I had my four-week post-op appointment today. Apparently things are looking good?
Looks like a freaking mess to me, but what do I know.
Later.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Knife
I had surgery last night. Successful, I guess. Pics or it didn't happen.
When someone cuts through your skin and tendons and whatnot, and puts a bunch of screws in your broken bones, it sort of hurts. Who knew?
Later.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Race Report: 2008 TBF Challenge #1
Not a great day at the races.
The day started well enough. I was looking especially dapper before the start, and perhaps a little menacing—the unshaven mystery man in black.
The picture above probably doesn't look that special, especially to anyone familiar with mountain bike racing. It's just a racing picture, the likes of which you could see on hundreds of racer-guy blogs just like mine. To you, it says very little.
You can't see any skin, so it's probably cold. The trees are void of leaves. Some guy is glued to my wheel. I'm either smiling or grimacing. Our numbers are pinned to the front of our jerseys. We're on single speeds. The course looks boring. That's about it. Far short of the requisite thousand words a picture should tell.
I can add a few details. January. Completing the first lap of a two-lap race. A bitter north headwind. A flapping number. I muster a smile for my cheering spouse. I'm oblivious. Care-free. And minutes away from my first real injury in 29 years of racing. Wrist. Broken. Shattered. Shadoobie.
It was a TBF race held out at Granite Bay on Folsom Lake. I had done a number of TBF races in the past. They are expensive, and the course isn't very exciting, but they are only 30 minutes from my house. I used to live less than a mile from a ride that included parts of the race course, so I know the area well.
Race day began like any other except for the bizarre request at registration to pin our numbers to the front of our jerseys, something I had never done in all my years of racing. The front? Really?
It was windy that day, and the number flapped about and made a lot of noise. It crackled with nearly every pedal stroke. Did it distract me enough to make a big mistake on the course? Maybe, but probably not.
I don't want to go into a blow-by-blow account of the race, because there isn't much to tell, so I will get to the juicy part. Basically the guy you see on my wheel was there for about eight miles, and he was really getting on my nerves. When you are racing against a guy with similar ability with just one gear, it's not uncommon to ride together for prolonged periods. It's not like you can put it in the big chainring and attack. But to sit behind someone for that long on a windy day and not take a single pull is not cool.
So unfortunately I lost my cool. I decided to either get rid of him or blow up trying. I knew a little area with some technical sections was coming up, so I hit the gas. If I could get a gap I thought I could hold it to the finish.
There was an S-turn with a big granite boulder in the middle of it that you ride up and over. I went into the first turn way too fast, swung too far outside over the top, then ended up too far inside on the second turn. I clipped a smaller rock and went down.
Typically one wants to tuck-and-roll in this situation, and I always have in the past, but there was a rock heading straight for my face. Instinctively, I put my left hand out to protect myself and that was that.
The stolen pictures below tell the story:
I popped up quickly and grabbed my handlebar with my right hand as I stood up. As I tried to grab the left grip I totally missed. I thought, hey, that's weird. When I looked down I realized why: my hand wasn't anywhere near where it was supposed to be. I actually tried to start riding but the photographer who took these pictures stepped in front of me and talked me out of it.
I have been riding a bike since I was four years old, and racing since I was 12. Crashing for me is fairly rare, and even when I do it's typically been mostly minor—a scrape, a bruise, a cut, a separated shoulder. I broke some ribs once, but I don't really count that as a "broken bone" per se. No, this was a full-on major injury, my first.
It did not hurt that much, so I didn't actually think it was broken. I figured my wrist was dislocated and we'd make a quick trip to the doc, get it popped back into place, and I would be riding the next day. But the X-rays showed the radius broken into four pieces.
The result was surgery, a plate and I think 12 screws. I will be in rehab mode for a while with significant time off the bike. It's a bummer from a cycling standpoint, but it's also going to greatly affect day-to-day life and put a burden on my family. We also have a vacation scheduled that is now in jeopardy. We'll see what happens with that.
Later.
The day started well enough. I was looking especially dapper before the start, and perhaps a little menacing—the unshaven mystery man in black.
You can't see any skin, so it's probably cold. The trees are void of leaves. Some guy is glued to my wheel. I'm either smiling or grimacing. Our numbers are pinned to the front of our jerseys. We're on single speeds. The course looks boring. That's about it. Far short of the requisite thousand words a picture should tell.
I can add a few details. January. Completing the first lap of a two-lap race. A bitter north headwind. A flapping number. I muster a smile for my cheering spouse. I'm oblivious. Care-free. And minutes away from my first real injury in 29 years of racing. Wrist. Broken. Shattered. Shadoobie.
It was a TBF race held out at Granite Bay on Folsom Lake. I had done a number of TBF races in the past. They are expensive, and the course isn't very exciting, but they are only 30 minutes from my house. I used to live less than a mile from a ride that included parts of the race course, so I know the area well.
Race day began like any other except for the bizarre request at registration to pin our numbers to the front of our jerseys, something I had never done in all my years of racing. The front? Really?
It was windy that day, and the number flapped about and made a lot of noise. It crackled with nearly every pedal stroke. Did it distract me enough to make a big mistake on the course? Maybe, but probably not.
I don't want to go into a blow-by-blow account of the race, because there isn't much to tell, so I will get to the juicy part. Basically the guy you see on my wheel was there for about eight miles, and he was really getting on my nerves. When you are racing against a guy with similar ability with just one gear, it's not uncommon to ride together for prolonged periods. It's not like you can put it in the big chainring and attack. But to sit behind someone for that long on a windy day and not take a single pull is not cool.
So unfortunately I lost my cool. I decided to either get rid of him or blow up trying. I knew a little area with some technical sections was coming up, so I hit the gas. If I could get a gap I thought I could hold it to the finish.
There was an S-turn with a big granite boulder in the middle of it that you ride up and over. I went into the first turn way too fast, swung too far outside over the top, then ended up too far inside on the second turn. I clipped a smaller rock and went down.
Typically one wants to tuck-and-roll in this situation, and I always have in the past, but there was a rock heading straight for my face. Instinctively, I put my left hand out to protect myself and that was that.
The stolen pictures below tell the story:
I popped up quickly and grabbed my handlebar with my right hand as I stood up. As I tried to grab the left grip I totally missed. I thought, hey, that's weird. When I looked down I realized why: my hand wasn't anywhere near where it was supposed to be. I actually tried to start riding but the photographer who took these pictures stepped in front of me and talked me out of it.
I have been riding a bike since I was four years old, and racing since I was 12. Crashing for me is fairly rare, and even when I do it's typically been mostly minor—a scrape, a bruise, a cut, a separated shoulder. I broke some ribs once, but I don't really count that as a "broken bone" per se. No, this was a full-on major injury, my first.
It did not hurt that much, so I didn't actually think it was broken. I figured my wrist was dislocated and we'd make a quick trip to the doc, get it popped back into place, and I would be riding the next day. But the X-rays showed the radius broken into four pieces.
The result was surgery, a plate and I think 12 screws. I will be in rehab mode for a while with significant time off the bike. It's a bummer from a cycling standpoint, but it's also going to greatly affect day-to-day life and put a burden on my family. We also have a vacation scheduled that is now in jeopardy. We'll see what happens with that.
Later.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Race Report: 2007 Sacramento Cyclocross #5
Question: What is harder than racing cyclocross?
Answer: Racing cyclocross on a single speed.
Friday on the way home from work I suddenly had a thought pop into my head out of the blue: I wanted to race cyclocross on Saturday. The only problem I could see with the plan was the complete and utter lack of a cross bike.
So what to race? I could have raced the geared Karate Monkey, but it's just such a tank; nobody should have to carry that thing over a barrier. I considered changing the gearing on one of my single speeds and racing that. Then it occurred to me what would be the perfect bike for the Granite Bay course—my grocery store bike.
I figure my Miyata 210 hails from the 1970s. It's so old, it has no water bottle or shifter braze-ons. I had already converted the front end to a somewhat cyclocross configuration. I just needed to figure out how to get it shifting right; downtube shifting wasn't going to cut it. After thinking about all the work involved in changing out all the parts, I decided it would be easier to just strip the gears off.
So as I was driving I tried to figure out what would be a good single speed gear. A 2:1 on a mountain bike is everyone's starting point, but I figured it needed to be a higher ratio for cyclocross. I thought a 39x18 might be about right. I jumped off the freeway and hit the only bike shop on the way home, Bicycle Planet. They had a great selection of Surly cogs—everything except an 18. I grabbed a 17 instead.
Since it was payday, we went from the bike shop to Costco for our monthly shopping. As usual, the store was a complete zoo. After shopping, unloading, making dinner and eating, I wasn't in the mood for working on the bike. It would have to wait until morning.
The next morning I stripped off the rack, gears, etc. I borrowed the solid axle from a single speed and installed it in the rear wheel. I eyeballed a good chainline and put the 17t cog on there with a bunch of spacers I cannibalized from a spare cassette. I shortened up the chain, re-adjusted the brakes and installed the clipless pedals. I finished the bike about 20 minutes before I had to leave. Sweet.
I ran around the house grabbing what I needed, threw Spencer (and Jenn) in the truck, and headed out. We arrived at the race with 25 minutes to spare. I registered, dressed and hopped on the bike. The gearing felt a little tall. The seat was a bit low with clipless pedals. After a quick saddle height adjustment, I was ready to go.
I rode a bit of the course to get a feel for the bike, and did one set of barriers. It was the first dismount I had attempted in three years. It was not pretty. I rolled to the start line with four minutes to spare.
I was racing in the open single speed class, which means that any age or ability is welcome as long as you have one gear. Typically you have a couple guys who are A-level racers. We were racing with the 18-34 Bs and would do 45 minutes, which equated to five laps. There were seven single speeds and 18 Bs for a total of 25. Pretty low turnout, but probably typical. I think most cross racers are over 35 years old.
We took off and I was sitting in the top five. Blazing down a wide path three abreast, I was surprised how fast I could go with the 39x17 gearing. As the road funneled down to a right turn onto some singletrack, I let a number of people cut in rather than get tangled up in a crash. After about a half lap, I took a peek behind me to see nobody. Once again I was the last guy in the first group.
One of the single speed guys pulled away and was never seen again. He was very fast, and won the overall race. There was one other single speeder in front of me, and he too was quickly pulling away.
On the second lap four of us fell off the back of the lead group, and I would stay with this group, all geared racers, for the rest of the race. My barrier technique was as rusty as the bike I rode. There were two sets of barriers per lap. Every time we hit a set of barriers, I would lose ground to my three companions and have to chase back. My sloppy technique cost me a lot of time.
When we hit the line for the fourth lap there wasn't a soul behind me. I figured I had third place single speed locked up. My group was slowing and really holding me up in the singletrack, but I wasn't worried because I couldn't catch second place and there was a huge gap behind me. All I had to do was ride it out. Or so I thought.
Towards the end of the fourth lap, I looked back and a guy on a white bike was coming, and moving fast. Where the hell did he come from? As I neared the finish he got close enough that I could see he was rolling one gear. Damn! I put the hammer down and cursed my lackadaisical attitude. I should have been on the gas instead of sitting in.
Going through the barriers at the end of lap four, my group started playing cat-and-mouse to see who would lead up the long straightaway into the strong headwind. They had me boxed in, so I made a little bit of a reckless move to get between them. As I squeezed through, one of the guys punched me on the hip. I really wanted to tackle his ass, but I was more concerned with putting some distance between myself and the guy coming up behind me.
I dropped the geared group on the wide path, and the single speeder chasing me also got around them. He made up ground quickly and nipped me right before we turned onto the single track. I was right on his wheel when we hit a hill that was pretty tough the fifth time up, and he gapped me. I was on the verge of blowing up, so I backed off the throttle a bit. He quickly pulled away. Bye-bye podium finish.
Now the three musketeers were back, and I held them off as long as I could, but eventually all three went around me during the last lap. I let them go; they weren't in my class anyway, although I would have enjoyed beating the guy who punched me.
At the finish I was fourth in the single speed class, and 10th out of 25 overall. I was pleased with my effort, since I'm certain I was the oldest guy out there, and I hadn't raced cyclocross in three years.
Later.
Answer: Racing cyclocross on a single speed.
Friday on the way home from work I suddenly had a thought pop into my head out of the blue: I wanted to race cyclocross on Saturday. The only problem I could see with the plan was the complete and utter lack of a cross bike.
So what to race? I could have raced the geared Karate Monkey, but it's just such a tank; nobody should have to carry that thing over a barrier. I considered changing the gearing on one of my single speeds and racing that. Then it occurred to me what would be the perfect bike for the Granite Bay course—my grocery store bike.
I figure my Miyata 210 hails from the 1970s. It's so old, it has no water bottle or shifter braze-ons. I had already converted the front end to a somewhat cyclocross configuration. I just needed to figure out how to get it shifting right; downtube shifting wasn't going to cut it. After thinking about all the work involved in changing out all the parts, I decided it would be easier to just strip the gears off.
So as I was driving I tried to figure out what would be a good single speed gear. A 2:1 on a mountain bike is everyone's starting point, but I figured it needed to be a higher ratio for cyclocross. I thought a 39x18 might be about right. I jumped off the freeway and hit the only bike shop on the way home, Bicycle Planet. They had a great selection of Surly cogs—everything except an 18. I grabbed a 17 instead.
Since it was payday, we went from the bike shop to Costco for our monthly shopping. As usual, the store was a complete zoo. After shopping, unloading, making dinner and eating, I wasn't in the mood for working on the bike. It would have to wait until morning.
The next morning I stripped off the rack, gears, etc. I borrowed the solid axle from a single speed and installed it in the rear wheel. I eyeballed a good chainline and put the 17t cog on there with a bunch of spacers I cannibalized from a spare cassette. I shortened up the chain, re-adjusted the brakes and installed the clipless pedals. I finished the bike about 20 minutes before I had to leave. Sweet.
I ran around the house grabbing what I needed, threw Spencer (and Jenn) in the truck, and headed out. We arrived at the race with 25 minutes to spare. I registered, dressed and hopped on the bike. The gearing felt a little tall. The seat was a bit low with clipless pedals. After a quick saddle height adjustment, I was ready to go.
I rode a bit of the course to get a feel for the bike, and did one set of barriers. It was the first dismount I had attempted in three years. It was not pretty. I rolled to the start line with four minutes to spare.
I was racing in the open single speed class, which means that any age or ability is welcome as long as you have one gear. Typically you have a couple guys who are A-level racers. We were racing with the 18-34 Bs and would do 45 minutes, which equated to five laps. There were seven single speeds and 18 Bs for a total of 25. Pretty low turnout, but probably typical. I think most cross racers are over 35 years old.
We took off and I was sitting in the top five. Blazing down a wide path three abreast, I was surprised how fast I could go with the 39x17 gearing. As the road funneled down to a right turn onto some singletrack, I let a number of people cut in rather than get tangled up in a crash. After about a half lap, I took a peek behind me to see nobody. Once again I was the last guy in the first group.
One of the single speed guys pulled away and was never seen again. He was very fast, and won the overall race. There was one other single speeder in front of me, and he too was quickly pulling away.
On the second lap four of us fell off the back of the lead group, and I would stay with this group, all geared racers, for the rest of the race. My barrier technique was as rusty as the bike I rode. There were two sets of barriers per lap. Every time we hit a set of barriers, I would lose ground to my three companions and have to chase back. My sloppy technique cost me a lot of time.
When we hit the line for the fourth lap there wasn't a soul behind me. I figured I had third place single speed locked up. My group was slowing and really holding me up in the singletrack, but I wasn't worried because I couldn't catch second place and there was a huge gap behind me. All I had to do was ride it out. Or so I thought.
Towards the end of the fourth lap, I looked back and a guy on a white bike was coming, and moving fast. Where the hell did he come from? As I neared the finish he got close enough that I could see he was rolling one gear. Damn! I put the hammer down and cursed my lackadaisical attitude. I should have been on the gas instead of sitting in.
Going through the barriers at the end of lap four, my group started playing cat-and-mouse to see who would lead up the long straightaway into the strong headwind. They had me boxed in, so I made a little bit of a reckless move to get between them. As I squeezed through, one of the guys punched me on the hip. I really wanted to tackle his ass, but I was more concerned with putting some distance between myself and the guy coming up behind me.
I dropped the geared group on the wide path, and the single speeder chasing me also got around them. He made up ground quickly and nipped me right before we turned onto the single track. I was right on his wheel when we hit a hill that was pretty tough the fifth time up, and he gapped me. I was on the verge of blowing up, so I backed off the throttle a bit. He quickly pulled away. Bye-bye podium finish.
Now the three musketeers were back, and I held them off as long as I could, but eventually all three went around me during the last lap. I let them go; they weren't in my class anyway, although I would have enjoyed beating the guy who punched me.
At the finish I was fourth in the single speed class, and 10th out of 25 overall. I was pleased with my effort, since I'm certain I was the oldest guy out there, and I hadn't raced cyclocross in three years.
Later.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Race Report: 2007 Whiskeytown 9 to 5
I tried to prepare for this race as best I could. Friday night I loaded up the truck with my bike and equipment. In the morning I would only have a few things to do before I hit the road. Still, I would have to get up at 3:45 to leave by 4:30. This shouldn't have been much of an issue since I get up that early almost every day. I simply needed to go to bed at a reasonable time and I would be fine.
Unfortunately, I was too amped up to sleep. After tossing and turning for hours, I finally fell asleep around 11:30 p.m. I woke up at 3:00 and couldn't get back to sleep. I would have to do this race on 3.5 hours of sleep.
It was a long drive to Whiskeytown Lake. After nearly 3.5 hours, I pulled in to the campground where Roger flagged me down and told me to park next to him. He and Sean Allen had a pit set up right on the race course, which turned out to be a really sweet spot. I jumped out of the truck to find it cold—really cold. Like 35 degrees cold, and all I brought in the way of warm weather gear were arm and knee warmers. Nice.
I registered, dressed and set up a makeshift pit in the bed of my truck. I spun around for a little bit in an effort to warm up, but in hindsight not really long enough. Roger filled me in on the course: the first climb was very steep, and the first downhill a little sketchy, so take it slow the first lap. Got it.
After the riders meeting, we cruised down the road a little bit where we would eventually line up. After goofing around for a while, Roger and I rolled up to the starting line. People immediately started lining up behind us. I didn't want to be up front, but I figured there would be plenty of time for things to string out before the climbing began.
When we took off, I took a few easy pedal strokes and slipped right onto Roger's wheel. My only thought was not knocking down Roger, who had the ability to win the race. When I looked up, we were sitting one-two heading into the dirt. I eased up on the pedals, because I didn't want to be up there, but nobody would come around.
As the trail tilted up, one single speeder jumped around me to go after Roger. We rounded a corner and were greeted by a wall. I threw it into an easier gear and started grinding away. Roger and the other single speeder had a gap, then it was me and a long line of people right on my ass. With everyone riding on my wheel, I felt pressured to keep the hammer down, even though I was already very uncomfortable with the pace. I figured that the grade couldn't stay this steep for very long, so I kept pounding away in a big gear. We went around another corner, and it was more of the same—steep, rutted, rocky, with exposed roots. I kept going with my heart rate near max. I thought, "What the hell are you doing? It's an EIGHT HOUR race!"
Another single speeder jumped around me and promptly spun his tire, which brought us both to a stop. Thankful for the excuse, I jumped off my bike and started walking while four or five guys rode past. I jumped back on the train and continued climbing, looking back to see nobody else as far as I could see. I was at the tail end of the "fast guys" group, a collection of racers I had no right to be part of. When we finally crested the top I was cursing the promoter. What a tough climb to start off a race with.
The descent was as tricky as advertised, and I was lucky to have advanced knowledge. The singletrack was exposed, rocky, loose and sketchy. The turns often had decreasing radii or off-camber surfaces. I thought of Sean who would be navigating this at night because he was doing the 24-hour race.
After the downhill there was another climb, this time on a fireroad, that immediately put me back into difficulty. It was short, but once again steep. Then another loose, rocky downhill that led to another fireroad climb. This one I could comfortably do in a reasonable gear, allowing me to eat, drink and pop Endurolytes. Most of the course after that was fun singletrack, with some steep grinds here and there, one hike-a-bike, and a screaming fireroad descent back to the finishing road.
When I checked in after the lap, I took a peek at the log sheet. There weren't many people checked in yet, and I was leading my age class. This was really dumb on my part. I went out way too hard on the first lap.
I finished the first 8.5 mile lap feeling a bit negative about the course. It was by far the most demanding of the three endurance courses I had raced on (Cool being the easiest). I hit the climb and immediately went for the granny gear. I was able to go up the climb at almost the same speed, but with a good spin and a WAY lower heart rate. It wasn't too bad the second time around.
The singletrack descent was still sketchy the second time. I just didn't feel comfortable on it. There were way too many corners where mistakes would send you over a cliff. My Waltworks hardtail excels on wide-open, high-speed descents, but I have never felt comfortable on it in technical situations like these.
I backed off the throttle a bit on the second lap and a couple guys passed me. That didn't worry me because I was just there to finish my eight hours. Halfway through the lap was a makeshift rest stop stocked with Hammer Gels, so I grabbed a couple. The flavor was "tropical," and they tasted like crap. I rode on wondering what about this nasty taste was tropical.
The second lap passed without fanfare. My legs felt great after slowing down a bit, and I was confident I could keep up the pace and knock out some laps.
I stopped at the truck, chucked the two empty bottles, and grabbed two new ones from the ice chest. Ten second pit stop.
I hit the climb for the third time and felt OK. I didn't want to kill the promoter anymore, at least not for the moment. About halfway up, when I hit one of the steeper sections, both hamstrings locked up suddenly with powerful cramps. What the hell? Two hours into the race? I had been adhering to my eating and drinking schedule, and I had been taking the Endurolytes. I was shocked and bewildered. I hopped off the bike, popped three Endurolytes, and drank a whole bottle of energy drink. I remounted and gingerly finished the climb. I continued the lap at a reduced pace, and didn't have any more cramps, but I was going pretty slow. People were passing me at regular intervals now. Mentally I was feeling pretty down. At the rest stop I pulled out some more Endurolytes and popped them as an older guy was passing me. He said he too was cramping already and couldn't believe it. I felt a little better knowing I wasn't the only one, but not much.
After the third lap I stopped at the truck to oil my bone-dry chain and get more energy drink since I consumed two bottles during the lap. I drank some water and took more Endurolytes. I hit the climb for the fourth time and immediately cramped. I climbed off the bike, drank more energy drink, stretched and tried again. Cramps. I continued walking up and tried a few more times to ride, but the cramps would not let up. Mentally I was broken. Even though my legs had many more miles left in them if I could just defeat the cramps, my mind had quit. I was done.
I coasted back downhill to the truck and threw the bike in. Sean's wife Mary—who was pitting for Sean and Roger, and is herself an accomplished racer—tried to console me. I changed clothes and stuck around long enough to see Roger and Sean come around a couple times, then made the long drive home. I just wasn't in the mood to be there watching other people make it look so damn easy.
Even though I was in better shape for this race than I was for the Boggs 8-hour, I only made it a little over half the distance.
I learned a few things from the race. For one, you cannot train for mountain bike endurance racing by riding on the road. Regardless of all the hours I put in, they in no way simulated the intensity required for that course.
Doing long rides alone isn't enough. Without some hard interval training, your legs will be shocked when the intensity of racing is encountered. Regardless of your intentions to keep your heart rate down, situations will arise that force you to redline.
You cannot do this kind of racing half-assed. My penchant for being ill-prepared, tired and late-arriving isn't such a hindrance in a short cross-country race. An endurance race is a different story. It was dumb of me to do all the training, spend all the money, waste all the time, and then try to drive down the same day. For another $55 I could have stayed in a Redding motel, picked up my race packet Friday night, and left for the race at 8:00 instead of 4:30.
Do NOT eat Mexican food the night before a race. Jennifer had a bad day at work on Friday, so she wanted to go to her favorite restaurant. I wanted something mellow like pasta, bread and a salad, but I didn't speak up. Normally Mexican food doesn't bother me, but with the nervousness I was experiencing the night before I was a wreck the next morning.
Ride a bike you are comfortable on, not one you have been wrestling with your position on for 18 months.
Chamois butter is a great thing. I slathered my shorts with the stuff and had ZERO issues with discomfort like I did at Boggs.
Later.
Unfortunately, I was too amped up to sleep. After tossing and turning for hours, I finally fell asleep around 11:30 p.m. I woke up at 3:00 and couldn't get back to sleep. I would have to do this race on 3.5 hours of sleep.
It was a long drive to Whiskeytown Lake. After nearly 3.5 hours, I pulled in to the campground where Roger flagged me down and told me to park next to him. He and Sean Allen had a pit set up right on the race course, which turned out to be a really sweet spot. I jumped out of the truck to find it cold—really cold. Like 35 degrees cold, and all I brought in the way of warm weather gear were arm and knee warmers. Nice.
I registered, dressed and set up a makeshift pit in the bed of my truck. I spun around for a little bit in an effort to warm up, but in hindsight not really long enough. Roger filled me in on the course: the first climb was very steep, and the first downhill a little sketchy, so take it slow the first lap. Got it.
After the riders meeting, we cruised down the road a little bit where we would eventually line up. After goofing around for a while, Roger and I rolled up to the starting line. People immediately started lining up behind us. I didn't want to be up front, but I figured there would be plenty of time for things to string out before the climbing began.
When we took off, I took a few easy pedal strokes and slipped right onto Roger's wheel. My only thought was not knocking down Roger, who had the ability to win the race. When I looked up, we were sitting one-two heading into the dirt. I eased up on the pedals, because I didn't want to be up there, but nobody would come around.
As the trail tilted up, one single speeder jumped around me to go after Roger. We rounded a corner and were greeted by a wall. I threw it into an easier gear and started grinding away. Roger and the other single speeder had a gap, then it was me and a long line of people right on my ass. With everyone riding on my wheel, I felt pressured to keep the hammer down, even though I was already very uncomfortable with the pace. I figured that the grade couldn't stay this steep for very long, so I kept pounding away in a big gear. We went around another corner, and it was more of the same—steep, rutted, rocky, with exposed roots. I kept going with my heart rate near max. I thought, "What the hell are you doing? It's an EIGHT HOUR race!"
Another single speeder jumped around me and promptly spun his tire, which brought us both to a stop. Thankful for the excuse, I jumped off my bike and started walking while four or five guys rode past. I jumped back on the train and continued climbing, looking back to see nobody else as far as I could see. I was at the tail end of the "fast guys" group, a collection of racers I had no right to be part of. When we finally crested the top I was cursing the promoter. What a tough climb to start off a race with.
The descent was as tricky as advertised, and I was lucky to have advanced knowledge. The singletrack was exposed, rocky, loose and sketchy. The turns often had decreasing radii or off-camber surfaces. I thought of Sean who would be navigating this at night because he was doing the 24-hour race.
After the downhill there was another climb, this time on a fireroad, that immediately put me back into difficulty. It was short, but once again steep. Then another loose, rocky downhill that led to another fireroad climb. This one I could comfortably do in a reasonable gear, allowing me to eat, drink and pop Endurolytes. Most of the course after that was fun singletrack, with some steep grinds here and there, one hike-a-bike, and a screaming fireroad descent back to the finishing road.
When I checked in after the lap, I took a peek at the log sheet. There weren't many people checked in yet, and I was leading my age class. This was really dumb on my part. I went out way too hard on the first lap.
I finished the first 8.5 mile lap feeling a bit negative about the course. It was by far the most demanding of the three endurance courses I had raced on (Cool being the easiest). I hit the climb and immediately went for the granny gear. I was able to go up the climb at almost the same speed, but with a good spin and a WAY lower heart rate. It wasn't too bad the second time around.
The singletrack descent was still sketchy the second time. I just didn't feel comfortable on it. There were way too many corners where mistakes would send you over a cliff. My Waltworks hardtail excels on wide-open, high-speed descents, but I have never felt comfortable on it in technical situations like these.
I backed off the throttle a bit on the second lap and a couple guys passed me. That didn't worry me because I was just there to finish my eight hours. Halfway through the lap was a makeshift rest stop stocked with Hammer Gels, so I grabbed a couple. The flavor was "tropical," and they tasted like crap. I rode on wondering what about this nasty taste was tropical.
The second lap passed without fanfare. My legs felt great after slowing down a bit, and I was confident I could keep up the pace and knock out some laps.
I stopped at the truck, chucked the two empty bottles, and grabbed two new ones from the ice chest. Ten second pit stop.
I hit the climb for the third time and felt OK. I didn't want to kill the promoter anymore, at least not for the moment. About halfway up, when I hit one of the steeper sections, both hamstrings locked up suddenly with powerful cramps. What the hell? Two hours into the race? I had been adhering to my eating and drinking schedule, and I had been taking the Endurolytes. I was shocked and bewildered. I hopped off the bike, popped three Endurolytes, and drank a whole bottle of energy drink. I remounted and gingerly finished the climb. I continued the lap at a reduced pace, and didn't have any more cramps, but I was going pretty slow. People were passing me at regular intervals now. Mentally I was feeling pretty down. At the rest stop I pulled out some more Endurolytes and popped them as an older guy was passing me. He said he too was cramping already and couldn't believe it. I felt a little better knowing I wasn't the only one, but not much.
After the third lap I stopped at the truck to oil my bone-dry chain and get more energy drink since I consumed two bottles during the lap. I drank some water and took more Endurolytes. I hit the climb for the fourth time and immediately cramped. I climbed off the bike, drank more energy drink, stretched and tried again. Cramps. I continued walking up and tried a few more times to ride, but the cramps would not let up. Mentally I was broken. Even though my legs had many more miles left in them if I could just defeat the cramps, my mind had quit. I was done.
I coasted back downhill to the truck and threw the bike in. Sean's wife Mary—who was pitting for Sean and Roger, and is herself an accomplished racer—tried to console me. I changed clothes and stuck around long enough to see Roger and Sean come around a couple times, then made the long drive home. I just wasn't in the mood to be there watching other people make it look so damn easy.
Even though I was in better shape for this race than I was for the Boggs 8-hour, I only made it a little over half the distance.
I learned a few things from the race. For one, you cannot train for mountain bike endurance racing by riding on the road. Regardless of all the hours I put in, they in no way simulated the intensity required for that course.
Doing long rides alone isn't enough. Without some hard interval training, your legs will be shocked when the intensity of racing is encountered. Regardless of your intentions to keep your heart rate down, situations will arise that force you to redline.
You cannot do this kind of racing half-assed. My penchant for being ill-prepared, tired and late-arriving isn't such a hindrance in a short cross-country race. An endurance race is a different story. It was dumb of me to do all the training, spend all the money, waste all the time, and then try to drive down the same day. For another $55 I could have stayed in a Redding motel, picked up my race packet Friday night, and left for the race at 8:00 instead of 4:30.
Do NOT eat Mexican food the night before a race. Jennifer had a bad day at work on Friday, so she wanted to go to her favorite restaurant. I wanted something mellow like pasta, bread and a salad, but I didn't speak up. Normally Mexican food doesn't bother me, but with the nervousness I was experiencing the night before I was a wreck the next morning.
Ride a bike you are comfortable on, not one you have been wrestling with your position on for 18 months.
Chamois butter is a great thing. I slathered my shorts with the stuff and had ZERO issues with discomfort like I did at Boggs.
Later.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Race Report: 2007 PCRS #7
After race number six I was tired. All the racing and training leading up to the 24-hour race (and the race itself) took its toll. Added to all the other adult responsibilities, I was preparing for a huge retaining wall and cement work in the backyard. And a pool in the front yard. And another retaining wall around that. And a pool fence. And more cement work.
If a witch were to concoct a sickness potion, she would throw all those things into a caldron and say a few lines of rhyming nonsense. Poof! "You're sick!" she would cackle as she sped off on her broom.
By the time race number seven rolled around, my cold had devolved into a lung infection. I was on antibiotics and feeling pretty terrible. However, I was in first place in the standings, and as I was juggling all the things in my life, I was a little too obsessed with that racing ball that had a "#1" on it.
Today I had a sore throat and a headache, but I went out and raced anyway with predictable results. Doug ripped off another win, Jerry took second, and I limped around the course to take 8th place. Jerry leapfrogged over me and now had a solid five-point series lead after seven races.
Even though I knew I could bounce back after the infection cleared, I started questioning whether I even wanted to. This all started as a way for Doug and I to train for the Coolest 24, and we accomplished that. Now the weather had turned very hot, and circling around the rough, dusty, boring courses was quickly losing its appeal.
I decided to take a week off to fully recover. Then I simply never went back.
All things considered, I was fine with how it turned out.
Even with missing the last five races I took 6th place out of 62 on the season. A top five would have been nice, but that's what happens when you quit.
Later.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Race Report: 2007 PCRS #6
I came out of the Coolest 24 race feeling a bit run down, and I didn't ride at all Monday or yesterday, so I wasn't expecting a great result from this race. After a couple practice laps, my legs felt OK but not great. The course was longer and harder this week, with some technical terrain and much more climbing, which I welcomed. I told Doug that some new people will rise to the top in this race.
Doug and I both started poorly and had to pick our way through the field. Jerry (517) was flying.
I lost Doug pretty quickly, and I figured I was going to have a bad day.
My legs felt dead.
At the beginning of the second lap a large rock flipped off someone's tire, hitting me in the right shin. It hurt like hell, but it made me forget all about my dead legs. These things happen in racing, and you just have to block it out. I refused to even glance down at my leg to see how it looked.
I kept plugging along, my throat burning from the dust. Towards the end of the second lap I saw my nemesis, Jerry, up ahead of me on a climb. I knew I could get him if I took back a little time on every climb. At his size, regardless of how strong he is, I just didn't think he could out climb me.
So I set about executing my plan, hitting every climb hard, but not too hard.
Slowly but surely I reeled him in. Before a gradual climb towards the end of the race, I rested on a downhill and then gave it full gas going by him. I held my speed all the way over the top and hit the downhill with a big gap on him. He came back a little on a flat section, where he could use his power, but when we hit another steep hill I hit it hard again. That broke him. It was so very sweet. I put about 45 seconds into him by the finish. What made it even sweeter was how he completely ignored me after the race. He was very willing to talk after races when he was beating me, but not today.
I came in fourth while Doug once again took the win. I feel good about my progression in the last three weeks: sixth, fifth and fourth.
My lumpy shin after the race:
I wrestled back first overall from Jerry, again leading him by one point. (Click for a better view.)
With six races down and six to go, I feel good about a podium finish.
Later.
Doug and I both started poorly and had to pick our way through the field. Jerry (517) was flying.
I lost Doug pretty quickly, and I figured I was going to have a bad day.
My legs felt dead.
At the beginning of the second lap a large rock flipped off someone's tire, hitting me in the right shin. It hurt like hell, but it made me forget all about my dead legs. These things happen in racing, and you just have to block it out. I refused to even glance down at my leg to see how it looked.
I kept plugging along, my throat burning from the dust. Towards the end of the second lap I saw my nemesis, Jerry, up ahead of me on a climb. I knew I could get him if I took back a little time on every climb. At his size, regardless of how strong he is, I just didn't think he could out climb me.
So I set about executing my plan, hitting every climb hard, but not too hard.
Slowly but surely I reeled him in. Before a gradual climb towards the end of the race, I rested on a downhill and then gave it full gas going by him. I held my speed all the way over the top and hit the downhill with a big gap on him. He came back a little on a flat section, where he could use his power, but when we hit another steep hill I hit it hard again. That broke him. It was so very sweet. I put about 45 seconds into him by the finish. What made it even sweeter was how he completely ignored me after the race. He was very willing to talk after races when he was beating me, but not today.
I came in fourth while Doug once again took the win. I feel good about my progression in the last three weeks: sixth, fifth and fourth.
My lumpy shin after the race:
I wrestled back first overall from Jerry, again leading him by one point. (Click for a better view.)
With six races down and six to go, I feel good about a podium finish.
Later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)