SCX #2 2013 Tall Chief Cyclocross Race Report and Photos

What doesn’t kill you, most likely just shortens your life.

Photos of everyone else can be found here !

Time to get PRIMAL !!

After an odd week I found myself battling to get my head around racing.   If our anniversary trip to Yellowstone had happened, we would have been gone this weekend so we had not expected to be at this race.   Since Yellowstone was closed we took a shorter trip to Bend, Oregon and came back Wednesday. 

Substitute the word "Hospital" where you see "Restroom" for a glimpse of the future.

Thus we found ourselves staring at a cross race opportunity on Sunday.

With all of the mountain biking we had done in Bend, I skipped my typical Thursday Thrilla so I was coming into the weekend with questionable preparation at best.  My food choices for the week were also not those of even a semi-serious racer.   This was going to be a “we’ll just see what happens” kind of race.

Hottie and I had spent some of Saturday at a pumpkin farm with grandkids which doesn’t exactly give you the, “Eye of the Tiger” race mentality.  I’m not making a value judgment or saying good or bad, I’m just telling you where my head was.

Clay baby (KOG) 

King of the Gourd !!

My denial was further illustrated by my total lack of vehicle preparation the night before. We had a painfully early departure planned, yet I just figured I would load the car in the morning assuming I would have more energy and/or motivation on race day.

Out of habit I packed the war wagon in the morning with minimal effort and we left in darkness with Betty the Beast along for the ride. 

When the Beast sports the Buckeye hat, anything can happen

This was a new venue; Tall Chief Golf Course.  The name conjures up images of a fast course on manicured grass.  I brought along my file tread front wheel just in case. The sun was supposed to come out an hour before my race and I was thinking the r ace would be a “grass crit.” 

I could not have been more wrong.

In the dim, foggy twilight of dawn we found a moss covered the sign that bore the “Tall Chief Golf” name.   As it turns out, the golf course closed two years ago.  I like to joke about our front yard by asking, “What is the difference between and English garden and a jungle?...The answer is Two weeks.”   Imagine what two years of abandonment had done to this place.

If you saw the most recent James Bond movie “Skyfall” and can recall the image of the old home in the foggy Scottish moors then you have something to start with.  The chilly, damp fog kept the sun from brightening up the course as well as making everything cold and wet. Thick moss had taken over the few buildings making them appear to have been abandoned for decades.  Blackberry branches were clawing up the sides of buildings and reaching out along the ground like fingers trying to draw everything into their thorny grasp. If you need to dispose of a body or if you are looking to get rid of hundreds of corpses; I can recommend this as the perfect place.

These guys are TRYING to ride...

The ground sunk as you walked or rode on it as if you were walking on a mattress. The thick grass and foliage absorbed sound such that if you got more than a dozen steps away from the fans and cowbells the scene took on the feeling of An American Werewolf in London.  It wasn’t like the place felt haunted as much as it felt as if there were a vacuum that sucked the life and hope from everyone and everything.

After we had our tent set up, another team had their van got stuck in the mud and only a hefty 4x4 truck could get it free. That clearly was a sign of things to come.   I started to wonder if this was the kind of place that would only let you leave when it decided you could go.  What would be the ransom to be paid to leave I wondered.

Turning my attention to the race course I noted the riders warming up seemed to be in slow motion. Men out of the saddle churning hard were going as fast as people walking beside them. This would be a day of potentially limitless pain.

Some of my teammates were out there getting ready for the first race. As they approached the tent they were huffing. Clearly it took a huge effort to just keep moving. They had expressions that were more serious than usual. If I had to describe what their faces and body language were saying, I would paraphrase it as, “This is NOT going to be fun.”  This would be a day I knew we would talk about for years to come.  I imagined the race officials telling the riders, “Master men….you will be doing one lap today…”  If only it could have been that simple.

The mud sucked.  It sucked your shoes, your tires and your strength

My teammate’s bikes had clumps of mud and grass that ranged between the size of a fist and a football.  Their wheels did not spin freely.  Pedals were clumps of grass and mud. It looked like they had collided with a Chewbacca and the Chewbacca lost. Some kind of grass cutting machine had carved the course out of the tall grass leaving a path that could (barely) be ridden.  The center of the ten foot wide swath was rapidly turning muddy and the edges were piles of grass that provided some traction, at the cost of relentlessly clogging up your bike.

As the first race got underway I settled in and began to watch the racers. It quickly became apparent that people were hurting out there. Without much thought as to where to watch the race I had chosen the top of a ten foot hill. The spot was a little more than halfway into the lap.  Preceding the hill was a muddy section that was run by most then followed by a short section that could be ridden leading up to the slippery hill. 

I watched riders finish running the muddy section, drop their mud-laden bikes exhausted and jump on to try and build up the speed necessary to climb the short slippery hill.  Rider after rider rose out of the saddle and cranked hard. Despite their efforts most failed to produce enough speed to climb the hill.  I saw the painful resignation as they realized they would have to dismount and push their way up the short hill.  Those trying to ride the hill contorted their faces as if they were lifting pianos. When their tires would spin on the slippery uphill mud bad things happened fast. They fell onto other riders, or into the mud, or they slid backwards. If they were lucky they could unclip and run the last few feet in the deep mud before launching down the hill they had just climbed only to climb again fifty feet to my left. The mud made clipping back into pedals a challenge.  This torture was repeated three times before the riders were sent out into the slow grass to suffer before entering a muddy chicane of pain accented by a pair of barriers that felt like they were forty INCHES tall instead of forty centimeters tall.  

Evo going wide in the chicane of pain !

The pain and seriousness on the rider’s faces caused even the most callous hecklers to quiet their jeers. Evo had been shouting; “Only seven laps to go; time to pick it up!”  After a while I felt like I was cheering at the scene of an auto accident.  I continued to ring my cowbell and watch the suffering but I was feeling like I was viewing the painful birthing experience of strangers.  I shouted encouragement for the rest of the day. 

I would later be confronted by someone asking if I was the “Seven lap guy?”  I altered my voice and denied everything.

Mr. T claimed a podium spot with a third place finish and Feral Dave took seventh in a loaded field. Guy had a good finish as well and rode some excellent lines on a very difficult day.  After the race, my teammates made their way back to the tent and looked like they had just donated organs.  They were not joking which says a lot.

When my powers of denial gave way to race preparation I took the bike out for a couple laps. When I finished one of the pulleys in my rear derailleur was locked and would not spin.  The particular combination of long grass and sticky mud produced a unique elixir that yielded the same results as riding though a field covered with fourteen inch pieces of glue coated string. 

Give me mud or give me death !!

Getting the mud and grass off of everything that rotated (pedals, hubs, bottom brackets, derailleur pulleys, cassettes) was accurately described by Brad as untangling string tangled in the roller of a vacuum cleaner.  The clumps where the wheel passed the brakes, frame and fork were large and slowed down the bike like flat tires. By the time you unclogged your bike your hands were filthy and the bike would clog up again after two minutes of riding.  There was nothing left to do but prepare to suffer.

Resignation is an emotion that is best shared with friends. Sadly, in the mud you have no friends.  This emotion is captured by Jack London in the short story, “To build a fire.”  I highly recommend it.

Warming up for my race I noticed something odd.  I wasn’t getting warm.  I was getting cold. Sure enough, I was in my costume and had extra layers to drop at the starting line, but as I rode I got colder.  The dampness in the air cut through the plastic of my jacket (hey; don’t ask me to explain the physics, I’m just telling you what I experienced) to chill me to my core.   The sun had not come out and there were no signs we would have anything other than gloom this day.

I told my teammate Brad I though the course was perfect for him. He is a strong rider with a strength to weight ratio that would allow him to float over what others (like me) would sink deep into.  My laps led me to believe this race would feel like an hour of uphill riding in the mud. These two predictions were spot on.

As I pulled off my jacket and pants at the starting line I felt even colder. The mood at the start was how I expect it would be if you were waiting to be executed by a firing squad. We weren’t exactly anxious to get going, but there seemed no alternative.  When people pushed to get to the front, you stepped aside and let them have their wish.

At the whistle I clipped in and got moving fast. The first hundred yards was the only paved section of the course and it was uphill.  After a couple turns I was right in the middle of a field of nearly fifty riders.  I made it down the steep hill and fought my way up the gravel climb and then was launched down into the grassy bog that would be our purgatory for sins committed in several past lives.

The conditions were such that I couldn’t go fast enough to really need to slow down for corners so there was no chance to rest.  After half a lap I wondered if I had gone flat or if mud was clogged between my wheel and frame as it was so hard to pedal I could only hope there was some other force slowing me down.  I hit the long mud run and afterward I didn’t even try and remount, but ran all the way up the hill.  This turned out to be a huge mistake and after the grass and mud chicane when I hit the starting/finishing straight I was totally gassed.

Running here was a mistake for me..

First lap...bike looks almost....clean.

My friend Quinn was on the straight and yelled for me by name. I threw him a glance that said, “Shut up and please don’t look at me.” I wasn’t going fast.  I felt what I would imagine are the emotions of someone being hanged as he looks at the gathered crowd. “What are you looking at?  Don’t you have something better to do?”  I considered calling it a day.  I assumed I had done too fast of a lap and would pay for it. Maybe I would get lucky and something on my bike would break.  There is a reason they call them mercy mechanicals.

“Five laps to go” read the sign.  I uttered a word under my breath that starts with the same letter as “Five” and also has four letters.

I just kept pedaling and a few riders passed me and I didn’t care.  I had overcooked the first lap and imagined my heart rate was maxed.  I would later look at my data and realize I was again wrong. My HR was low because of my lame warm up and once it got up to where it was supposed to be in another minute or so, I would really get moving. 

I caught my breath and got back to racing.  I caught and passed a few riders and was seeing familiar faces ahead.  After the long mud run I remounted and rode the hill. It made all the difference and I had a better lap time.

Purgatory in the gloom..

On the grass a rider who I beat some of the time and who beats me some of the time passed me and as he passed he said, “I don’t know why I’m passing you, you’ll just get me on the hill.”  I took that as encouragement and sure enough I passed him on the hill and kept going. 

As the suffering went on I figured out the secrets to this course. First, don’t crash; second, know when to run and when to ride, and finally downshift in anticipation of remounting after running.  I watched riders bog down trying to ride the mud and I passed riders each lap who were stomping on their pedals to try and get mud off of their cleats and pedals so they could clip in.  I love my eggbeater pedals.

Evo powering up on the inside

For the first time all year I was lapped. The riders who caught me started two minutes ahead of my race but still it was a first for me in 2013. I was so happy I could have started crying. I wouldn’t have six laps, but only five. As it turns out; only eight riders in my category finished on the lead lap.  I have never seen anything close to that.

Note the mud build up on Evo's leg, shoe and bike

The race felt like it was an endless muddy uphill ridden in the big ring.  I was no longer cold and was moving up. I had mud caked on my bike and shoes that was an inch thick. The bike weighed a ton and I felt it as I lifted it over barriers and carried it across the mud. 

I was on my final lap and I looked ahead to find a rider whose number started with a “4” like mine and spotted a Blue Rooster who would be my target.  I tried to ride smooth as I was making my way through the middle of the 35+ field (guys with numbers that start with “3”).  I caught my target and took my own advice and passed him at the first chance I had as sometimes those chances don’t come again.  He didn’t want to go down without a fight and I could see he was trying to catch me.  

Shoes, pedals, rear brake, bottom bracket, rear derailleur, front brake..you get it

As the course doubles back on itself I could see I was building a gap. Entering the chicane of pain I could hear Betty the Beast yelling, “Rip their legs off,” and just like one of Pavlov’s dogs I responded out of habit. 

Can't you just hear her screaming, "Rip their legs off Davo !!!"

I looked ahead for another target but could only see riders from the 35+ field. I rode smart and later learned my final lap was my fastest.  I pushed the final straight and crossed the line and unclipped both feet and dropped my feet outrigger style.  I was so cooked I was worried I would fall over and when I came to a stop I climbed off and draped myself over my bike and tried to breathe.

In almost no time Brad and Keith were across the finish line and Keith asked if I had left it all out there.  “Yes,” I managed to spit out, my shoulders heaving trying to get enough oxygen to see straight.  Brad had listened to me and handily won our race besting a top notch field.  Seph made it to the tent and also had the look of a man that had just been disemboweled. 

This is the look of a winner !

Brad on his way to winning our race.

I wanted to curl up on the ground in a fetal position but some combination of age, pride and habit forced me to change into warmer clothes and jumpstart the selective memory process.  As I type this I can only hope I get to race there next year. 

My rear brake after the race.  

A careful study will reveal that my race was part of the 

earthworm relocation project you have heard about..

Yeah, I raced it like this...

 I will, however, bring my mud tires and leave the filetreads home. 

Anniversary Trip

Hottie and I had planned the trip of a lifetime. We had both wanted to visit Yellowstone National Park for decades. We cleared our calendars and it was all set.
It seems, however, that the USA maxed out its Chinese credit card and had to close a bunch of stuff until it could borrow more money to pay people to take my money. Ironic isn't it? This may have been the change you were hoping for, but it seems like the same old crap to me.
Since our first choice was no longer an option, we opted to go to Bend, Oregon.

We had a fine time.

8K2 2013

Time to celebrate; I did it again..

I crossed the 8,000 Kilometer mark this week.  In my metric state of mind I would say I hit 8,000 k.  Tapping into my useless financial background I would want to say 8K k.  Do I say 8KK or 8K squared which I then write as 8K2?  For my imperial friends and associates 8,000 kilometers is almost exactly

5,000 miles.

Yesterday I did a spin class with Geoff from 6:00 AM to 7:00 AM.  By coincidence twelve hours later I was in the middle of a two hour ride known as the Thrilla that is kind of a Mr. Toad's wild ride on a bike. Geoff leads that too.  I think he is trying to kill me.  He has only succeeded in killing my legs.

Did you notice that my training is so hardman that it's totally in black and white ?  How Rapha of me..

MFG Lake Sammamish MY Race Report 2013

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. 

It was a good day.

MFG # 2 Lake Sammamish GP 2013 Race Report and Photos

For photos of everyone else, go to Spotshot !

El Jefe' wrestling in the mud !

Sometimes something is stated so succinctly that you just say, "Amen."   The following race report from El Jefe meets that criteria. So with only the names changes to protect the guilty, here it is.  The photos, in keeping with my extra large ego, are still mostly of Evo.

Evo with his potent Lentil stew

This morning, on the eastern shore of Lake Sammamish, the maglia bruno did battle with the elements, other riders, and themselves.   El Tenté (Evo) had his homemade chili simmering tent side. 

The Beast with a blanket hiding her shotgun.

 His mother (The Beast) sat nearby with a cowbell and 12 gauge to scare away the occasional chili thief.

The early race witnessed the return of El Chefé to the muddy peloton.   From my vantage point he was railing his turns and moving up throughout the race.   Stephen looked to have a good race as well.  

Later during my race I wondered how they had kept such great lines while the slick mud was sending me sideways.  Brother Rich showed up with file treads.  As the team president it was my duty to direct him to the Raleigh demo bikes which had tires which were more appropriate for the conditions.

Yeah, this was the course today..

The race featured Hot Pants and Seph from the west in Cat 3 35+  (Photos on Spotshot)

El Jefe's storming Omaha Beach !!

Cat 3 45+  saw Peter Parker,  El Tenté, Big John (on his classy new white carbon frame), Feral Dave and El Jefe.   The course had turned muddier, roots slippier, and the long sand section more Normandier.  

With 30 seconds until start, Feral Dave stopped doing his Achilles stretches, changed from his dolphin shorts to something with a chamois, giggled about how he was going to 'sprint that sand trap'  and mounted his Belgian steed. 

Early on - The legs are still clean..  

As the race started, I was moving backwards.  Then I was moving sideways.  Then I was being run into.  I was riding at 45 degrees  into other riders.  Bumper pool at its best.  

I settled in and found a group of 5 riders to do battle with.   

More "color" on my legs (and face)

Spiderman, Davo, and Feral Dave were not to be seen.  

The Zen-like focus that says, "Last Lap!"

I focused on the orange beacon which was Big John's helmet and tried to bridge.  When we did hook up on the penultimate lap I had disconnected my rear brake cable on a remount.  I figured this out as I tried to set up a turn that instead deposited me into a post.  I fixed the problem, but the damage had been done. Hot pants and his cronies caught up to me on the finishing straight and I figured I had received full value for my entry. 

Evo about to be ALL DONE !!

Note mud on bike, shoes, Evo as well as puddles in background.  It was wet !