fast brad

The Morning After

I woke up this morning stiff and sore, knowing yesterday wasn’t over yet. Yesterday was still packed up in my truck. Getting home at 7 last night, I had just enough time to shower, eat and take care of the bikes before I went to bed. It had rained for three days leading up to Granogue, yesterday was a long, wet, cold, muddy day.

Breakfast first. Four eggs, scrambled with cheese, a banana and a granola bar. I know—granola?! It was either that or cookies, and I’m trying to make better decisions. As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned that all that stuff that never mattered, matters now. So, breakfast is followed by stretching… and then it’s out to the truck.

Cycling bag, spare wheels, tools, water bottles and a twenty pound garbage bag full of dirty cycling kit. I start on the clothing first since it’s the only thing with the potential to be ruined by putting off. Our South Mountain Cycles team kit is bright orange and blue, and the bight orange is, well, bright. It doesn’t mix well with mud and I’ve discoverd that it won’t stain, if you wash it right. That entails rinsing all the mud out by hand until the water runs mostly clear, then laying it out flat in the tub and gently scrubbing with a soft bristled brush. Fun, huh? I’ve got to talk to them about a cross kit: brown and blue.

I doubled up again, and that means two sets of dirty kit, or about 30 minutes of clean-up. They had shoulder numbers yesterday, so six numbers to un-pin. Yahoo, that takes about five minutes alone. I hate dealing with pinned on numbers for road, track and cross, they’re just such a pain in the ass. I have to look into that 3M spray glue product I’ve heard about…

Once the clothing is done, the rest is pretty easy. Take the race day supplies out of the cycling bag, wash out the bottles, tools and wheels go in the shop and a quick look over the bikes to make sure I didn’t miss anything last night. Everything looks good, except the brake pads which are gone—I’ll need to replace them before the weekend. The pit bike was fine because I didn’t even need to use it.

Two Muddy Races

Driving down to the race, I was figuring on getting there 2 hours before my race. I was only semi-motivated since I’ve felt like I was getting sick all week. And with three days of rain I’ve been off the bike since Wednesday. I didn’t even bother to bring my trainer, I just wanted to race and come home, keep it simple.

It occurred to me that they would have call-ups based on series points, then order of registration. Damn, I don’t have any points and I waited until the last day to register, which means I’ll start at the back. That won’t be an issue in the UCI Elite race for two reasons, there are only thirty five guys registered and I don’t really expect or hope to do more than hang on and finish. In the Elite Masters, though, I’m screwed. With a good ride I might actually be able to make the top ten, but there are ninety guys registered. I’ll have to get by eighty guys to get into the top ten. Crap.

When I arrive it’s still raining lightly, and it looks like the Master Me 35+ are finishing up. The course is a slimy brown stripe in the grass and guys are running, sliding and falling. I find the registration tent and inside the mud is two inches deep. Well, it looks like cross season is really here now.

I get changed and put a rain jacket on and head out on the road for twenty minutes or so. With a good coat of embrocation on my legs I’m pretty comfortable. They were calling for temps in the mid thirties, but it’s in the mid forties which is totally bearable. I get back to the truck, strip off the jacket and heavy gloves and head to starting grid, conveniently enough just yards from my truck. Call-ups are going pretty much as expected. Then I get the thought, “what if they suddenly say, ‘and everyone else’?”, so I move up a little—just before they do.

Good. So, I’m not in the last row, but just ahead of it… every inch counts though. I make a point to register for Mercer Cup when I get home. When the gun goes off we have about 200 meters of pavement before we hit the grass, err, mud. I make my way through a lot of guys, but can’t tell how far up until the course turns a bit… Maybe I’m up to thirty five?

The course isn’t too bad. Really muddy, but most of the guys are sticking to “the line” which is usually the worst place to ride when it gets muddy. I ride the opposite side from the line and try to cross it in the turns, this gets me by a couple of guys either going in or coming out. At one point way too many guys fight for the messy rutted line and maybe ten of them get tangled up and stop, bonus for me.

It goes like that pretty much the whole first lap and I think I’m inside the top twenty, but it’s hard to tell now. The whole race is broken up already, so I just ride as clean as I can chasing who ever is in front of me. The bike works flawlessly, it has tons of clearance and the mixture of grass and mud has virtually no effect on it. A lot of guys get things jammed up and have to pit and there are more than a couple broken derailleurs.

The running is killing me, but I do it any time the mud is too gummy to ride through quickly. It seems like a lot of running, but in reality it’s just a twenty five meter run up and a shorter, steeper run up, plus a couple short odd spots. There are people cheering for me here and there, as well as the folks trying to goad you into the bad line on the descents. By three laps in I’m pretty much where I’m going to finish, I just need to keep it together.

I finish up just two places behind Joe P, he confirms we’re around the top twenty. I would have liked to be a bit higher, but okay, I’m happy with that. Now I’m thinking clean-up and go home—and bail on the Elite race. The reason I’ve been doubling up is to get more practice on my starts and get more time racing. There is no substitute for the intensity of racing, well there is, but I’d rather just race. Anyway, with the course this muddy I won’t really be riding at that intensity, the challenge becomes not quitting. It’s a different type of training.

It takes about forty five minutes to wash off the bike, clean up, get dry and warm. Still mulling over racing the Elite, I walk up to check on the results but they’re not posted yet. It seems like they’re having difficulty sorting out the muddy numbers. Sooo… since I’ll have to wait for results and I paid my entry, I might as well kit up.

I have nothing to lose, even though it won’t be the training I was hoping for, but I figure I’ll get lapped and pulled a little more than halfway through. When I report to the staging grid I just head to the back, with no points, no ranking and no hope, there will be no call up. There are only about 40 guys in this race so navigating the start will be easier than the last race, although faster. I shift to the big ring and a gear I can spin up quickly, then wait for the gun.

When the gun goes all hell breaks loose. I quickly run down the cogs just hanging on, but click one more gear and pull into the group, passing a few guys just before we hit the mud. A quick glance to be sure I’m not last and I pick my line to set up for the first series of turns. Having already run a full race, at least I feel dialed in on the course. Gaps open up, but on the next downhill section I close them up. Then we hit the steep run up and I’ve got nothin’. My legs are exhausted, and as long as I’m pedaling I can kind of fake it. But the running, is so, slow.

I’m finally completely dropped, a couple of guys go by so I must be close to last. I buckle down, pick my lines, ride the mud as clean as I can keeping a steady tempo. There are a couple spots on the course I can really roll it out and I try to hold the momentum for as long as I can. Then on the long run up guys start shouting at me, what the hell are they saying? It finally connects they’re yelling “BIG MONEY!” and when I look over, they’re pointing at a dollar bill, pressed into the mud. I alter course and snatch it up.

I say “thanks” and “keep it coming” as I stuff it in my jersey—I feel so cheap and used. Somewhere after lap three Ryan Trebon laps me, so I’m counting on getting pulled. When I come through the start/finish I look for the officials, but don’t see them… WTF? I ride through looking back and I spot them, in the trailer, sheltered from the rain. Dammit. I don’t want a DNF, so I continue. Wicks, Frattini and someone else go by, I’m getting pulled for sure this time. Four more go buy, this should cement it. But, when I roll through again, nothing, they’re still in the trailer. Ok, another lap, whoops, there’s the bell—last lap? I hadn’t counted on it, but I got the whole hour in, albeit down one lap.

There is no line at the bike wash so clean up goes quicker this time. I get the pit bike, and despite my wrecked legs, jog back to the truck just to try and keep warm. Bikes and shoes go in the back, dirty kit and towels in a plastic bag, put warm clothes on and it’s time to eat. First a recovery drink, then a delicious donut from the Emmaus Bakery and a banana. And a Gatorade. Then it’s off to check on the results. Masters are finally posted: 18th, not too bad.

I check the other side of the board for the Elite results and they’re already up. I start at the bottom and work my way up—what? I finally see my name, 23rd? Can’t be right. I go into the tent to explain that I think there has been an error. They’re assuming I think I should be higher, but I explain that I’m pretty sure I was about last—that I was lapped by at least eight guys. They confer and indicate they have me at one lap down, lapped by eight guys. Hmmm, okaaay… and “Oh, how long will you be here? We have your prize money, but the protest period isn’t up.” Some discussion and we decide they can get it to my friend racing Sunday.

Wow. That was a surprise. I actually ended up doing ok. Thinking about it, it’s a high point for the season. A good day all around, the mud has always been good to me. Some other good things on Saturday: Laura Van Guilder gets second (and stitches, not good), caught up with old friend Racer Bert, met Gabe Llyod, Gui Nelesson and Fat Marc.