Mud on Evo's face and glasses. Lump on bicep
I hope you enjoyed El Jefe’s succinct race report. My race went unusually well, and it was an
experience worth sharing, so regardless of your level of interest, strap in
because here we go.
Saturday gave us deluge intensity rain and wind. For the
uninitiated; the combination of strong wind and rain is known as a “storm.” Casa
de Evo is an older house and it makes some poltergeist type sounds in strong
winds. The rain gutters were overflowing
and the wind had the place howling in a way Stephen King would love. Hottie and I exchanged knowing looks with an
expression somewhere between fear and humor that conveyed our expectation of
epic racing on Sunday.
To prepare for the forecasted harsh conditions I mixed up
a monster pot of Lentil soup and put it in the crock pot for a twenty hour
simmer. I packed up the war wagon with
extra tent stakes and rope to prevent any “tumbleweed” episodes with the team
shelter on Sunday.
On Sunday morning, in the pre-dawn twilight, Hottie, The
Beast and I rolled toward the shores of Lake Sammamish and found a prime spot.
With the help of the ever willing and cheery Willard, we staked down the tent
during a brief respite from the rain and then braced for the worst.
I have been trying to throw in one easier training week
every three to four weeks and this was one of those weeks so my legs were a tad
“fresher” than usual. I wondered if
that would make a difference. Read on…
The rain necessitated me carrying the umbrella for Hottie
as she photographed the first race. The rain got harder as the race unfolded and
watching the riders sliding around in the ever increasingly challenging
conditions, I knew my race would be one to remember.
I pulled the bike out of the car and into the elements
and rode a couple warm up laps to check out the course. It proved to be everything I hoped for and everything
I dreaded. The grass was transitioning
from golf course like beauty into Portland International Raceway soft cream
cheese-like mud bogs. At first it was
just a spot here and there, but the mud was multiplying fast and those “spots”
were growing minute by minute and new ones were popping up everywhere.
My teammates were out on the course warming up as well and
it was clear we would have a large contingent of brown for the 11:00 race. El Chefe’ brought along several strips of
pipe insulation and electrical tape for padding the underside of our top tubes
for carrying on the signature feature of the venue; the long sand purgatory
known as Normandie Beach to some and Omaha Beach to others. That padding made a difference in the long
carry that was huge. While others might
say the pad didn’t matter I would paraphrase their words by quoting Moonlight
Burnside, “Blah, blah, blah.”
I made my final clothing selection and donned my costume with
number and quickly covered up with a rain jacket and pants. I reluctantly
removed my warm up fender only to cringe as the cold water soaked my chamois
twenty seconds after rolling toward the start line. I had slapped some
embrocation on my legs and it was kicking in. I was ready to rumble.
El Chefe’ was a champ and gathered our clothing at the
start line and I got a great (random) call up in vivid contrast to my earlier
races. At the whistle I clipped in and was
cranking quickly as I scrunched my face to try and avoid the rooster tails of
water fountaining off the rear wheels of those who started in front of me.
As I always say, you race those around you, and I was
hoping to take advantage of my great starting position to improve my placing. The first sweeper onto the dirt was
uneventful but the greasy right turn around the first tree was not. Riders went
sideways in the mud and I avoided collisions and tried to build up speed. Despite my low pressure the bumps were like
punches being thrown at my body and it was hard to build any momentum. This was going to be a long day at the offices
of Mud, Sand and Rain LLC.
I found myself in a good spot and the slippery off
cambers proved adventuresome. When we
hit the sand for the first time I veered left and dismounted keeping my
momentum and got the bike locked on my shoulder and sprinted. Yes that is right
I sprinted, I sprinted and passed three or five riders. I could hear friends yelling and others
noting my moving up in the sand and shouting encouragement. Evo was racing
today.
I remounted and pushed for the couple hundred meters
before the slippery mud made turning an exciting endeavor. There was a lot of
“hook and ladder” action where a rider’s back wheel goes sideways as it loses
traction but the rider keeps it upright. Some did not keep it upright. We call that
crashing. For this reason you had to be
careful not to get too close to the ride in front on dicey corners or his fate
could be yours.
After the first lap I was on the wheel of Terry Buchanan
and decided to try and sit there. Terry is a strong rider who took some good
lines and I followed them to my benefit.
I again moved up in the sand and then later at a particularly muddy slow
corner I followed El Jefe’s advice and ran the inside line with the bike in my
right hand while hooking my left hand on a tree and whipping around the corner (crack
the whip style) gaining two places much to the dismay of my competitors who
were slogging wide in the mud bog.
Feral Dave caught and passed me and I wondered where El
Jefe’ and Big John were as they typically are ahead of me by the second
lap. I do fancy myself a “mudder” so it
was not a complete surprise. I tried not
to let Feral Dave get away and caught up in the sand on the next lap and pulled
ahead after remounting. As always he gave me words of encouragement as I
passed. Dave is just a classy guy.
The race was about survival now as I adopted a selfish race
outlook. I would ride past a guy on my left who was stopped, struggling to get
his chain back on. Then I passed a rider on my right who had just slid out in a
corner. I wasn’t bunny-hopping bodies or anything, but I did try and keep my
focus and ignore the misfortune of others. There would be plenty of time for
empathy after the race.
If you crashed, or even if you dabbed (put a foot down),
building your speed back up (or what we called speed on this slow motion mud day)
took a ton of effort. Effort equals pain after the first lap by the way. The
race was summed up best by a downed Cucina rider who slid out and rolled onto
his back and looked up at the sky motionless.
“You okay?” I shouted as I approached.
“Yeah….. This just..Sucks!” He yelled, accent on the last
word, still without moving. He wasn’t hurt; he just didn’t want to get up. I understood.
I was using all of my skills to try and avoid the same
fate. I was shape shifting and channeling my inner Sven Nys to keep the bike
upright. I moved my weight back to try and maintain traction when things got
slick. I was trying to keep my power
going throughout my pedal stroke to avoid sliding out. I was quick to run and I embraced the sand. Everything
I had learned riding tight turns in Mazama, commuting across loose gravel, and
hanging on wheels doing the Thrilla was in play during the race. The bike was functioning well, the tires were
working, the pad for shouldering the bike was wonderful. Everything within my control was working.
One of the things I love about cycling, and particularly
Cyclocross, is getting the variables right. The right clothing, the right bike
set up, the right pressure the bike handling skills, all make a
difference. When someone feels they were
cheated because they crashed (on their own) or flatted because their pressure
was too low I just shrug my shoulders as I think these things are generally within
their control. This isn’t to say I don’t
make mistakes because I sure do, but there is a learning curve in this sport
and that is part of the charm. If
experience came in a can I’d be first in line to buy some. It doesn’t and
learning from your mistakes and experience is an advantage.
When I saw three to go I was (as always) wishing for two
to go. To my surprise Terry turned off.
I still don’t know why, but I kept on pushing. There were about two hundred
riders on course and the mud was getting worse every lap. There were stretches of grass that remained
ridable, but every sharp corner was now soft and while you could RIDE the mud
you couldn’t TURN in the mud. A sharp
turn in a mud bog at the end of the pits saw riders enter at every angle and if
you had any speed coming in you rode into the tape on the far side and then stopped
and either rode or ran the rest of the turn.
The course suited me as the technical portions allowed me
some aerobic recovery and a chance to use my handling skills. The carnage continued and I was moving up
through the back of the 35plus cat 3’s.
By the last lap there was camaraderie in the corners as
riders would announce their intentions and hope that was how it played out for
them. “I’m coming inside,” and the
like. My glasses were so spotted with
mud I could barely see. My gloves were coated with mud so I didn’t dare wipe my
glasses. The mud was flying up so removing the glasses wasn’t a realistic
option either.
On the cement I dropped my head and pedaled for all I was
worth. I looked at my legs and there was so much mud on my shins you couldn’t
tell where my black socks ended and my once white legs started. On my sixth
time through the sand I didn’t sprint, but held my spot and tried to gather my
energy for the final half lap. I remounted and pushed hard. I passed riders but
most were in other categories. The mud
bogs were now more suitable for running and I obliged. Others worn down by their effort rode them
which was easier but much slower.
Over the barriers then I was onto the final serpentine
corners which were slippery when I spotted my friend Alex a single turn ahead
of me. Onto the pavement of the final
straight and I got out of the saddle and pushed. Alex was well ahead of me and
there was no chance of catching him. I
looked back and didn’t see anyone who might challenge me, but I didn’t let
up. ALL DONE said the sign at the
line. Although it was intended for
everyone, it sure summed up EXACTLY how I felt.
Feral Dave rolled in a couple places behind me and we
took a short warm down before entering our second race of the day, the race
with hypothermia. Post race in cold wet
weather is a funny thing as there are a couple minutes where you are still warm
from the effort even with cold rain falling on you. A smart racer will warm down a bit then race,
and I mean race, to get cold wet clothes off and warm dry clothes on before your
core temperature drops. When my body
realizes the big effort is done it shuts down and that includes shutting down
heat production. I stripped off my costume and put on a wool shirt and my team
jacket. I pulled off my socks and tried to wipe the mud and remains of
embrocation from my legs. The mud and
embo had combined to form a substance that did not want to come off. I put on a pair of sweat pants so I didn’t
defile my clean pants.
I enjoyed one of the last cups of the lentil soup and it
wasn’t the best thing I’ve ever made, but I was sure glad to have it. Taking a tent down in the rain is always a
battle with denial as you want to enjoy the shelter and take it down at the
same time. We loaded up our stuff and
drove home listening to the Seattle Seahawks score in overtime to win their
game.
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