Paris to Ancaster
I missed out on this race last year. I didn't think I was ready and then my legs lifted into happiness that same weekend at Spring Training Series 4, so I knew that I had to go this year and just take what comes. Andy, Rich, Rodger, and Brian made it sound so brutally fun. But then came this little incident with the heart last fall and I wondered whether that would be one more factor keeping me away for another year. Add to that the difficulties of getting out enough in March to tune the muscles and the doubts grew more pronounced. STS 3 this year was no reassurance. With snow, rain, and most of all a pummeling north wind a week before Paris Ancaster, I was left circling the course alone for a number of laps thinking that bike racing just wasn't my thing. But through the week the weather warmed and my legs showed signs of awakening, finally, from the long winter. I knew that I wasn't quite race ready, but there were hints that I was on the path, even if that path had a bunch of wheels ahead that I could just barely hold on to. Most of all, I got psyched up about going to Canada with these guys and taking on a new race that had traces of Ore-to-Shore, Iceman, cyclocross, and pace lines.
The day before the race I overhauled my CX bike and totally screwed up the gearing that had been working great up to that point. I know there are basic laws of stupidity that shouldn't be challenged, but if I can provoke them, I will. My chain was dropping five cogs whenever I upshifted. It was quite a leap for the legs to adjust to, spinning like a gerbil one second, then slogging like you're in deep sand the next, and I was sure that single speed Rich would have a comment or two about the inherent evils of cassettes and dérailleurs when he saw me in action cussing away. If it weren't for Randy and Rodger, that's how I would have taken on PA, but a half hour before the race was under way they adjusted one thing and yanked another and the shifting problem became a non-problem. It's not that I'm mechanically challenged, I just put up with more personal ineptitude than others might. And I have had moments when I've trusted other people to work on my bikes only to watch things like trued wheels morph into twisted lumps of uselessness, like making a pretzel from a baguette--after it's been baked. And keep in mind, I was trusting the Hermannator only moments before I had to ride over a leg-crushing washboard of a race for 60k. That's an act of faith I don't want to pursue too often.
If you've never been in a race where hundreds of riders take off at once from a small chute, then you don't know the joys of listening to others use really colorful language and wheels criss-crossing in front of yours by riders who amazingly forget that they are not alone. It's not that there are that many crashes right off, but the miracle that there aren't more. Less than a mile up we swung right onto gravel and that's where the fun began. The dust rose and filled the lungs as we all sucked for every last ounce of oxygen with the pace flying along like bees swarming for someone who just hit the hive with a hammer.
A tire exploded right beside me and shortly after another rider was down alone in the middle of the gravel looking stunned as we all veered around him. Two casualties and we were barely a mile from the start. From there it was pedaling as fast as we could to hold the wheel ahead on a two track gravel rail trail with bikes bouncing all over the place and people yelling at others to hold their line. Nerves were a bit taut.
This is often the hardest part of a race for me (though in this race, calling something the hardest was futile). Even after all the coffee and the warm-up I didn't have something quite flowing yet (though the oatmeal from breakfast was standing strong--more on that later) and all I felt was my lungs trying to find pedal turning oxygen and it just wasn't there yet. Every year I tell myself that I need to work on that, but I just tend to be a slow starter. It was mercifully flat for a while anyway, but that just kept the pace high and everyone together. After a few miles, a few turns and a few different surfaces, the road pitched up and the pack fell apart. I'm sure that it was absolutely beautiful countryside, and I know the weather was perfect in the upper 60s and sunny, but all I could attend to was the gravel, trail, mud, and bumps that changed as often as my daughter's outfits in a day.
I wondered where my teammates were, though I knew most were ahead, since they can handle the fast early pace better than I can. Someday it would be nice to be up there with them, so I could tell their story along with my own, but I'll have to wait until they get older and slow down a bit. I'll just wait. There had also been a big crash near the front along the rail trail that slowed the rest of us all the more. And for some reason the pack slowed a couple of times because the trail was slightly wet. Compared to what was ahead, that dampness was not a hindrance. Why were they slowing?!
Often in these races everything becomes a blur to me. It's just all one series of obstacles to contend with and after it's all over I have a hard time sorting out which followed what. There were a lot of rapid changes of terrain early on and my legs just weren't into much of it for the first hour. They were screaming and I was worried that they'd blow and the rest of the race would be miserable. I was looking for my rhythm and it just wasn't there. I do remember there were open stretches of paved road, wind, a lot of gravel, and quick switches to single track. I got into a good pack on the roads, anywhere from 15 to 30 of us, with a very amenable tandem that was more than willing to pull long stretches, especially down hills. It was hauling and just holding on was a lung buster, but it was better than being out in that wind alone. There was a lot of wind.
On one stretch after the half way point I was climbing a dirt track hill. My body was droning along in agony and my breathing was coming in loud labored wheezes and nearing the top, there was Randy, front wheel off, spare tube in hand. The guy ahead asked if all was okay and Randy said he was doing fine. I, as his teammate, was glad to hear this because I couldn't say a word I was breathing so hard. I think I made a gutteral sound as I passed. I learned later that Randy had decided to run headlong into a rock twice his size. I tend to go around massive boulders. We all have our race techniques.
Oddly, once over that hill my whole being realigned, like someone reshuffling a deck of cards and getting them all tucked in tight. I felt great from there on. Or, if great isn't the best word, I felt a reserve of strength that lifted the race on to another level. I love that feeling.
Then came the mud. The veterans talk about the mud in this race a lot. And it was a challenge. But after riding through a couple of stretches along some single track I was wondering if last year was just a particularly muddy mess of if they were just mud weenies, scared of a little sloppiness. It wasn't that bad. It went on for a hundred yards or so and it was rutted and bumpy, but other than that, ridable. Weenies!
Somehow, the pack I was in reassembled after nearly every dirt section in some form or another. It really was a great relief knowing that you could tuck in out of the wind. There was a point where we had some fine rolling pacelines going, but as the race developed, fatigue seemed to settle into the pack and, as often happens, a few of us did the pulling for the rest. Grrrrrrr. The pulls were short, however, with someone willing to come to the front for relief.
There were fun moments when we'd turn on to rail trails. The pack would slow, go five abreast and then have to pinch down to a single file in order to fit through the gate, then do the same on exiting. The pack was surprisingly good at calling these out and from what I could tell there were no incidents in our group...
...until...
we came to one pinch down between two massive rocks. Nobody called it out. In an instant we were five wide, then slamming on the brakes and funneling down to one. Directly behind me, I heard someone yell, "what the...?" Then a crunch. Then the shouts and accusations and some really nasty language. I slipped through the opening and pedaled hard, but the argument continued behind. I called back, " none of us knew that was coming," and the two seemed to settle down from what I could tell. Or maybe they took their argument off to the side of the trail. I didn't want to know. The race was enough to concentrate on.
I remember a couple of sections that were like cyclocross courses, yellow tape and all grassy fields, but the last one led to a single track that kept us in a row. Then, if I have the order of punishment right, the promised mudslide kissed my front wheel and in it were all kinds of riders, some off their bikes and running, some lying in the mud, some calling for clearance because they were riding through it and over downed riders if necessary. I'd never seen anything like it. A steep downhill filled with mud, farther than the eye could see, carved deep into a crevice with steep side embankments. There was no alternative. You had to do the mud.
And in the mud were scattered rocks bigger than basketballs, logs, roots at odd angles, and riders in your way. The wheel sank down about six inches as soon as I hit it and never rose any higher all the way down. It was about a five minute descent. Down, down, down, all concentration, the wheel getting thrown all over the place, people yelling to move over. I kept one leg unclipped as I bore down the slide, hoping at least for survival and an intact bike and body at the bottom. It went on and on. Then it flattened out and the mud was over. Such a relief!
Twenty feet later it started all over again. Same exact thing. Same exact length, like we were caught in a repeating tape loop. More yelling, more riders falling, wheels in your way, your wheel in someone else's way. Rocks, mud, roots, logs and finally out and wary for the next mile or so. I learned later that this is where Andy decided to explore a new riding technique and to tweak the position of his saddle at the same time. I usually work on my bike before a race, but there are those who make the adjustments mid-pedal on muddy downhill sections. Like Andy. He maneuvered his bike so it would kick up and slam into his butt and throw the saddle off its rails, then he used his rear tire as a saddle substitution. Sure, he crashed, but the saddle was now in the new position. Brilliant, I must say.
I think it was at the bottom of the second mud slide that I saw Brian R. standing and looking as calm as could be. I know it was at the bottom of some mud section anyway because I remember just coming out of a sideways slide, correcting and popping out onto a paved road, then getting sprayed by all the mud coming off of riders' bikes ahead. But there was Brian standing next to a cop pointing for us to go right. "Everything okay," I asked. "Going great!" he said. He looked just as pleased as could be. Maybe he just learned he'd won the lotto or something. Got the call mid-race and decided to celebrate by refusing to go through any more pain. But Brian always has that "going great" look. That casual, hearty Harrison Ford expression. That Brian, he's just so Harrison.
Shortly after that there was a long downhill gravel section (maybe there were some uphills in between, I was pretty zoned at this point and just ticking over the pedals) that had me and another survivor of the mud flying down. I saw a trestle ahead that we had to pass under. There was something orange on the right side just around the other side of the trestle, but it was just a speck at this point. We were making up time, trying to catch the riders who'd blown through the mud and were gone. I was flat out. At various points along the route, whenever there have been hairy turns, there was always someone to point them out well in advance with flags waving and a lot of yelling. I had grown to trust that. As I got to the trestle, I saw that the orange speck was a kid about ten years old and he was sitting there alone, all complacence. Then I saw that on the other side of the trestle was a 90 degree turn. Did I mention that it was all gravel? The guy ahead had pulled up, but I was still hauling flat out. I locked both brakes and laid down a life-escaping-before-my-eyes skid. I hope I peppered the kid with rocks. I just caught the far side of the turn, bounced over some ruts, narrowly missed some trees by inches, and managed to accelerate up the short rise on the other side. I was still on the road. After the race, the guy I was with on that turn told me how cool it was to watch me nearly end my life in a hail of gravel. He said the noise alone was worth the experience.
All I remember after that was pumping my legs over a road, then onto a trail section where people were hollering that we were doing good and it was almost over. I wasn't trusting anyone at this point. What did "almost over" mean to them? Who were these people? My body was back in pain. I think it was in this section that I came to a small hill that became a near wall. It was extremely short, but my legs couldn't turn the cranks once I hit it. Two guys behind began to shout at me to get out of the way. I brought the first one off his bike and running just like I was, but the second pedaled over. I sheepishly apologized, ran up the hill and hopped on the rider's back wheel and pedaled like crazy.
Then we came out of the single track onto a gravel road through the trees and hit some hills. Real hills. There were two hills not too long, but painful enough after all we'd been through. I was chugging over them without a lot of enthusiasm. Like an annoying pop tune passing through my mind were the voices of those people saying "almost over," and my desire to share with them my personal thoughts about almost over. On the second hill I kept a steady pace. Nothing with much gusto. One of the guys I'd ridden with for the last hour or so went flying by me like an SST with a caffeine buzz. I could only stare in admiration. (I was really pissed, but I'm trying to be magnanimous to my competition).
I rolled down the other side, came to the bottom and found a curve that began to rise. Rounding the curve I saw it continue to rise and twist and bend and it was covered with riders who had passed me at one time or another, or riders who I hadn't caught yet strewn all over the place. Very few were still on their bikes. To say the word steep is like saying water is wet. It was painfully obvious and it was painful from that moment on. My bike came to a near halt. I thought of the hill, I think called Mount Baldy in the Tour de Georgia, where riders are standing on their pedals and going nowhere. Only this was dirt. People lined the sides rooting us on. My face was contorted and full of spit, but it didn't make any difference because it hurt too much to care. Worse, I wondered if after this hill there would be another, because I doubted I would have anything left once I was over the top.
I stayed in my saddle and cranked with any last ounce of energy I had. I'd already done a lot of the pulling on the previous hills with the packs I rode with, so my legs were now numb with pain. After every turn there was another turn. It didn't seem to end and people were shouting at us. I passed the guy who'd blown by me on the previous hill. He was now walking, not even pretending to care about the race anymore. He was just blown.
Then, the grade lessened, my legs pumped harder, I went over the crown and there was Rich sitting against a telephone pole looking all relaxed and casual. I'm usually happy to see Rich, but I've never been happier than that moment. "Way to go, Rob," he yelled. I pedaled harder. I just wanted this thing to end. There was the Finish right ahead of me. I rolled through absolutely wasted, but so glad there were no more hills.
They snipped off my timing chip, I pulled around the fencing and over by the Gatorade containers were Rodger and Andy. They looked like a mess, all mud. They both said they hoped they didn't look as bad as I did. Nice to have teammates to keep you in the moment. Sure, I was still sucking for air and not feeling particularly coherent, but I was thrilled to finish.
We then waited for Randy. I told everyone about my sighting of Brian, which probably meant he was out of the race. A short while later, Randy showed up. He'd had some trouble changing that tire, which was a major setback. T-Bone had passed him, he said. He hasn't come in yet, we said. Real head scratcher. We waited. We stretched on the lawn. We got more water. Still no T-Bone. We went and got our complimentary submarine sandwiches. Brian showed up with the Suburban. He'd hitched a ride back to the start and got the car. We wouldn't have to ride our bikes the thirty miles back to the cars. Brian became a very popular guy. We ate our sandwiches wondering how we were going to break it to T-Bone's family that he was lost in Canada. Randy went and talked to the ambulance driver. Always looking on the bright side.
And suddenly, there was T-Bone, crossing the Finish line. He'd flatted and had a bad pump and waited for Randy, who apparently passed him, but did so stealthily and they never saw each other. And we all know how diminutive and stealthy Randy is. Or, the other scenario has Randy taking an "alternate" route (cheating), but since this scenario was presented by Randy, we doubt the validity.
So, we were a team again. We had the preliminary results pretty quickly in terms of our overall rankings, but it took another day to find out how we did in our individual categories. Anyway, here's how it shook out.
Andy: 15th overall
Rich: 18th overall, FIRST Single Speed
Rodger: 32nd overall
Rob: 48th overall, third in the 50-59 age group
Randy, T-Bone and Brian: plagued with mechanicals, with all in good spirits and talking about doing the race next year.
The real gory details are at: http://www.parisancaster.com/Results/P2A2008/Par2Anc60K.htm. I was beaten in my age group by a guy named Hamish and one named Ihor. What can you do? They're probably more than human. Androids perhaps.
I have to say that Rich's placing in the upper ranks on a leg whipping singlespeed is phenomenal. Word was that he was doing a lot of the pulls in the wind for the front group. And we're just proclaiming at this point that Andy is first American. We're not absolutely sure, but until told otherwise, that's the story.
After I returned to Ann Arbor, I weighed myself and I was down to 138 pounds. I haven't been 138 pounds since I was born (or at least since high school). That race definitely shaved something off my bones. It certainly worked off the $8.50 cup of instant oatmeal I purchased at the Sheraton that morning. I need two things in the morning: oatmeal and coffee. There's coffee every half block in Canada at Tim Horton's. It's not close to the flavor of David Myer's Mighty Good, but it does have caffeine. But Tim Horton's doesn't sell oatmeal. Without the inside scoop on the best oatmeal joint in Hamilton, my option was the Sheraton. They threw in dried apricots and sugar packets. My guess is that Hamish and Ihor missed out on this deal. They probably would have taken top prizes in all categories if they were in on it. Don't tell them. I need all the advantages I can get.
Next year, if you like brutality early in the season, do Paris Ancaster. Fun with a little pain thrown in.
