Who doesn’t like a good
sandwich? And who doesn’t agree (carb consious freaks aside) that the best part
of a good sandwich is the bread? The innards
can largely be forgotten about; at least that’s what I’m trying to convince
myself of. So even if the mayo is rotten
and the cheese is moldy, you can still eat the bread, right?
Last month I competed and
completed a three-week sandwich of events.
The bread was good, and the meat was bad. I should’ve used bacon; it never gets old. It started off with a foray into New Mexico
for the Mountain States Cup Chile Challenge event. The next week was the Pro XCT race at Ute
Valley in Colorado Springs. I ended it
off with an amazing adventure to Crested Butte for the Fat Tire 40, also part
of the Mountain States Cup Series.
Chile Challenge, Angel Fire,
NM
Angel Fire is a very
interesting place. It’s a small ski
resort town high in the mountains of northern New Mexico. There isn’t much to the town besides the ski
hill, some resort lodging, and a delicious indigestion inducing “authentic NewMexican cuisine” restaurant that serves up gut-bombs all day long. This was my introduction to the MountainStates Cup Series, which differs from any other racing events I have been
to. It is largely focused on the gravity
crowd. The series meanders its way
across the mountains from one ski area to another, making sure the adrenaline
junkies are well-fed. I saw all of the
big bikes, baggy shorts, and full-face helmets that my heart never
desired. It was a zoo of brightly
colored uniforms all buzzing about and funneling into one orifice like hogs at
the feeding trough. The orifice was the
one lone ski lift, which would subsequently digest them in an upwards
direction, and poop them out at the top, only to see the sludge make it’s way
back to the bottom and be eaten again.
It was quite the disgusting display of coprophagia.
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| Feeding Tube |
In all honesty, the bikes are pretty cool,
and these guys are way more skilled (or stupid) and daring than I will ever be. I am also not afforded the ability to smoke
cigarettes and booze it up the night before races, so it goes. I did, in fact, attempt my own downhill glory
run on my meager 4-inch travel bike. I
painted up a t-shirt with all of the brightest colors of clashing neon, threw on
my baggiest shorts, drenched myself in the smell of last night’s spent vodka
container, and attempted to fit in whilst standing in line for the lift. I think I overheard someone behind me say “I
can smell an XC pussy from 100 yards away through a pack of Marlboros”, but
can’t be sure. I have to give these guys
some serious respect. If their downhill
“runs” are full of fiber, consistent, and smooth, mine resembled an explosive
case of diarrhea and gastrointestinal discomfort.
Saturday morning was the XC
race. The course, pre-ridden the night
before, was a 5.5 mile loop, which basically went straight up the ski hill for
the first 3 miles, then turned around and went back down for the rest. The course was as close to 100% singletrack
as you can get. Some parts of the climb,
especially the tight switchbacks, were very steep as it meandered its way 1500
ft up the mountain. The payoff for all
that hard work was some of the most demanding, fast and furious, bone-jarring,
carpel-tunnel inducing downhill singletrack I had experienced, as well as some
of the most fun. It basically paralleled
the downhill trails, and even incorporated a few of them. It was rutted, root-filled, and dusty, using
all of the 80mm travel my fork could muster.
Actually, I don’t think my White Brothers Magic 80 was performing well,
and only giving me about 60mm travel.
Quite harsh on a real downhill descent.
On Saturday morning we all
gathered, a hundred or so caffeine riddled goofballs wearing spandex, squirting
energy gels down their throats in the hopes that it will be enough to propel them
to 26th or so place in a race that nobody cares about. Last minute nerd-sessions about tire
pressures and the like were executed. I
was somewhere in there, mentally and physically. The last of the mornings flatulence was
wafted upon the riders behind me, and we were ready to race 3 laps, 16 or so
miles, and 4500ft of climbing. We were
all started off in one large wave, with the pros given about a 30ft
advantage. This would eventually cause a
slow-moving train once hitting the tight singletrack. There was a small, maybe ¼-mile starter loop
before hitting the real trail, designed to “spread us out”. Unfortunately for me, this “spreading out”,
meant “falling back” on one gear. There
was a ridiculously steep incline that saw my cranks come to a stop and feet hit
the ground. As I pushed my meticulously
designed and detailed pile of steel up the next 10 feet, I had the odd illusion
of being passed by waves of giddy riders.
There was no illusion. Somehow I had missed the SS-only shortcut that I usually use to cheat my way to the front. So upon
hitting the singletrack I was somewhere near the back. This worried me, as it could mean the
difference between the post-race glory of a free keychain bottle-opener, and having
to open up my beer with my teeth. But now on the climb, I knew I could make up
some serious time, if only I could make my way around the many riders
ahead. The entire first lap climb was a
matter of sitting behind riders, sometimes 3 or 4 at a time, passing, catching
up to the next, passing, and so on. I
was pretty sure that I had taken the lead in the singlespeed field, but I was
determined to race the others because of the small number of
singlespeeders. In this context, I still
thought I was a ways behind. I reached
the top with a little bit of clear air, and prepped myself for the beating that
would ensue all the way back to the start/finish. As I went bumping, bouncing, braking,
squabbling, squirming, slipping and sliding my way down the singletrack, using
all of my bikes suspension, or lack there-of, and hoping that I had remembered
to tighten this-or-that bolt, I felt that I was actually making decent
time. But those thoughts were pushed
aside by the sound of riders coming up behind me and going by.
This
was quite frustrating, as I felt properly “in the zone”, possibly descending
faster than I ever had before, but being supremely limited by my bikes ability
to do so. I was caught by 4 riders on
that first descent. On the second lap I
was able pass all of them again, and earlier than I had done so in the previous
lap. This was good. It meant I was making up more ground on them
on the climb than they were putting on me on the descent. I had a lot of clear air on the second lap, huffed
and puffed my way to the top, and began another tumultuous descent. I now know what shaken baby syndrome feels
like. In all honesty, it’s not that
bad. It puts you into a coma-like state
(small headache involved), as adrenaline continues to pump through your veins. If only my parents had properly prepared me
for this, I wouldn’t have again been passed by two riders on the downhill. Come the third and last lap, I caught one of
the riders at the beginning of the climb, and the second somewhere in the
middle. I knew that if I pushed I could
put enough gap on them to not get caught again.
Easier said than done, whilst squeezing every last bit of energy and
motivation out of the mornings Clif bar breakfast. It was another round of head-banging and
forearm fatigue from a constant handful of brakes. I was pushing harder, taking more risks, and
feeling faster than I had before. As I
got closer to the end, I had that familiar sound of flying dirt and squealing
brakes make its way back into my consciousness, and with about ¼ mile to go, on
the wide-open field that made its way through the start/finish, spinning my
small gear out of control, I was passed again.
I still did not know where I had finished relative to the rest, but was
happily informed by a bystander that we were among the first finishers. Come to find out, I finished 1st
in the Singlespeed Open class, and 3rd overall in all Cat1
times. I missed out on 2nd by
a mere 3 seconds!
It was a fun day with some great
racing. It was a great introduction to
some REAL mountain bike racing, which exploits the limits of your equipment,
your skills, physical strength, endurance, and agility. Everything was tested, and this is what
mountain biking should be. No more bore.
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| Apparently they forgot to include the proper instruction manual with my "victory prize" keychain bottle opener, as the day's only injury would be the result of a fumbled bottle-cap prying attempt. |
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