It seems a bit early in the season to break out the Michelin Muds and the rubber boots, but today was a pretty perfect day for not much of anything other than a cyclocross race. So I started my second 'cross season off with a tradition I began last year--entering one race prior to the start of the Cross Crusade series.
I like to get a practice run under the belt before subjecting myself to the madness of the Crusades (680 racers at Barlow today vs. the nearly 2000 that will undoubtedly turn out at Alpenrose Dairy next Sunday. Still recovering from a cold I've been nursing ever since last week's 7-hour ride in the rain, I vowed not to over exert myself but to use this as a warmup/practice/trial run for the rest of the season. Well today's performance leaves nowhere to go but up!
Today was the most pathetic performance of my short 'cross career. One big fiasco--beginning with missing my start and rolling through one disaster after another. The start thing--I was lined up on time with all the other ladies, listening carefully to all instructions. But I couldn't quite hear which group was starting first and assumed it was the Master As since they always started first at the Crusades races last year. Well, apparently the Bs went first and they were 100 yards away by the time I realized my mistake.
I took this as a blessing in disguise since it forced me out of the race and I could just ride my bike at a comfortable pace and kinda get the hang of this 'cross thing again.
Did I mention that it was muddy? And not just in places, but the whole course. And racers had been churning it to bits for hours. It was a 1.6-mile loop of slippery, off-camber muckfest. A thick, gooey mud that clung to the rear triangle and the front fork/brake pad area to prevent the tires from rolling. On the back side was a treacherous downhill slip-n-slide leading up to a knee-high barrier and a steep, rooty, run-down followed by a horrendous run-up bolstered by railroad ties spaced way too far apart.
In case you're not familar, cyclocross was started a couple hundred years ago when some drunk Belgian decided he wanted to ride his skinny-tired road bike around some steep, muddy, off-camber, hairpin turns, occasionally getting off to carry the bike over several obstacles. For some reason, modern cyclists have continued the tradition, although installing narrow knobby tires for slightly better traction and wearing colorful spandex skinsuits to distinguish themselves for the spectators.
I flailed around the course like a beginner, unable to pull off a decent remount and stabbing repeatedly at my pedals before finally clipping in. My Michelin Muds served me well, as I could spin through sections that others had to walk or "run" (this amounted to sliding backward twice as far as you went forward, resulting in three times the effort to make progress--I experienced this myself numerous times until I quite trying to run and just walked).
I slipped and nearly fell on the first barrier; I learned my lesson and just walked all the rest. There was a side-sloping fenceline where spectators gathered to heckle and jeer. I had the most success riding high, right next to the fence, but always faltered at some point. I overheard one of the hecklers talking about someone who grabbed onto the fence and used it to stay steady and upright--I tried it and it worked!
Hecklers also shouted instructions, encouragement and insults from one of the offcamber hairpins--one that you approached in an out-of-control downhill direction then had to somehow shift your momentum uphill and around the corner without falling down or sliding into the row of spectators. On the third lap, I thought about dismounting and handing my bike to the loudest heckler and saying, "here, you do it."
But he probably already had.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Adventures in Hotel Huffys
Let's face it: as cyclists, we're constantly sizing up other cyclists (and their bikes) and categorizing them. There's the newbie commuter in street clothes on a big-box "mountain" bike, the wanna-be pro racer who rides to work in full team kit, the homeless guy towing all his belongings and a bag of cans in a homemade trailer, the social/fitness riders riding three up on mid-level road bikes, etc. Then there's the ultimate sizer-upper of all, the Bike Snob.
It's human nature to scope out other people and establish where you fit into the hierarchy. I graduated to clipless pedals quite some time ago, now ride a fairly nice bike, and even own a team kit (although I refrain from wearing it on simple errand-running missions), I think I fit into a category of relatively nondescript cyclists seen in cities across the nation.
Due to the nature of my job--I spend three nights every week in hotels (a different hotel each night) and traveling with a bike is not a viable option--when I get the opportunity to ride a bike provided by the hotel, I take it. A bike greatly expands the territory available to explore and gives me an outdoor exercise alternative to running.
Invariably, hotel owned bikes are heavy and of poor to mediocre quality, often having come from big-box retailers and even more often not receiving any regular maintenance. On a good day, the tires are hard and the chain is freshly coated in WD40. I seldom have room to pack a helmet and cycling clothes and so end up tootling out of the hotel parking lot in whatever workout clothes I ferreted out of my rollerbag--usually a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt or running top, a sports jacket if it's cool. And the hotel-issued helmet which almost never fits properly despite being of the "one-size-fits-all" variety. Dorked out to the max.
When I ride, I usually give a nod or a wave to fellow riders. But dressed as such, I try to remember that my exterior does not reveal my inner cyclist. I am not in the club. The kit-clad roadies have me squarely pegged in the "newbie commuter" hole and even though I could drop most of them on a good long climb, I'll get no respect with my current appearance. So I keep my head down and pedal on by.
I've even been known to take questionable hotel bikes on mildly inappropriate adventures. In Spokane I discovered a park with dirt trails just off the Centennial Trail. I quickly accepted that the rugged singletrack was beyond the performance of the machine I was riding, but that didn't stop me from riding to the top of a steep, rough, dirt road. The combination of suspect brakes and the too-wide seat that prevented me from shifting my weight back made the descent quite an adventure.
The rusty clunker from the Travelodge in Sidney, BC, carried me to the top of a small mountain where I locked it up to run on the summit trails. In Medford, I once took the three-speed city cruiser on a rolling, 14-mile round-trip journey to Jacksonville.
Moral of the story: all Huffy riders are not as they seem.
It's human nature to scope out other people and establish where you fit into the hierarchy. I graduated to clipless pedals quite some time ago, now ride a fairly nice bike, and even own a team kit (although I refrain from wearing it on simple errand-running missions), I think I fit into a category of relatively nondescript cyclists seen in cities across the nation.
Due to the nature of my job--I spend three nights every week in hotels (a different hotel each night) and traveling with a bike is not a viable option--when I get the opportunity to ride a bike provided by the hotel, I take it. A bike greatly expands the territory available to explore and gives me an outdoor exercise alternative to running.
Invariably, hotel owned bikes are heavy and of poor to mediocre quality, often having come from big-box retailers and even more often not receiving any regular maintenance. On a good day, the tires are hard and the chain is freshly coated in WD40. I seldom have room to pack a helmet and cycling clothes and so end up tootling out of the hotel parking lot in whatever workout clothes I ferreted out of my rollerbag--usually a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt or running top, a sports jacket if it's cool. And the hotel-issued helmet which almost never fits properly despite being of the "one-size-fits-all" variety. Dorked out to the max.
When I ride, I usually give a nod or a wave to fellow riders. But dressed as such, I try to remember that my exterior does not reveal my inner cyclist. I am not in the club. The kit-clad roadies have me squarely pegged in the "newbie commuter" hole and even though I could drop most of them on a good long climb, I'll get no respect with my current appearance. So I keep my head down and pedal on by.
I've even been known to take questionable hotel bikes on mildly inappropriate adventures. In Spokane I discovered a park with dirt trails just off the Centennial Trail. I quickly accepted that the rugged singletrack was beyond the performance of the machine I was riding, but that didn't stop me from riding to the top of a steep, rough, dirt road. The combination of suspect brakes and the too-wide seat that prevented me from shifting my weight back made the descent quite an adventure.
The rusty clunker from the Travelodge in Sidney, BC, carried me to the top of a small mountain where I locked it up to run on the summit trails. In Medford, I once took the three-speed city cruiser on a rolling, 14-mile round-trip journey to Jacksonville.
Moral of the story: all Huffy riders are not as they seem.
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