2014 Patapsco 100 Race Report

I didn't ride 100 miles.

Sweet mother-of-all-that-is-holy, I cannot imagine riding that 100 miles.

My fat bike 33-miler was plenty...

- - -

The Patapsco 100 event is a mountain bike race set in the river valley of Maryland's Patapsco State Park. It features, well, everything. There are steep climbs, creek and river crossings, winding downhills, flowing singletrack, rock gardens, hilly meadows, and every sort of hiking trail you can imagine. And stairs.

Sounds lovely.

Let's revisit a few of those "features."

It has steep climbs...like The Hell of the North. That's both a name and a description. It's a hill so steep that the only way a mortal can climb it is to fall forward, hoping your feet will catch you before you faceplant.

Seriously.

And—since this is a bicycle race—you need to bring your bike with you, wheeling it up the cliff.

Uh-huh.

It's a hill so steep that you come to a dead, I-don't-think-I-can-get-going-again stop if your tire bounces off a rock. So, pick your line wisely. While falling forward. Or fall backward, ignominiously.

Bastards.


It has river crossings...twice across the Patapsco, waist and chest deep in the summer flow.

Probably not anything new for the experienced mountain bikers out there. But, I'm a newbie.

I'm on a fat bike. YOU schlep a 30+ pound behemoth across a river. Twice.

Bastards.


Oh, and once you've forded one of those crossings, you get to haul yourself and your bike up several flights of Mayan-ruin stone stairs. Soaking slickly wet. And then you have the privilege of granny-gearing it up the remainder of the switchbacking hill.

Bastard-Bastards.


It has flowing singletrack...in perfect, tacky condition after a week's kind weather. Some of the trails are new—as in just-cut-through-the-forest-for-this-event new. Those trails are 18 inches wide. Sweet!

Those trails also have several hairpin turns. Exciting!

Those hairpin turns feature complete exposure on the outside of the curve...you go over, and you drop. Like a brick. In the alps. Like a big fat-bike brick falling through alpine air. In some cases, onto railroad tracks. Huzzah!

Bastards.


Patapsco 100 is a real race.

And, yes, a single 33-mile loop was plenty for this chemo-recovering boy.

The Morning

I was up exactly one minute before my 0400 alarm. It was one of those nights. You know the ones. It was one of those stirring and surfacing non-sleep nights, anxiety-driven, worried sweaty about sleeping through your alarm.

It was a beautiful heart of the sunrise.

Breakfast, last-minute checklist, out, drive to the event. I was awake, alive, and buzzing.

No need of caffeine; this was a big day.

The music was throbbing, the sunrise was a gift from the gods. The miles rolled past. I arrived.

Magnificent energy abounds before a race. If you've done it, you know it; if you know it, you need it; when you need it, it's your addiction.

Lord, how I'd missed it.

I did a lot of things and chatted to a lot of people and pooped...thrice—thank heavens for real toilets. Magnificent energy abounds before a race. Offtimes it's centered just south of your stomach...

The butterflies collided inside my chest; breathing was quick and shallow. I was nervous energy—personified.

But I was the good energy, the happy energy, the all-I-care-about-is-finishing energy, the no-pressure energy that comes from surviving. The energy that comes from joy.

Earlier races started. Better riders rode. We queued up for our launch, and we rolled—uphill to start. Perfect. It tempered the adrenalized frenzy of the start, forcing it to mellow. I watched a large group pull away; a gap appeared. Out loud, I started singing Fool's Gold. Yep, I'm that guy.

The gold road's sure a long road. Winds on through the hills for fifteen days.

Fat bike 33 would feel like fifteen days.

The Race Begins

This race was about pinning on a number. It was a milestone.

Months of recovery; starts and stops; fits and stops; a shitload of stops led to my start.

I began the race overweight. While down from my January maximum of 225; I weighed 190—still 15 pounds above my cyclocross weight last August.

I began the race out-of-shape. The longest I had ridden this calendar year was a three-hour road ride that featured a 30-odd minute snack break. Thanks to the World Cup, I had a bunch of two-hour trainer sessions in my legs. The stuff of legend, this is not. Merckx, I ain't.

I began the race with neuropathy in my feet and hands. In May I broke two toes in an event. After the initial pain, I didn't feel them at all. Ever. So, I knew that there would be times when I would feel neither feet nor hands. I knew I wouldn't know when it would happen, but I hoped...oh, hell, I don't know what I hoped. You just do what you need to do to do what you need to do.

I began the race with the constant reminder that cancer resides within me. It's not active, thankfully. But the tumor scars are there, affecting me every day. The seeds are planted for its return...again. I'll write more on that in my next post. For now, leave it at this: every time I press a pedal with real power, I feel the scar deep within my pelvis. It's there. It's real. It hurts. It reminds.

I began the race...

Yes. Yes, I did.

The Race Rolls On

I'm a big boy on a big bike. I descend like a dervish. I climb like a bloated slug. I cruise like a train—a slow-moving diesel pulling 100 cars of pure West Virginia coal.

Big boy rides big bike makes big splash.

I have no skills. I re-learned how to bunny-hop in April. I started getting comfortable with rock gardens in June. It's July. I'm a novice. But I ride a fat bike—the most forgiving, blessed, wonderful bicycle I can imagine. I don't know that I shouldn't do many of the things that I do; so I do them, and I don't fret. Until afterwards, when I realize that I just did something I had no business doing. Then I panic. And giggle.

I giggle a lot.

Except when I curse, punchily piercing the air with choice expletives. Nothing creative, mind you. The simple stuff does suffice. It's all in the delivery...

Good things happened. I passed a few people.

Bad things happened. I hopped a good-sized log, cleanly, and then kissed a tree.

Now, why anyone would place a tree in the middle of a forest, I have no idea. It was damned inconsiderate of them, and I was pissed! It ruined my flow! And my handlebars. And my headset. And me!

Ten minutes and a score of riders later, I re-started, with my headset almost repaired and my bars almost straight and my shoulder almost intact.

But I didn't go to the hospital...I kept on riding...

I failed, a lot. I walked, a ton. I suffered, deeply.

But suffering is different, now...

Suffering has changed.

When you have an injury, or you're in the hospital, and they want to assess your pain, they always ask you: "On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you've ever experienced, and one being no pain at all, how would you rate your pain?"

With respect to you, honest reader, there are very few of you out there who have experienced my "10." I don't mean to sound dismissive—I completely respect other peoples' experiences (and I know damned well that others have experienced far worse)—but I can write with conviction that I know pain. I've emerged early from surgery—and I remember it. I've felt my sternum try to explode—and I survived it.

I spent days like this.

I've been through chemo cycles that destroyed me. I was so sick, so exhausted that the effort to roll over was more than I could bear. So I didn't move...for hours...and the only energy I spent was that which I needed to breathe...and to weep.

I've suffered on a bicycle. But let's be honest, it's only riding a bicycle.

So, when I write "I suffered, deeply", it means something more.

I went places.

Veteran readers of this blog will know what I mean. I have a good, honest relationship with my inner voices. When I ride, they talk, and I listen, and we argue, and I learn.

I thought a lot about my doctors. I thought more about my nurses—those blessed angels on Bles 2 at Georgetown. I thought about my fellow patients. I thought about a friend who is coming to the end of his cancer battle. I thought about by Little Angels, my sweet daughters. I thought about all the friends who got me from that place without a postcard, enabling me to do what I was doing. People and places and voices and so much passed through my head.

And they inspired me.

There were hills I climbed because they were with me—hills I otherwise would never have tried. There were times I pushed through because they pushed me. It would hurt more to quit, disappointing them, than it would hurt to continue.

Yet, no one was there. No one could see. And few even knew what I was doing. But, they were with me—all day long. 

In the darkest places, I thought about those closest to me who had hurt me most. They, too, were with me...all day long. But when I started to feel them approach—when they started to drag me down—I sent them away. And I felt stronger for it. I had no room for doubt. Belief and hope were what mattered, so I seized the memories of those who supported me, drew them close, and let them carry me all day.

- - -

The day wore on, the miles passed, hills were climbed, slopes descended, rivers and creeks crossed, I rambled on...

I passed through the support stops, drinking in the love and positivity. Friends were there, cheering me on. I felt like a hero.

And then things went...wrong. Around mile 26 I started hurting—really hurting. I stopped. I rode. I stopped again. I rode some more. The doubts got louder, and the voices that drove me forward got weaker. But they didn't quit. At the edge of a ravine I stopped and breathed. I looked across the treetops, dappled in the summer's sunlight. I drank in the damp, wooded air, letting it fill me.

I was alone in the woods. In that moment I could have stopped. It would have been fine, I told myself. As my heart rate dropped, and my breathing relaxed, and I calmed...an image came to me.

It was a photograph, recently taken. In it two people with whom I am connected by deep affection...and cancer...look up and smile. They're giving cancer the finger.

F-you cancer.

I smiled as my eyes welled.

I. Rode. On.

- - -

Somehow, I made my way back into it. I was racing.

Who I thought I was racing, I don't know. It wasn't the other riders around me. It wasn't myself. Maybe it was the ghosts and the voices. I dunno. But I do know this...I was racing again.

And then came The Hell of the North.

I looked up once, and it took my breath away.

So, I stopped looking, and proceeded to fall uphill.

Time slowed. Vision blurred.

The hill is a vortex. An observer would see an idiot pushing a bike up an ungodly hill, but the idiot experiences something completely different...

Push a bike, cling to a tree,
it's all the same to me.

I shuffled the halls of the oncology ward, clutching my IV tree, watching my feet slide along the tile floor. The hoses and tubes swayed with the rhythm of my slow, steady, motion. I focused on my feet, willing each small shuffle forward, never feeling the progress—neuropathy robbing me of sensation.

My stomach churned and swelled and threatened, and I beat it down. With my will. Only my will. It's all I had left.

And I shuffled on, to what or where I did not know. One more lap. Once more around the ward.

I was racing.

It got easier. Then it didn't. Then it did again. So, I looked up. I was nearly there...wherever "there' was.

And I didn't look back.

- - -

I entered the route's final climb with nothing left. I entered the park with my will to finish, and precious little more. And what a climb it was. Baked tarmac broiled me from below as the sun melted my brain. And just when I thought I couldn't handle any more...it leveled out, and I was nearly there.

I crossed the line and heard the voices. I stopped—shattered. I shuddered.

I wept.

- - -

This is what shattered looks like.

I'm not a good mountain biker. I gots no skillz. I'm woefully out of shape.

I'm not racing for a podium.

I'm not racing you.

Hell, I'm not even racing me.

Maybe I'm running away.

Maybe I'm running toward.

Maybe I'm racing life...or death...or my ghosts...or my voices.

Maybe I'm racing just to race.

I dunno.

What I do know is this: I have the courage to pin on a number and go; and I'm more alive when I do than when I don't.

I think I have something to prove—more to myself than to anyone else.

I'm just not sure what that thing is.

And as I write this, it does not matter.

What matters is that I did it. I finished.

I didn't let them down.

I didn't let you down.

I didn't let me down.

I did it.

And I'm a better man today for having done it.


Thank you...all of you.
Thank you.


What will be will be what will be.
I've go this.

Six Months Ago (Today)

Six months ago I was starting my fourth chemo cycle. I was bloated, weak, bald, hurting. I shuffled with a cane. I weighed 225 pounds. I had no sense of smell or taste; I heard whizzing buzzes in my ears—constantly. My hands and feet felt like they were visiting the dentist—one minute they were Novocaine balloons, the next minute they gifted me stabbing pains.

I was sick.

I had not recovered from my third chemo round. Sure, the blood was recovered enough for me to receive chemo again. But I was not.

Those were dark, dark days followed by brutal nights.

- - -

Three months ago I was recovering. I was bloated, weak, bald, hurting. I walked with a cane. I weighed 205 pounds. I could smell and taste again—somewhat...it was still coming back to me. My ears buzzed occasionally. My hands and feet were little better.

I was healing.

I was exhausted, but I was recovering. My blood looked good; I needed to let my body, mind, and soul heal.

I had more bad days than good days. My nights were either a long, waking nightmare, or I slept like a man in a coma.

I slept a lot.

And I healed. Slowly.

- - -

Today I am going to do something crazy. I'm racing a bicycle.

Racing.

A bicycle.

It's a real race this time, a real event.

Yes, I've participated in two small "races". They were local, short events that enabled me to pin on a number and go.

You have no idea how important that has been for me.

Pin on a number.

Go.

- - -

One word describes the past six months: "struggle."

Another word describes me over the past six months; "fearful."

I going to write about that. It will be uncomfortable. It will hurt.

But for now, I want to focus on now.

Today I am going to do something crazy. I'm racing a bicycle.

- - -

A lot of people have done a lot of things to bring me here.

So many things have been said and heard, so many connections made and broken, my head spins.

At times I've been pathetic. At other times, ruthless. Still others, useless.

I've beaten myself inside-out; I've nurtured myself outside-in.

I've oscillated wildly. The gyre most definitely did not hold. Things. Fell. Apart.

And a lot of people have done a lot of things to bring me here.

I've learned. I've lost. I've won. I've become.

And I'm still becoming.

And today is a milestone for me, because I'm racing a bicycle for real.

- - -

My goal is modest—finish without going to the hospital.

That was a joke.

Well...

OK, it wasn't a joke.

But it's funny.

I will ride 33 hard miles through the Patapsco State Park. I will ford the river twice, carrying my bike. I will encounter steep, technical climbs that are so difficult, I will walk. Not trot, or run, but walk...barely.

And I'll be happy for the privilege.

I'll rattle down descents so steep and rocky that there's a very good chance I'll be thrown, shattering bone upon impact.

And I'll giggle all the way.

You see, I'm such a novice, I don't know that I shouldn't do some of the things I do.

And while fear has dominated these past months, careering down a rocky pitch somehow...isn't scary.

It's vibrant, alive, sizzling, present, and...beautiful.

I'll hold my breath, clenching my teeth, hyperventilate, and giggle.

And I'll suffer.

My legs will go weak, and then give out. My lungs will sear. My heart will flutter, pumping with all its strength.

My ass will hurt.

My scars will stab, then ache. My port will bruise. My back and neck will spasm.

And I'll be happy.

- - -

Six months ago I was starting my fourth chemo cycle. I was bloated, weak, bald, hurting.

Today I'm racing a bicycle.

What will be will be what will be.
I've got this.

What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

I can't ride a bike.

I can't run.

Hell, I can't even walk normally.

But I can swim.

Badly.

But I can swim.

I have crap technique. I don't know the difference between a "catch" and a "scultina" (I think I ate one of those one time in Mauritius!).

I'm not allowed to kick.

I can't push off the wall.

I swim with a float between my legs.

(Enough with the snickering already!)

But I can swim—with my arms.

And, because I'm clinically insane, I have registered for the Great Chesapeake Bay Swim.


4.4 miles (as the crow flies). The problem is...the crows don't fly there. It's not going to be 4.4 miles. The current will see to that!

What have I gotten myself into?

I'm about to embark on a grand adventure. I have six months to prepare.

I'm going to need every one of those days...

Race Report - Giro Di Coppi (2011)

This is a simple race report.

28th place. 41 finishers. Yyech.

Excitement, Adventure, Really Wild Things!

Excited to ride a real road race—not some trumped-up crit.

Excited to be with four other members of my team—Adventures for the Cure. Friendly faces, strength in numbers, and all that.

Excited to see where my fitness would be, what with all the long, hilly rides I've been doing.

Three laps. 12.5 miles each. Always up or down. Few flat roads. Few turns. Should be a perfect course for me!

SccCccrrrrrrraaAtttCchhhh

Dropped Like a Nasty Habit.

Half-way through the second lap the elastic streeeeeetched to its limit. I was off the back.

"Wha-wha-what?" I kept asking myself. How the he'll did that happen?

Then the answers flooded in...

• You're old.
  You're 43 and you have no business racing against these young'ens.
  
• You're fat.
  You may weigh what you weighed as an all-New England high school athlete, but this ain't soccer or lacrosse. Drop ten pounds you old, fat bastard!
  
• You're weak.
  Up and down Skyline Drive in two days? 220 miles and 20,000 feet of climbing? Piss-tosh! Where's the intensity? Where's the punch? Ride long and slow and you train yourself to ride: long and slow...
  
• You've got a head full of mush. Jens Voigt says "Shut up legs!" And they listen. You say "Sorry, legs, did that hurt? So sorry! I'll make it easier for you. There, there, everything will be OK."

You should try spending 10 minutes in my head.

No, scratch that. Save yourself. It ain't worth it.

So, What Happened?

Three things resonate, that when combined, make sense to me.

1. I had no warm-up.
   

   

   D'ya think one of these might help?

   
   A combination of home obligations and traffic congestion meant that I got to the site 40 minutes prior to the race. With registration and getting spare wheels in to the wheel car, I had 15 minutes to get my body and mind ready.
   
   Considering that I was breathless that morning with excitement about the race, and that I had just had a traffic-induced anxiety jolt, there was no way that I could re-set my mind in 15 minutes.
   
   Considering that I have a long-established need for a 60-minute warmup (every everything I do on the bike feels like crap for that first hour), I was never going to get my body set in 15 minutes.
   
   Lesson Learned: Get there early, moron!
   
   
2. I rode at the back of the bunch.
   
   
   
   Stupid is as stupid does.
   
   I know that it is a huge waste of energy to be back there, accordioning in and out like a cartoon character, but there I was.
   
   No warmup meant creaking knees, cracking back, and and popping hips. I describe myself as geriatric, sadly, all of that is true. Thus, when the course starts with a hill, and the well-warmed vigorous masses escalate it, I dig deep, scrape bottom, and whimper.
   
   So, I rode safely near the back, where I would have the race in front of me and would have the opportunity to warm-up.
   
   But that takes enormous energy. Much less than if I were in the body of the pack. I realized this, and near the end of the first lap I tried to move up, but three enormously-shouldered, thunderously-thighed riders from one of the Northern Virginia teams rode in phalanx formation, making it impossible to move up.
   
   Even when things got strung-out after a turn, I couldn't advance. Those thighs translated into vicious criterium-style sprints out of the corners.
   
   Bastards.
   
   Lesson Learned: Fight for the pack and stay there!
   
   
3. I'm Fatter and Weaker Than I Think I Am.
   

   

   More this...

   
   I weighed 173 the morning of the race. Not bad for a 5' 10" 43-year-old. Not great for a cyclist.
   
   I know that if I am going to improve that I need to increase my strength-to-weigh ratio.
   
   Looking at the problem backwards, my weight could be better. In the past few years I found that my best performance weigh is 168 pounds. Less than that and I break down; I get sick.
   

   

   ...than this.

   
   Five pounds doesn't sound like a lot. As a percentage, it isn't a lot. But that five pounds means a boatload when hauling arse up a hill. The old adage was: "1 kilo, 1 kilometer, 1 minute." Granted, Coppi ain't the alps. But five pounds = 2 kilos. You figure it out.
   
   Looking at the strength/weight ratio from the front, I need to improve strength.
   
   I need to get out of my comfort zones and burst with intensity. Time to get out of Zone 3, where I can spend hours, and hit the hard stuff.
   
   It seems like I'm always "saving it"—for...something. I don't know what.
   
   I get into a hard effort, start to feel the burny-ouchy-breathlessly-hard stuff, and back off. "I need to have it...later." That's the refrain. Bike commute, group ride, weekend ride, always the same: "I'll need it later."
   
   But I don't! So what if I drag myself in like a drowned kitten? So what if I get off the bike and wobble for the first ten steps? I'm not getting better! If I care, I need to leave it out there, and stop "saving it".

Why We Race

I thought I was better than I am. I never had the delusion that I would win, but I hoped to be able to ride for another, helping out in the finale. I genuinely hoped that I could help launch someone else to win.

Chasing...chasing...

I know I'm not the strongest rider out there. I simply thought I had more than what I produced.

And that's the magic, innit?

Why do we race? To test ourselves; to learn our limits.

I got schooled.

It was a useful lesson.

Epilogue

I appreciate Jason's comment (below) for a reminder...

We pin on our numbers. We mix it up. We bump elbows. We rub wheels.

We're alive in the moment. We're awakened to everything around us.

We race.

As long as we are out there, we thrive.

Chapeau!

2010 Cyclocross Season Schedule

With help, I have compiled a list of cyclocross races in the Mid-Atlantic region, with particular care paid to Maryland. There are two regional, season-long competitions:

• MAC = MidAtlanticCross Cyclocross Series
• MABRA = Mid-Atlantic Bicycle Racing Association Cyclocross Series

There are few other races, too. If I missed anything, please let me know!

Sat	9/11	Nittany Cross	MAC #1	Trexlertown, PA
Sat	9/18	Charm City	MAC #2	Baltimore, MD
Sun	9/19	Charm City	MAC #3	Baltimore, MD
Sun	9/26	Ed Sanders Memorial	MABRA #1	Adamstown, MD
Sun	9/26	Whirlybird Cyclocross	MAC #4	Bryn Athyn, PA
Sat	10/2	Breast Cancer Awareness Cyclocross Challenge	MABRA #2	Cascade, MD
Sat	10/3	Winchester Apple Harvest Cross	MABRA #3	Winchester, VA
Sat	10/10	Hyattsville CX	MABRA #4	Hyattsville, MD
Sat	10/16	Granogue Cross (Day 1)	MAC #5	Granogue, DE
Sun	10/17	Granogue Cross (Day 2)	MAC #6	Granogue, DE
Sun	10/24	DCCX	MABRA #5	Washington, DC
Sat	10/30	All Hallows Cross	MABRA #6	Hughesville, MD
Sat	10/30	Beacon Cyclocross	MAC#7	Bridgeton, NJ
Sun	10/31	ABRT CX	N/A	Severna Park, MD
Sat	11/6	Fair Hill	MAC #9	Fair Hill, DE
Sun	11/7	Tacchino Ciclocross	MABRA #7	Upper Marlboro, MD
Sun	11/14	UrbanCross at Ix	MABRA #8	Charlotsville, VA
Sat	11/20	HoCo2xCx: Schooley Mill Cross	MABRA #9	Highland, MD
Sat	11/20	Super Cross Cup Day 1	MAC #10	Southampton, NY
Sun	11/21	HoCo2xCx: Rockburn Cross	MABRA #10	Elkridge, MD
Sun	11/21	Super Cross Cup Day 2	MAC #11	Southampton, NY
Sun	11/28	Turkey Chase MABRAcross Championships	MABRA #11	TBD
Sun	12/8 - 12/12	US Nationals	National Championships	Bend, OR

Header	Content

Finally, an Answer

So, how did the accident happen?

Last evening I stopped by to visit with my Tuesday night ride group, out of Race Pace in Columbia . (They had a great turnout, by the way. it looked like there were nearly 30 riders!)

I wanted to say "hi!", and use the friendliness to help lift my spirits. It's no secret and no surprise that I have been feeling depressed since my injury. The weather is spectacular, and last year at this time I was routinely riding 40+ miles two and three days a week.

One of the guys (he races for Kelly's) rode up and told me that he saw my accident.

I nearly fell over (again).

"Really?' I exclaimed, "tell me what the hell happened!"

He told me that we were approaching the line (he was on the sidelines watching the finish), three across (just as my memory tells me), and that the guy on my right (the one who went down with me) "crossed over into you for no clear reason. You touched wheels, then you went over the bars."

So. There it is...

I was still in my line, and the other guy crossed over.

I slept very well last night (thank you very much) knowing that it was not something that I did to cause the accident.

I knew it was bothering me, but I didn't realize that I was troubled by it.

Now I know.

Next year, I'm winning that race...

...and it won't be in a sprint.

Race Report: Carl Dolan

You've seen the movie a thousand times:

The orchestral score swelled. The crescendo was near. Months of training and sacrifice were about to peak. Our hero (good, noble, dedicated) was about to achieve victory. His comeback was nearly complete.

We were on the cathartic threshold. Tears welled, but did not yet fall. Palms sweated and limbs trembled in anticipation. The apex of tension was upon us.

He powered toward the line. Tunnel-vision. Ears echoed the wind and the sounds of the crowd. Cowbells clanged as he sucked wind deep into his heaving chest. His legs pumped with adrenalized fury. They felt good, warm. No lactic acid burn (yet). No scream to stop. Acceleration.

Three across, they approached the line. Podium already in hand. Victory in reach. In his first race he would be first. He was about to win!

I was sitting upright watching dozens of riders hurtling toward and past me. The kaleidoscope of colors and the whirring buzz of the gears was...pretty.

Right hand clutched left shoulder. "Where's my bike?", I mused.

"Ouch," I added. 

One second I was surging for the line. The next second I was watching the race from a rather unique perspective.

How? What? Huh?

Morning dawned cold for the 17th Annual Carl Dolan Memorial/Howard County Library Spring Classic, hosted by DC Velo (there's a mouthful). Temperatures in the upper 30s greeted me when I racked my bike onto my car for the short journey to Columbia Gateway Center.

Like my first cyclocross race, my first road race (practically) would be in my backyard. Even though local, I was still up before dawn for a solid oatmeal and salmon breakfast (lots of honey and chilies, too!). If I was going to get into the 0800 race, I needed to fuel up early.

I was wait listed for the day's races. Circumstances not worth detailing prevented my registration. Though on standby, I was still having kittens Saturday night.

Amped and nervous, I approached registration as soon as they opened and declared myself ready, willing, and available for the first race. I was secretly pleased by the chill air, as I suspected it would keep some folks in bed. I also knew that a raft of riders had ridden the Baker's Dozen race the day previous. They were likely no-shows.

Carl Dolan is a 10-lap, clockwise circuit race around the Columbia Gateway office park oval. The road has two features of interest: a downhill, 90degree turn and a small hill leading to the finish. The turn is relatively easy. The concern is that every man needs to keep his line as the crowded peloton comes through it. The hill is a little over half a kilometer long. It is not steep, it's simply there. The finish line is at a false flat near the top of the hill.

Warm up?

I took a "warm-up" lap in the frigid air. I was ill-prepared. As I cut the wind, my fingers screamed in the cold. By the time I made the decisive downhill turn I could barely shift gears. My digits were useless. I was wearing a softshell gilet over my skinsuit (over a merino base layer), so my body was reasonably warm. It was my fingers that killed!

With 10 minutes to go they opened the race to the wait-listers. I paid my fees, got my bib number, and one of the hosts helped me to pin on my bib.

Minor problem. Once I took off my gilet, the wind viciously cut through my skinsuit. It was cold. So, when I went back to the car I quickly took off the gilet and wore it under the skinsuit. Fashionably obscene, but completely practical.

Did I mention I was freezing?

I got to the start and stood in the back row. We were seconds from the bell, so I didn't even have time to get nervous. And off we went!

And they're off!

I achieved my first goal—clipping in without landing on my arse. There were a lot of slow clippers and slow starters, so withing the first minute I was directly in the middle of the pack.

My plan was simple: sit in and survive. I had no idea what to expect from anything—the course, the riders, or myself. I was determined to observe and learn from the experience.

Nervously, the pack approached the downhill prior to the turn. In close quarters (and I do mean close) we accelerated, spreading out vertically, while the horizontal lines remained. Mercifully, everyone held their lines and we were through!

Furiously pumping out of their saddles, the pack surged downhill to the base of the "climb". Much ado about nothing. Everyone re-formed during the climb and we crossed the line to start lap number two in much the same condition as lap one.

Several more laps passed in this manner. I experimented with my pack position for the downhill turn, on one lap I even came through it first. I was poking and prodding, finding gaps and filling them, while watching the pack and teams interact.

I felt good. Really good. Surprisingly good. So much so that during laps six and seven I removed my knee warmers (one each lap). As we rode the long flat approaching the downhill I dropped to the back, unclipped a pedal, figure-foured my leg over the top bar, and took off the warmer, stuffing it into my jersey. Both times I was able to re-connect with the pack without stress. In fact, the quick sprint enlivened my legs and gave me confidence.

"Here we go" I decided, and I hammered it for the 300 yards to the line.

I easily crossed first (and to this day I have no idea if it truly was a bonus lap), sat up, and coasted. It seemed like a long time before the pack caught me. I let it pass and rejoined somewhere in the middle

"So," I thought, "I think I've got the hang of this."

I knew I could hang in, but could I compete?  I committed myself to stay near the front. I'd see what would happen. I expected chaos, but I thought that if I was near the front, a top 10 finish would be cool.

I was, after all, just sitting in.

We finished lap 9 and got the bell for the final lap. Things got interesting. Two teams jockeyed for position near the front. Since I was alone, I was able to slide into the seams and hold a position. No elbows necessary. As we approached the turn I was electrically attuned to everything. I saw the two lines in front of me, felt my machine working smoothly beneath my beating engine, and sensed the approach of the pack behind me.

We came out of the turn and the teams hit the afterburners. I was in the slipstream and got pulled along at more than 38mph. I barely had to pedal as the huge draft sucked me forward. Riders took their pulls and dropped from the line, tossed out of the passing train like so much garbage.

I was watching a battle of attrition between the two teams, and I was right in the middle of it.

At about 500 yards it all dissolved into individual efforts. The trains were gone, and 5 of us remained. I was still riding someone's wheel when we came to 300 yards. Someone attacked. Two went with him.

It was the three of us for the line.

I had a lot left in the tank as I took up position between the two other sprinters. There was plenty of room as we approached the line, three across.

I powered toward the line. Tunnel-vision. Ears echoed the wind and the sounds of the crowd. Cowbells clanged as I sucked wind deep into my heaving chest. My legs pumped with adrenalized fury. They felt good, warm. No lactic acid burn (yet). No scream to stop. Acceleration.

Three across, we approached the line. Podium already in hand. Victory in reach. In my first race I would be first. I was about to win!

And what did I win?

A broken collarbone.

On to Tales of Titanium Caterpillars→

Schooley Mill 'Cross (The Making of a Cyclocross Addict - Part 2)

Opportunity Knocks

I was looking at cyclocross events to see if there were any I could visit as a spectator. I wanted to get a feel for the sport. I was shocked to see that there would be a race in a much-loved, local location—Schooley Mill Park.

Yep, that's the entrance!

The MABRA cyclocross series visited Schooley Mill Park in 2009 for the first time. Schooley Mill is a place full of happy memories. I have taken my girls there for countless walks in the woods in all seasons and in all kinds of weather. We've stalked deer, spied on beaver, and befriended horses and their riders on the well-maintained paths through the woods. We've followed animal tracks, crossed logs, fallen into the creeks and lagoons, and returned with smiles and treasures. On a few occasions I rode there on my mountain bike and romped on the paths, with one or two out-of-control, daredevil descents on the hills.

So, how cool was it that there was going to be a race there?

I mulled. I daydreamed. I wanted to ride—even though I had no idea what that meant. Eventually, I registered.

Getting Ready

Everything I read and everyone I spoke to told me the same thing: 'cross is hard. To prepare, I increased the intensity and frequency of my spin classes (more intervals). I also went out to a field and practiced dismounts and remounts.

NOT me. Note the form and the, er, risky position

Funny, it was just like riding a bike!

It was easier than I expected. I simply channeled my childhood. As a kid I lived on my bike, and I leaped off it countless times. I knew how to run and remount from endless games of chase and tag. Somehow, the running-jumping-mounting-pedaling thing came back to me.

NOT my old bike, but you get the idea

Even off-camber turns—initially terrifying—came back to me. All those afternoons as a kid riding the trails around Carpenter's Pond are hard-wired in my memory. My 29er ain't my old yellow banana seat bike, but the same rules apply.

The Day Cometh...

Crisp, cool, autumnal air greeted me when I left my driveway for the 20-minute ride to Schooley Mill. My backpack was filled with water, tubes, clothes, tools, and a shop pump. I had more than I needed.

Riding to the race was the perfect warm-up to the warm-up. I got there early and registered. While in the anteroom outside registration, I stood with my number (640), four pins, and nary a clue about what to do with them. A wise, kind woman (in a BBC kit) bailed me out, helping me to don the number (right side, facing backwards, so the race officials could identify my corpse when they scraped me off the tarmac).

I stashed my bag in some tall sea grass near the tot lot (nifty hiding place for belongings and wayward children) and rode a lap, marveling at the activity surrounding the final race preparations. I had visited the previous evening to get a look at the course; everything looked a little different in the morning light.

Course map for Schooley Mill 'Cross!

Nervous, I kept having to pee. I'm sure the caffeine had nothing to do with it.

As a result, I nearly missed the start. I was in the loo when I looked at my watch. It read 08:56. Race start was to be at 09:00. Christ!

I completed my transaction, mounted my steed, and rushed to the line, where several score angry-looking men in tight shorts were lined up for the start. I nearly toppled an entire group as I maneuvered into my start row (4th row!).

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

I saw Beautiful and Charming Bride (BCB) and my two girls, the Lovely Angels (LAs), at the start. Goofily, I grinned and waved. Nodded to the racer next to me, and we were off!

The Race

Prior to the race, veteran cyclocross racers told me the following about 'cross:

1. You redline the entire race.
2. Bike-handling skills are at a premium.
   
3. Speeds are slower, so when you fall (note: "when") it does not hurt as much.

So, despite my night-before-the-event-visualization-fantasy—in which I made the podium in my first EVER cyclocross race, riding a 29er mountain bike, with family cheering me on to legendary victory—I really had two realistic goals.

1. Finish.
2. Don't fall.

Modest. Realistic. Manageable.

No one in front...no one behind...still in the middle...

I can happily report that I achieved both my goals.

I finished despite several cyclocross-veteran comments that I would be fortunate to not get lapped in my first race, in large part to the behemoth bike I was mounting.

I did not fall, thus proving that even blind squirrels occasionally find a nut (er, well, you know what I mean).

I was 34th of 65 starters (three did not finish).

I was middle of the pack. I did not get lapped.

I am a bicycle racer!

What I Experienced

A breathless rush: that's what it is.

I died a thousand small deaths each lap.

Rabbits

As I passed the officials, concluding each lap, one mindtrack screamed "call the race!" and another mindtrack howled "kill the rabbit!"

I like chasing rabbits. Motivating. Driving. Primal. When that other guy is out there in front of you, reeling him in is an absolute delight.

Family

I passed BCB and the LAs twice each lap (as I passed the tot lot). I have no idea when they arrived. Each time, I could clearly hear Youngest Lovely Angel (YLA) shouting "Go Daddy Go!" BCB and Eldest Lovely Angel (ELA) were more reserved in their support, but I heard them.

I got chills whenever I heard them. It absolutely motivated me to pedal stronger (at least when I was near them!), to make them proud. It's cliche; it sounds trite. That said, it's real.

Work

I wore my heart rate monitor. My average BPM was 178. My maximum BPM was 186.

Thus proves the statement: "you redline the entire race."

Obstacles

Obstacles were manageable. They were not easy, but I didn't feel like they abused me...with one exception: the uphill carry over the two cyclocross-board obstacles.

• Lap 1, not so bad. Carried 29er over and easily remounted.
• Lap 2, not so bad. Carried 29er over and easily remounted.
• Lap 3, not so good. Stopped dead before lifting 29er, and remounted with effort (not so much spring in the step).
• Lap 4, bad. Stopped dead. Heaved 29er onto first barrier to roll it over. Labored up hill. Re-heaved 29er over second barrier (barely clearing it). Stopped dead. Got back on bike (it's not a "remount" if you are walking, true?).

That bike got heavy.

Pipped

Chasing the rabbit is a good thing. Being the rabbit...not so nice.

Just before the line (uphill approach) a comet passed me at mach II. Effing hell. As Ian Brown would say: "Amateurs! Amateurs!"

So this is how it feels to be lonely, this is how it feels to be small...

That will never happen again.

What I Learned

'Cross Is Hard!

Let me repeat what I wrote before: "I wore my heart rate monitor. My average BPM was 178. My maximum BPM was 186."

'nuff said.

Gearing

I stayed in the middle ring (front) and shifted surprisingly little. Of course, coming up the boggy hill, I needed to downshift, but I never got into the rear granny ring. I also never got into the rear power ring. It was always somewhere in the middle.

Eating & Drinking

A Gu 20 minutes before the start, and then one at the start fueled me perfectly with no GI distress. Even if I was thirsty, there was no way to drink during the race. I don't even remember thinking about it until after the finish.

Finish Strong

I was chasing my own rabbit when I was caught. I was riding hard enough to catch my target, and I had no idea I was being stalked. In the wild, I would have been dinner. Situational awareness will not let me down again.

Why I Will Do It Again

40+ minutes of vitality in the cold, wet, muddy, sunny, windy, speed-driven hunt.

40+ minutes of risk and reward, hunting and seeking, chasing and dodging, leading and scrambling.

40+ minutes of living fully.

...it's FUN!

'Cross is fun.

The Making of a Cyclocross Addict (Part 1)

This is a cautionary tale...

It happened slowly, imperceptibly.

Yet, it happened. I'm addicted to 'cross. (See! I'm even calling it by its nickname!)

Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer...

While recovering from shoulder surgery I spent a lot of pain-filled time sitting in a comfy chair watching TV. Through serendipitous scheduling and the miracle of the DVR, I watched a replay of the 2008 cyclocross world championship.

It looked interesting, but it was crap TV. The leader was out in front for so long, it was boring. There wasn't any strategy, and all the riders were so good, that the obstacles seemed routine. I preferred watching the Tour of California.

The summer road season progressed. Other riders would mention 'cross. They would speak reverently about the coming season. Some guys were on 'cross bikes with road tires.

"Meh," I thought. Not for me.

The year flowed on, and I was hearing more. I kept reading about 'cross during my morning surf. Blakedo, my spin class instructor, talked it up. Then I was blindsided by the Adventures for the Cure crew.

Attack of the Polka Dots!

The Tuesday group ride had become a highlight of my week. I loved that my 40+ year old legs were competitive with the 20-somethings on the parcourse (Sure, they had competed in Ironman events, marathons, and centuries each weekend prior to the ride, but that's no excuse!).

Then some dude in a polka-dot skinsuit showed up. He was strong. I had a hellish time staying on his wheel on the Harriet Tubman climb. He dropped me, and I looked like a punch-drunk fighter, dazed and bewildered. He made it look easy, the arrogant (unmentionable)! God, I hated him.

Over the next few weeks, I got to know Jay PolkaDot and his white Klein a little He had a good sense of humor, and the roadie arrogance I'd perceived was really my imagination. He was a good guy, and his strength forced me to step up and get better.

Then the other shoe dropped. He brought two of his teammates, and all hell broke loose.

Unassuming, friendly, and riding beat-up bikes, his "teammates" proceeded to kick our arses up and down the hills and around all the curves of Howard County. And they were on fixies.

Effing fixies.

My fragile ego was crushed. My roadie arrogance crumpled; my confidence plummeted.

The two "new" members of the polka dot crew, it turns out, were the winning two-man team in the 2009 Race Across America.

Oh, and one of them is a Type I diabetic who rides with an insulin pump.

Effing hell.

So, what has that got to do with 'Cross?

The polkadot crew are serious 'cross riders. (In fact, Mr. Insulin Pump just got promoted to Cat 1.). Between arse-kickings, they talked-up cross.

Cyclocross Everywhere

Being the curious sort, I added cyclocross to my morning surf. I was exposed to the sub-sub-sub genre of "POV Cyclocross videos with indie rock soundtracks", courtesy of In the Crosshairs.

They were kinda cool.

I dug deeper and watched video of training sessions, where the subtle skills such as "dismounting you bike at speed without falling on your face" and "remounting your bike without performing an auto-orchiectomy" were taught to eager, rosy-cheeked, pneumatic-thighed participants.

They were entertaining.

Then, lo and behold, I learned that there was going to be a race near me; and not just near me, but at a park near and dear to my heart!

The Schooley Mill 'Cross was scheduled for November 21st, the weekend before Thanksgiving. I read about it in August, and I knew--deep in my heart of hearts--that I was doomed.

...On to part 2