"Those tires suck.”
I’ve gotten used to the not-so subtle ribbing provided by my new single speed friends. After multiple digs at my wheels, though, I finally asked why.
Apparently, if I had a better tread pattern, I’d be more confident on the downhill.
Fine. Sixty dollars later, I became the proud owner of spanking new Panaracers with a cool red sidewall. At least they looked spiffy, but I wasn’t sold on whether their chunky lugs would magically improve my ability. It was also maybe not a good idea to switch tires two days before the next cross country race, but I need to find excitement where I can.
Speaking of thrills, waste some time on the internet googling up Sue Fish. She’s a legendary world champion motocross racer who is now bringing her point and shoot navigation talent to bear on the XC circuit. I’ve enjoyed getting to know her while the Sport women hang out at the starting line waiting for all the guys to leave.
We both started racing cross country about three years ago. She’s learning to embrace the suffering involved in pedaling uphill, and I’m trying to figure out how to speed up on the way down. She’ll pass me on the descent, I’ll regain my balance, look up, and she’s gone already, raptured into mountain bike heaven.
We chatted again yesterday at the Rim Nordic venue. Up near Big Bear, this course featured lots of loose decomposed granite, hard single track climbs, and pretty mountain vistas. As we nosed our bikes up to the line, I noticed that Sue was running the exact same Kendas that now reside in my trash bin.
“Do you like those tires, Sue?” Since all racers' wheels were in one neat row, I noticed that lots of the women had somewhat balder equipment than mine. I started to feel like I had worn combat boots to a formal dance.
“Yeah, yours are pretty beefy,” she nodded at mine.
Great. Go. We were off, and as is customary, I left her behind on the first hill. However, I had an eensy teensy steering problem on one of the log bridges. I thought that surely she’d catch me since I had used up a fair amount of time scrambling back up out of the creek, but there was no sign of her.
I finally finished the tortuous climbs and headed back down to the finish. It was my favorite kind of return ticket: long, swooping, and sustained. It takes me a while to turn off the methodical, conservative, what-the-heck-are-you-thinking switch in my largely neurotic brain.
A long descent provides the time to actually start enjoying the ride.
Beefy. My bovine companions served me well on the sandy turns and loose gravel. I kept expecting my back wheel to slide out, but it never did. Second lap, same as the first, and Sue never showed up to show me up.
As the finishers hung around waiting for the awards ceremony, Sue appeared in street clothes. She had crashed into a tree early in the race, separating her shoulder. Ouch.
My warmest wishes for a full recovery, and my unspoken glee that my luggy bear tires quite possibly kept me safe.
As for the awards, I did win my five-year age group, take second in the decade span, and third across all ages for Sport women. Even with the creek dive.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
2008 XC: #3 Hot Girls on Bikes
I left San Diego at dawn, hoping only to arrive in Santa Ynez in time to watch the pro cross country races.
This particular contest was part of the national series, with the best riders in America hoping acquire more of the points required to ensure a place on the Olympic team.
By 11 a.m., it was already blazing hot at the Chamberlain Ranch. The racers in the elite categories warmed up with ice bags shoved into the backs of their jerseys, and spectators jostled for the few shady spots under majestic oak trees.
Despite the heat, the pro women sprinted away from the start as if they didn't have an hour and a half of intense effort ahead of them."Where is Georgia Gould?" the announcer wondered some time later. She had been on track to extend her winning streak, leading all comers with only moments remaining in the final lap. Wild rumors circulated: she had heat exhaustion, passed out while riding, had a horrific crash and was life flighted out. (Close, just subtract the crash and helicopter.)
The same confusion surrounded last minute course changes for the start of the other race categories.
Due to the heat, laps were shortened or eliminated altogether. Instead of being two twelve-mile laps, I was required to repeat just the first hill, then complete one full lap. Before my start, I rode up to the intersection to make sure I would know where to turn. "Here?" I asked the marshal. "Yeah, just like the sign says."
Okay, then.
If I was the complaining kind, I'd write a letter asking why the Sport women are always started behind the Clydesdale category. I know those 200 pounders are strong, but this time their burst of speed wore off right about the time they reached the first, and steepest, climb. Then all of us women arrived, zipping along, only to find some very large men walking their bikes up the single track. Most of them tried to move aside, but even then, they were, uh, still in the way.
Mistake number one: running uphill, while pushing twenty-eight pound bicycle and skirting obstacles, when the thermometer is heading toward triple digits. After some fussing and grumbling, we all were remounted for the bumpy single track descent.
I never underestimate how fast some of the larger guys can plummet downhill, but in this instance I got caught behind a cautious one. Go. Faster. Please. I was watching his back, willing him to hurry up, watching the women in my category pull away, watching I don't know what, but I suddenly realized we were was heading around into the back hills of the course.
No. It can't be.
Mistake number two: I missed the turn. And, I'm stuck. Big man in front, big man in back, donkey trained on a narrow one lane shelf. Slope up to my left, hill down to the right, no way to turn around.
What now?I knew I had about ten miles of hard riding left. I also had a possible disqualification to look forward to, even if I could convince myself to do that hill at the end, while exhausted.
How could I have missed the turn?
A murder of crows roosted in my head. "You should be home doing laundry. Who do you think you are? All that preparation and you still can't follow directions?"
I wanted very much to simply ride back to my car and lay down in its sliver of shade.
And, did I mention this already? It was really rather warm out.
Five hills later, I pulled over and put my head down between my legs. I was hyperventilating, dizzy, overheated, miserable and dead last.
Somehow, though, upending my brain dislodged the internal heckling birds. They wheeled off into the shimmering air, and I got back on my bike.
I pedaled into the finish area and told the first timer, "I missed the turn; can I do that hill now?"
The volunteer waved me ahead to the next, slightly more official looking person. I was forced to repeat myself, "Can I do the first loop again? I only did it once."
I was referred to the race director. He consulted his clipboard and asked, "how could you possibly miss the turn?"
Listen, if I knew that, I wouldn't be embarrassing myself right about now.
"I was following a bunch of people."
"Well, how many other women missed the turn?" he shook his head, "Just finish here."
I thought the last of the crows had left, but apparently not. I ducked under the sideline tape and took off toward the hill anyway.
This time I was alone.
The spectators were at the beer tent and even the aid station had been abandoned. I dodged the Gatorade cups littering the ground and started climbing. Even if I wasn't disqualified, I knew I was already in last place. This was a solo pursuit of my own dignity.
With no sense of urgency, nor other racers to contend with, I enjoyed the sweeping views of the vineyard and the native poppies on the hillside. My front wheel startled sleeping monarch butterflies. A perpetual cloud of orange wings welcomed me back to California racing. I finished, again, and skidded to a stop in front of the director.
"Now I'm done."
I've never been happier to lose a race.
This particular contest was part of the national series, with the best riders in America hoping acquire more of the points required to ensure a place on the Olympic team.
By 11 a.m., it was already blazing hot at the Chamberlain Ranch. The racers in the elite categories warmed up with ice bags shoved into the backs of their jerseys, and spectators jostled for the few shady spots under majestic oak trees.
Despite the heat, the pro women sprinted away from the start as if they didn't have an hour and a half of intense effort ahead of them."Where is Georgia Gould?" the announcer wondered some time later. She had been on track to extend her winning streak, leading all comers with only moments remaining in the final lap. Wild rumors circulated: she had heat exhaustion, passed out while riding, had a horrific crash and was life flighted out. (Close, just subtract the crash and helicopter.)
The same confusion surrounded last minute course changes for the start of the other race categories.
Due to the heat, laps were shortened or eliminated altogether. Instead of being two twelve-mile laps, I was required to repeat just the first hill, then complete one full lap. Before my start, I rode up to the intersection to make sure I would know where to turn. "Here?" I asked the marshal. "Yeah, just like the sign says."
Okay, then.
If I was the complaining kind, I'd write a letter asking why the Sport women are always started behind the Clydesdale category. I know those 200 pounders are strong, but this time their burst of speed wore off right about the time they reached the first, and steepest, climb. Then all of us women arrived, zipping along, only to find some very large men walking their bikes up the single track. Most of them tried to move aside, but even then, they were, uh, still in the way.
Mistake number one: running uphill, while pushing twenty-eight pound bicycle and skirting obstacles, when the thermometer is heading toward triple digits. After some fussing and grumbling, we all were remounted for the bumpy single track descent.
I never underestimate how fast some of the larger guys can plummet downhill, but in this instance I got caught behind a cautious one. Go. Faster. Please. I was watching his back, willing him to hurry up, watching the women in my category pull away, watching I don't know what, but I suddenly realized we were was heading around into the back hills of the course.
No. It can't be.
Mistake number two: I missed the turn. And, I'm stuck. Big man in front, big man in back, donkey trained on a narrow one lane shelf. Slope up to my left, hill down to the right, no way to turn around.
What now?I knew I had about ten miles of hard riding left. I also had a possible disqualification to look forward to, even if I could convince myself to do that hill at the end, while exhausted.
How could I have missed the turn?
A murder of crows roosted in my head. "You should be home doing laundry. Who do you think you are? All that preparation and you still can't follow directions?"
I wanted very much to simply ride back to my car and lay down in its sliver of shade.
And, did I mention this already? It was really rather warm out.
Five hills later, I pulled over and put my head down between my legs. I was hyperventilating, dizzy, overheated, miserable and dead last.
Somehow, though, upending my brain dislodged the internal heckling birds. They wheeled off into the shimmering air, and I got back on my bike.
I pedaled into the finish area and told the first timer, "I missed the turn; can I do that hill now?"
The volunteer waved me ahead to the next, slightly more official looking person. I was forced to repeat myself, "Can I do the first loop again? I only did it once."
I was referred to the race director. He consulted his clipboard and asked, "how could you possibly miss the turn?"
Listen, if I knew that, I wouldn't be embarrassing myself right about now.
"I was following a bunch of people."
"Well, how many other women missed the turn?" he shook his head, "Just finish here."
I thought the last of the crows had left, but apparently not. I ducked under the sideline tape and took off toward the hill anyway.
This time I was alone.
The spectators were at the beer tent and even the aid station had been abandoned. I dodged the Gatorade cups littering the ground and started climbing. Even if I wasn't disqualified, I knew I was already in last place. This was a solo pursuit of my own dignity.
With no sense of urgency, nor other racers to contend with, I enjoyed the sweeping views of the vineyard and the native poppies on the hillside. My front wheel startled sleeping monarch butterflies. A perpetual cloud of orange wings welcomed me back to California racing. I finished, again, and skidded to a stop in front of the director.
"Now I'm done."
I've never been happier to lose a race.
Monday, June 09, 2008
2008 XC: #5 The Steer-A-Thon
OK, the count is off, I know.
It's five races into the So Cal cross country mountain bike series, and I'm finally posting...
I've done three races now, having missed the first two because I lived in Oregon until recently. My heat exhaustion last place finish in Santa Ynez, and my win in Big Bear will get their stories told in due time.
But first, Elings Park in Santa Barbara.
Urban hill with miles of single track wedged in between the tennis courts, soccer fields and glider port. Most of the trails loop back on themselves, endless elbowing s-turns. Up, down, around. We only got to climb fire road at the start of the first lap; the next two we went up the switchbacks. Yay.
One would think that three six-mile laps wouldn't be that difficult, but it was the hardest race I've ever done physically. Sprint up the hill, turn, turn, turn, turn, hold on for the chatter bump downhill, get passed by the juniors on the way down, pass the clydesdales on the way up, repeat, repeat.
I only laid my bike down twice, which was an improvement over the morning's preride. I offered to show a friend one of the downhill sections. A newly cut trail starts with an off camber hard right turn overhanging the paved road sixty feet below. Orange construction netting may, or may not, catch the rider who takes the corner too wide. Then a ledge blasting straight down; don't look left or you'll be off the side.
Whose idea was this?
I was nervous, excited, and every so slightly forgot to let the brakes off at the bottom, sank my front wheel into the gravel, and cartwheeled the bike and myself. I somehow rolled to my feet in time to see the look on the other rider's face. He'd stopped just short of running me over, and his display of amusement and horror deepened my embarrassment.
"That was spectacular."
Shut up, all right. I'm fine.
Why do I pay money and drive long distances for the privelege of seeing how much I can force myself to either suffer or be scared?
This race was a long grind, with few moments of pleasure, despite my vow to enjoy every race I'm in. I did have fun catching Sue Fish, legendary world champion motocross racer and downhill queen, on the climbs.
Why she wants to put herself through learning cross country at fifty plus, I haven't been brave enough to ask. Maybe it's because she has no agemates in Super D.
In any case, she'd literally fly past me going down, and I'd work hard to pass her going uphill, only to hear her behind me time after time on the descent. Once I was trying to stay ahead of her, and she got to watch me slide out on a turn. Why is there always an audience for my navigational misdeeds?
I made up for it by beating her in a sprint finish to the line. Which only speaks to my relative youth, but it was fun to hear the crowd cheer.
I came in third, a very decent result for a course that favors short girls on teeny full suspension bikes.
It's five races into the So Cal cross country mountain bike series, and I'm finally posting...
I've done three races now, having missed the first two because I lived in Oregon until recently. My heat exhaustion last place finish in Santa Ynez, and my win in Big Bear will get their stories told in due time.
But first, Elings Park in Santa Barbara.
Urban hill with miles of single track wedged in between the tennis courts, soccer fields and glider port. Most of the trails loop back on themselves, endless elbowing s-turns. Up, down, around. We only got to climb fire road at the start of the first lap; the next two we went up the switchbacks. Yay.
One would think that three six-mile laps wouldn't be that difficult, but it was the hardest race I've ever done physically. Sprint up the hill, turn, turn, turn, turn, hold on for the chatter bump downhill, get passed by the juniors on the way down, pass the clydesdales on the way up, repeat, repeat.
I only laid my bike down twice, which was an improvement over the morning's preride. I offered to show a friend one of the downhill sections. A newly cut trail starts with an off camber hard right turn overhanging the paved road sixty feet below. Orange construction netting may, or may not, catch the rider who takes the corner too wide. Then a ledge blasting straight down; don't look left or you'll be off the side.
Whose idea was this?
I was nervous, excited, and every so slightly forgot to let the brakes off at the bottom, sank my front wheel into the gravel, and cartwheeled the bike and myself. I somehow rolled to my feet in time to see the look on the other rider's face. He'd stopped just short of running me over, and his display of amusement and horror deepened my embarrassment.
"That was spectacular."
Shut up, all right. I'm fine.
Why do I pay money and drive long distances for the privelege of seeing how much I can force myself to either suffer or be scared?
This race was a long grind, with few moments of pleasure, despite my vow to enjoy every race I'm in. I did have fun catching Sue Fish, legendary world champion motocross racer and downhill queen, on the climbs.
Why she wants to put herself through learning cross country at fifty plus, I haven't been brave enough to ask. Maybe it's because she has no agemates in Super D.
In any case, she'd literally fly past me going down, and I'd work hard to pass her going uphill, only to hear her behind me time after time on the descent. Once I was trying to stay ahead of her, and she got to watch me slide out on a turn. Why is there always an audience for my navigational misdeeds?
I made up for it by beating her in a sprint finish to the line. Which only speaks to my relative youth, but it was fun to hear the crowd cheer.
I came in third, a very decent result for a course that favors short girls on teeny full suspension bikes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
