My mind hearkens back to my youth and the final days at
the end of summer just before school started. I was pretty OCD about Track and
Cross Country in high school. In the summer between my junior and senior years
I got my name on a plaque for running over a thousand miles in the period
between school letting out in June and resuming in September. I made a plan and stuck to it.
Late summer was the time when you got ready to put your
cards on the table. There was no faking it and cramming only led to
injuries. If you had put in the miles
you would be ready, if not, it was time to prepare to be found out. The seventies were the era of LSD (Long Slow
Distance). My goal was to run a hundred miles each week. These were the base
miles and the “sharpening” would come in the fall. I had plenty of natural
speed, so for me the base miles were almost all that mattered.
To be honest I haven’t been crazy serious about
Cyclocross for a few years. Even my
breakout 2011 season began with lackluster motivation. I was within inches of
skipping the whole season. Even as I found success, other complication in my
life kept the foolishness of racing success in perspective. I’m not saying I am crazy serious this year,
but I am excited to race a bit.
Last year the France trip dominated my calendar and I
entered the Cyclocross season in perfect shape for five hour rides with lots of
climbing. Despite trying to throw in some
intervals I never got fast. This was such a contrast to my 2011 success it felt
like a huge letdown.
This year is different as I had a spring of road racing.
I did take off a chunk to build more miles for the volcano trip (as well as
avoid any “trip-terminating” crashes), but have (at least in my mind) tried to
keep throwing in high intensity rides. I
can’t say it will make a difference come race day, but it is a sharp contrast
to last year.
McWoodie commented that he thought I was in the best
shape going into cross that he has seen. A more ego-feeding compliment is hard
to imagine. I am tempering my optimism,
but always hopeful. I am bracing for the bitch-slap that Starcrossed always
gives me. I go in that race with high
hopes and everyone just rides away from me and I am left wondering WTF? I once thought to myself that the race should
be called “hope-smasher,” but I don’t think they would get as many entries if
they incorporated the name change.
I rode the Thrilla with Geoff yesterday and that was a
total blast. Near the end of the ride, after all the technical terrain was
behind us, he attacked a long loose hill that he said was a well known STRAVA
segment. He had warned me well in advance that he intended to ride it hard. I
had replied that I had no such aspirations. After seeing him ride off I steadily
upped my effort and soon found myself entering the pain cave. I ended up going deeper and deeper until I
was in the deepest, darkest corner of the cave.
My quads were burning and I kept spinning. I focused on
pedaling in circles and soon my hamstrings likewise joined the rebellion. I
looked at my Garmin. My aging vision prevented me from seeing my heart rate,
but I knew with absolute certainty it was in the 180’s (later confirmed). With conviction seldom seen from me in this
century, I embraced the pain and drove onward undaunted. My lungs were
screaming for more oxygen. As I neared
the top my left calf joined the party but I refused to let up and lose my
focus.
I was hurting. My climbs on the volcanoes trip, as well as
the preparation rides, had been varying degrees of uncomfortable, but not
painful. This was pain. I lied to myself saying I wasn’t going at my max as
Geoff had built up a big gap (never mind that he is only six year older than my
oldest son). I had scooted forward on my
saddle and I was on the rivet in every way.
Ah yes, the cave…. Even though it had been a while, the
pain cave is a familiar place. I tuned
out the temperature (hot) the humidity (high) the trail walkers around me (no
idea - filtered out) and with Zen-like focus willed myself upward. When it was
finally time to let up, Geoff was there, hunched over his bars, he was
benefitting from the head start on recovery and his eyes were no longer rolling
back in his head. He didn’t know it yet
but he had garnered the KOM for the climb.
In my aged condition and even with the noncommittal start I was pleased
that evening to find myself 30th on the leader board out of 271 egotistical
riders.
“Kind of blows out the cobwebs,” I quipped to Geoff,
trying not to drool or slur my speech revealing myself as absolutely blown
apart. The best part of a climb is often
when the road (or trail) then goes downward. First off; the chance of violent cramps
drops and you can spin easy which chases the lactic acid from your limbs while
appearing to have fun. We got to do that for a while. We earned it.
On the climb I had put in a hard effort. On the earlier
parts of the ride I had ridden well despite some nearly missed turns and
finding myself in the wrong gear when coming around a blind corner the trail
turned up suddenly several times.
Overall I felt strong; really strong. Strong is good.
As we cruised the last couple miles I had that good end
of summer feeling. That feeling that comes from paying your dues and making
deposits in the pain bank for future withdrawal. Last weekend when we rode 100K
of trails on Saturday I wasn’t wiped out at the end. If there had been a throw
down the last five miles, I would have jumped right in and may have even done well.
When it comes time to play my race cards this year maybe,
just maybe, I might do okay. If not, that is okay too.
As Geoff and I finished, I felt good. The summer rain had moistened the trail
enough to make the dirt tacky and I had a layer of mud on my bike and on my
body. It was good to peel off my socks and see a healthy Belgian tan line.
Driving home I thought back to early spring when I had
yearned to ride a fast bike on dry roads with exposed arms and legs. After the long summer the dry roads once
again seem trite. My heart is turning to
Cyclocross.
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