. The faster groups took off before us at intervals, then my group finally went. Suddenly I was thrust into the kind of racing I had viewed on TV for years, and the weather was just as bad as in those European Spring Classics I had dreamed about racing in.

Road racing was very popular back then, and the Coors Omnium was a very big deal. Here's a picture commemorating the 1988 race hanging on a wall somewhere in Chico.

My category 4 group was pretty big, probably four times as many as in my first race. I don't know the actual number, but I would put it at around 80 to 90 riders.

Due to the early crash at Pope Valley, I spent almost all the race with a handful of racers and then the rest riding solo after I was dropped. I had yet to experience real pack racing.

Riding in a large pack for the first time was a little unnerving, especially in the pouring rain. In some respects the rain might have been advantageous for a first-timer because everyone rode with a bit more caution. I don't remember a single crash.

It only took a few minutes before my glasses fogged up to the point I couldn't see a thing. I tucked them into my jersey, but without them all the rain and spray from the tires around me blinded me just the same. I put the glasses back on but slid them way down to the tip of my nose and looked over the top of them like an old man. They blocked the tire spray for the most part.

It seemed like we rolled downhill forever. I was sitting mid-pack and it all felt quite easy. Before I knew it we had ripped off eight miles. Then we started climbing.

I have no idea where the course was located, and there really isn't any way to find out now. What I do know is a tough little climb exists somewhere around Paradise Town Hall.

The pace was pretty high and I struggled at first, but then I started getting into a rhythm and feeling better. We crested the climb and our group was a bit smaller. After a few minutes we came around a turn and there was the finish line. I looked down at my Avocet computer to see we were at about 10 miles. A lap race. And then I realized I would have to do that awful climb five more times.

The pace picked up on the second lap and it no longer felt easy. The pack turned from a shapeless blob to a single-file paceline. I basically knew how to ride a paceline from riding with friends, but this was the first time I had the opportunity in a race. When my turn came at the front it provided some relief from the tire spray, which was nice, but the energy expenditure was high. I did a solid 30-second pull and peeled off like everyone else was doing. It was painful but fun.

We hit the climb for the second time and I had no problem staying towards the front. We crossed the start-finish line and a few more guys were missing from the pack. Forty more miles.

The pace ebbed and flowed for the next few laps. There were a couple solo attacks, but they were easily reeled in. Each time up the climb I stayed near the front, and more guys dropped off the back.

On the final lap the bigger guys were really hammering. Being a skinny guy, I was in serious trouble, barely hanging on. I was actually looking forward to the last time up the climb where the scales would tip my way.

We hit the final climb and the pace actually slowed up. The riders who were pushing the pace on the flats seemed tired. One of the guys who was in the back with me surged towards the front and I followed his wheel. He upped the pace and I looked back to see he created a split. There were only about twenty guys left.

He peeled off and I took over riding the front. I kept the same pace for a bit and felt pretty good. After a short time I decided to drop down a cog and see who could respond. I rode a hard tempo for about two more minutes and peeled off. I expected to slot in after a long line of guys rode by, but the line was quite short. Only a dozen guys left.

We continued to ride hard on the climb and by the finish a few more riders had dropped off. A couple guys made a short, half-hearted sprint at the finish for bragging rights. The rest of us were content with receiving the same time. I counted six guys in front of me.

I had finished my first rainy race unscathed, and had scored a seventh place. In my head I thought this would be the norm going forward, and I would go on to completely dominate road racing. Unfortunately, this would be my best placing in a road race for the remainder of my racing days.

***

After the race I rode back to the car only to realize it was locked. Don had the keys, and he still had roughly 40 miles left to race. I was still so hot from racing that my body was steaming, so I wasn't worried about the rain. It actually felt good. However, as time went on I started cooling down, and before long I was very cold. I waited under a tree, shivering uncontrollably, for almost two hours before Don showed up.

We changed into dry clothes. Bike racing has a funny way of completely lifting your inhibitions. When you are that tired and cold and desperate, getting naked in a parking lot in front of a couple hundred people is the least of your worries. I took my clothes off like I was invisible with no regard for all the people milling about around me.

Don drove to a nearby fast food joint and we ate. I was still cold, eating with my shriveled prune fingers. I had to go right back to the race after we ate because the Cat 4s would go first in the time trial.

When I watched the professionals on TV, the starting order in stage race time trials was based on each racers accumulated time in the race to that point. This would have been nice since I did well in the road race, giving me over an hour to rest and warm back up. Unfortunately our names were posted up on a board and somehow I was one of the first starters. I changed back into riding clothes, put on my wet shoes, helmet and gloves, and warmed up for a few minutes. My name was called to line up. I was stiff, tired and still cold.

After a few minutes of sitting in the rain and getting even colder, the official counted me down and I was off. My heart wasn't really in it, and I felt terrible. Even on the best day, I was never going to be a great time trialist with my slim build. But this was a bad day. I was slow. I was caught and passed by two guys who started behind me. I'm sure I finished towards the very bottom. I never even bothered to look at the results.

After finishing I went back to the car, and I was thrilled to find it unlocked. Don must have been in the vicinity. I took the wheels off my bike and threw it in the back. It was nice to change into dry clothes. Don came back and told me he still had a couple hours until his start slot. We sat in the car and listened to music for a while. With an hour to go, Don got dressed and wheeled away to warm up.

I sat in the car for a couple hours bored out of my mind. It was getting dark outside. Don eventually came back and reported he had done well in the time trial as I knew he would. The guy was fast on the flats.

We again ate some terrible fast food. I remember wondering how Don could be a pro racer and eat nothing but fast food and candy. It still baffles me to this day how he could go so fast on such terrible fuel.

After our gourmet dinner we went to Don's friend's apartment where we would sleep. Don scored the grimy, stained sofa and I was awarded the smelly, carpeted floor. I felt OK with the arrangement because while the carpet stunk like dirty feet, there was no telling what happened on that disgusting sofa. I typically have difficulty falling asleep in strange places, but after a day featuring a hellish car ride, two races and a lot of rain, I closed my eyes and drifted off quickly.

***

The next morning I awoke to brilliant sunshine. Today will be better, I thought. We worked on our bikes and got them running as best we could. Back then bearings were not sealed well, and after a long day in the rain my bike needed a major overhaul. My freewheel was especially cranky and rough. Luckily Don had a pair of sew-up wheels, and he let me use them for the criterium.

The day before had been a long one featuring many hours of soaking rain, cold temperatures, stress and poor nutrition. I finished it up with a terrible night of sleep on a hard floor. And we would start this day with Don's favorite pre-race food: doughnuts.

I was 20 years old and admittedly didn't have a perfect diet. As a bike racer you tend to have limited time between all the training and a job, and you are always hungry. This can often lead to shortcuts. But I did make an effort to get some fruits and vegetables into my body once in a while. Don made no such effort. After spending the better part of two days with him, I was flabbergasted. He was an elite athlete with equally elite junk food tendencies.

I warmed up for the crit and knew it would be a tough day. There are a number of things you need to do for optimal recovery from a previous day's efforts, and I literally did none of them. I emptied the tank the day before and did little to fill it back up.

The race started and the pace was immediately too much for me. I was at the back barely hanging on. The course was very short, so it was basically corner-sprint, corner-sprint over and over. We were shedding riders and the officials were pulling them when it became clear they would not make it back to the pack. After about 10 laps I dropped off the back, and I too was pulled from the race.

Not even finishing was pretty humbling and frustrating for me, especially since I did so well in the road race. I walked away with a new appreciation for professional road racers, especially the guys doing grand tours. Racing hard every day for three weeks was even more difficult to comprehend after doing it myself for only two days.

I changed into street clothes and watched races for the rest of the day. Don's Pro/1/2 race was fun to watch, and he finished near the front.

We drove home and I was no doubt thinking about the upcoming mountain bike races where I would be back in my element.

Later.

Race Report: 1988 Pope Valley Road Race

From 1985 through 1987 I kept meticulous records of my races. I kept every number and wrote the name of the race, the date, and my finishing place on the back. After that my record keeping slacked off, so piecing together my 1988 racing season has been more difficult.

I recently wrote about the Chico Stage Race, which I thought was my first road race. However, I later found this picture:

The significance is I'm on my Colnago and wearing my old Vetta "CW" helmet. This suggests the race was before I bought my Faggin in late February. In later road races I am wearing a Giro helmet like the guy is wearing in the lower right.

For many years, the race season started with January's Early Bird Criteriums in Fremont before moving to road races in February. I figure this race must have occurred in early to mid February.

I started to remember some details from the race. The course was something like 60 miles with lots of climbing. There was a big crash that split the field. I ended up in the wrong side of the split. We chased and chased but never made it back. Towards the end I was dropped from the chase group and finished alone, somewhere in the bottom third of the field.

I talked to Steve to get his recollections: "I was with the lead group. Then I wasn’t. Then I too had a solo ride from what I recall. And I limped up the final climb to the finish. Yeah that crash was a bummer. First race and we were split."

What I couldn't remember was the name of the race or where it was exactly. Luckily there was someone there to provide some help: my dad. 

He took a lot of pictures that day, but only two of them featured me. This was out of character for my father. Typically he only took pictures of me or my friends. This was likely his first road race, however, so perhaps after photographing so many mountain bike races he thought it was cool to do a road race. 

I combed through the pictures looking for any clues and found this picture with a road sign:

I scanned it at the highest resolution I could and zoomed in on the tiny green sign. I could easy make out "NAPA" and "LAKE CO" with the arrows. So we were dealing with a road running north-south between Napa and Lake County. The bottom sign was a bit tougher. I could clearly see "POPE" in the middle and something ending with an "LY" on the right. Once I figured out it was "VLY" I was in business.

It turned out to be Chiles Pope Valley Road. Since it was a fairly long road, I needed to find the cross street to really nail down the location.

I scanned Google Earth looking for a road that curved slightly to the right before the intersection. It turned out to be Pope Canyon Road. Although the building has changed and a couple trees are gone, you can see that the road and the hill contours in the background match perfectly. The perspective is off a bit, of course, because my dad was standing on the shoulder and Google Street View scans are taken from . . . wait for it . . . the street.

Current road race schedules don't really have anything in the Pope Valley region, so I hit the Wayback Machine.

As far as bike racing goes, the internet started in about 1996. Before that you are unlikely to find anything of use. I went to NCNCA.org and found a 1996 race schedule, and there it was:

The Pope Valley Road Race. The only problem was the late April date didn't jive with my memory and evidence timeline.

I learned that the race promoter was Napa Valley Velo. I poked around and found this little blurb on their archived web site:

The date change comment suggests the race was previously held at an earlier date, so maybe my February recollection was correct.

Anyway, here I am finishing alone after grinding out 60 hilly miles in what I now believe was my very first road race.

Here's one of Steve (the famous blue Descente jersey, white Oakleys) after he finished.

Later.