Cyclocross Channel - YouTube | (and Versus!?)

European CX on EweToob
There are some excellent, recent, European CX videos posted on the Cyclocross Channel. The most you're going to see is the last lap or two, but with recent mudbath weather in Belgium it's worth the 8 to 15 minutes of watching the best in the world slipping and sliding.

Nys & Albert, Jaarmarktcross
(photo courtesy Sporza)

With Sven Nys now coming into form, the younger Neils Albert fighting to understand how this older Nys guy keeps fighting back year after year, Zdenek Stybar's domination of the early rounds now curtailed by a back problem, the ever-present Vantornout/Vanthourenout confusion of bodies, the steady drumbeat of Kevin Pauwels, and Bart Wellens always clawing his way into contention just when you think he's had enough--it's quite the drama.

Nys, Jaarmarktcross
(photo courtesy Sporza)

And we can never forget the Americans: Jonathan Page mixing it up with the best and often slotting into the top twenty or better, and occasional incursions by Jeremy Powers and Tim Johnson (see Aigle).

Pauwels, Jaarmarktcross
(photo courtesy Sporza)

The women's races are just as energized with the steady tussling among the top riders. Katie Compton, when the muscles are working and the injuries are at bay, is a domineering powerhouse, as are Daphny Van Den Brand, Katerina Nash, Hanka Kupfernagle, and--one of my favorites--Helen Wyman, to name a few. Videos of the women's races are harder to come by, unfortunately, but that's certainly not due to their lack of excitement. These are races well worth showing to those of us who look for great racing and a strong fighting spirit.

Nys (hauling through the mud), Jaarmarktcross
(photo courtesy Sporza)

The production value of these Sporza broadcasts is excellent and one of these days it would be nice to get the whole race from beginning to end without a lot of hassle. It's the drama of seeing every lap unfold, the attacks and the tactics, the effects of weather on the course and on the racers (and the joy of deteriorating conditions--my own evil thrill), that makes these races so entertaining and engaging.

Until then:
Cyclocross Channel on YouTube

Albert, Jaarmarktcross
(photo courtesy Sporza)

For some recent mucky fun:
Superprestige Hamme-Zogge
SuperTrophy Ronse
Don't miss the tumble by Neils Albert after the 11:00 minute mark and enjoy the steady thrum-thrum-thrum of Nys's amazing form, pedal stroke after pedal stroke.
Jaarmarktcross Niel
The ultimate mudbath.

Flemish Language Quiz (as heard through English language ears)
Define:
Clambake (or Clambitch) _________________
Montreal Post ___________________

One of these days, we may get race coverage and production quality in the States and Canada that matches that of European coverage. The CX racers here deserve that high quality. Until then, these videos show how well it can be done.

And, finally, go here: Cyclocross on Versus, find the ballot for supporting CX on Versus, and VOTE! We might just get our wish.

Kensington Road Race '09

I don't think Scott Gifford has directed enough bike races. I stood at the top of the Maple Beach hill talking to Alex Keomany and Libby and Jacq Roberge, as Scott walked up all casual and relaxed. Maybe he'd just eaten too many of the overripe bananas lying around the registration area. Something was making him look liked he'd just drifted out of a pranayama meditation retreat. He was mellow. Maybe he hasn't had enough experience to realize just how hard race directing is. Let's hope he does a few more. He'll catch on.

I'm not a good spectator. I felt more keyed up than Scott as I stood there watching racers pedal wearily up and over the hill. Sure, there are social aspects of spectating that are nice, but given a choice I'd much rather be out there crackling a calf muscle or two. I get fidgety standing by the side of the road.

I've ridden Kensington a number of times. I'd like to say it suits me because I like hills, but there's this long stretch out to Martindale Beach that favors power riders, so the hills become more or less neutralized. But hey, it's southeast Michigan. This is about as good as it gets.

The Cat 1/2's had a fascinating moment as they reached Martindale Beach on their first lap. Someone forgot to lift the gate that leads into the turnaround. It brought them all to a standstill for a few minutes until that was sorted out. As a cyclocrosser, I happen to like obstacles, but many road racers expect the road to just lay out before them like a crossword puzzle with answers that are far too easy. They're a pampered lot. It must have something to do with sitting in someone else's draft too often.

If you ever want some peace and quiet during the race, go to the registration area once the racing is all underway. It was silent except for a couple of Wizard of Oz types behind some tent flaps at Command Central documenting the results as they were flown in by pigeon from the finish line. Things pick up again as the curious gather to see how everyone did.

But the most somber area of all was down at Maple Beach. It looked like a wake as a high school crew meet was scuttled by the cool, windy, rainy weather. Boy were they a downcast looking lot. Maybe they need to consider a new sport. Bike racing, perhaps? Better than sitting all morning with your butt on an overturned shell.

Contrast all that to the finish line. That's where Joe Lekovish was, microphone in hand. Joe doesn't allow for quiet. He keeps his eye out for safe passage and patters on to the racers about their lap count. He didn't act like he'd eaten too many bananas. No meditation retreat for him. But he's directed countless bike races. He knows how hard it is. Getting wound up is not a once in a while thing during a bike race. It is the bike race. "C'mon guys, harder, harder. One more lap! Pedal Harder! One more lap." If it were up to Joe, there's always one more lap.

More doctored up photos of the race can be found at: picasaweb.google.com/Pulcipher/KensingtonRoadRace09#

Cone Azalia '09

I had one of my easier years at Cone. Not sure what made it any better, but I felt real good, my seat was comfortable, and I didn't have any flats.

I did have to learn a few things that were different from last year. The two-way radio for instance. I was handed one like I knew what to do with it. It had buttons all over the place. Ben Caldwell and I worked it out to a degree, but there were still two small buttons that remained a mystery to me the whole day. I also had a choice of band 1 or band 2. I chose 1, though a whole world might have been chatting away on band 2. Who knows. I do know that sometimes people would hear my reports and sometimes not.

At the beginning someone was talking to Robert. My name is Robert. "Everything okay, Robert." "Yup," I said, "okay." "We're going to send a couple of contacts through, Robert, are you ready?" I was sitting out on the road in my chair. I had no clue what they were talking about. "Could you repeat that?" They did. "I don't know what that means," I said, feeling foolish, like I should know these things. Long pause. "Robert Linden, do you hear me?" Oh. My first name is Robert, but my last name is not Linden. I cleared that up and settled back into my chair. I still don't know who that person was who was talking.

Oh! I think I know why it was better for me this year. I got to sit by the side of the road as a course marshal, rather than pedal through gravel and grit for a couple of hours. I'll bet that's it.

I'd call down to someone--Paul Alman I think because he answered now and then--and let them know who was passing by a kilometer before the finish. It's quite a nice job. It had long moments of quiet when I could look out over the fields on each side of me and enjoy the serene beauty of the place. The blue sky was fantastic. And I didn't have to pay for anything.

A woman, whose name I never found out, was half way between myself and the finish line doing the same thing I was, because I'd call out things like "Cat. 6 just passed, Cat. 6 whole pack." I'd invent new categories and less than a minute later she'd uninvent them. But hey, the Cat. 4 were the 500 numbers and the Cat. 5 were the 600s. Easy screw up, especially with a brain like mine.

In those quiet moments, I sat there in my folding chair and thought about the breeze, which was easy to do and something hard to screw up. I knew that when the racers started, around 10AM or so, the breeze was light and coming from the south. By 11:20 it was light and coming from the southwest. By noon it was picking up a bit and it had shifted to the west. By 12:02 the wind quieted considerably. By 12:04 it stiffened up again. I know because I was standing up and my chair fell over. By 12:15 it was calm again. It was all very soothing. I'm not sure if the racers could say the same.

I also had time to take photos. I'd taken a bunch in an experiment before the race as the riders warmed up. I squatted in a ditch and shot tons of shots. I did so without automatic focus. Good idea in theory, but many of my photos were fuzzy. Sorry. Some of those that did work are shown.

But while the race was on and no one was passing by I took field photos and tree photos and cloud photos. It was such a beautiful setting. It may have been tough to grasp as a racer. There are other things to concern yourselves with.

I enjoyed listening to the groups as they passed. For the most part they were pretty civil. That is, until the 45+ group passed. My group, usually. They were really going at it. Some guy wasn't pulling through correctly or something. It was a big snit going on. They were pretty heated up out there. I do hope that was the only time in the race they had that kind of altercation. Kind of takes the fun out of things.

It was also interesting watching the disintegration of the groups on each lap. The first group in which I really noticed a change was the 45 plussers. It took only a lap or two and four guys were off the front and past the Cat 3's. Exciting stuff.

In the 1/2 race, the whole thing split into three groups pretty quickly, with about seven or eight riders in the first pack, a few more in the second, and about double that in the third. The Women's Cat 1/2/3 race was a real struggle of wills as well. Four were off and away somewhere during the second lap. They came by me cranking their hearts out. Not sure what the story was there, but it made for a good race. For the most part, Mens Cat 3 and Cat 4 stayed together, except for the strays dropped off the back. Cat 5 was a major free-for-all, as usual.

The stray riders were interesting. Some were kind of dejected looking, some shrugged, some covered their numbers like they were caught coming out of a joint they weren't proud of being seen in. It's a long lonely race if you flat or get dropped.

I hear Tony Bruley was off on a flyer in front of the 35+ group and got stopped by the train. Bummer. I also hear that the group tried to soft pedal and let Tony get away again after they caught him and the train passed, but someone else latched on to him and they weren't about to let two of them ride away. Tough luck twice, Tony. Cone is a cruel race. Very Paris-Roubaixish in that way. I'm also told that Tony took it all pretty well.

At one point Paul called down to ask me to keep him informed about the riders coming in. I'd been shoving in the talk button and telling them all kinds of things, but apparently they weren't hearing a word. That concerned me. I did wonder here and there if my walkie-talkie (#6) was transmitting. Other times they seemed to get things just fine. As the first of the Cat 1/2's passed me on the last lap headed toward the finish I was yelling into my set, "Cat 1/2s, about seven of them coming at you, Cat 1/2s!" Silence. "Anybody read me?" Silence. I repeated my news with new news, "more coming in!" I never did find out if they got my call. Hope they figured things out.

Lukas Wall, Jon Royal, Paul Alman, Robert Linden, and everyone else (volunteers) who put their effort into making this race work did a great job. If you're ever curious what it takes to pull one of these races together, check out Lucas's list of volunteers at www.aavc.org/cone/index.php?itemid=31#more. It's like looking at the credits after a Star Wars epic. It takes a lot of people's efforts for a lot of other people to enjoy ripping their legs apart in a pedaling frenzy.

It was a very fun race to be involved with. And you racer people did an okay job yourselves. Without you, we're just standing by the road with blank looks on our faces. Okay, some of us even do that with you there, but that's all right. Somehow a race took place and it was a good one.

Hangs Around Street Posts Late at Night

Take the glasses off, slap on a jersey and a helmet and you'll know who this guy is. He hangs around the hospital night and day. Sometimes he shows up at races.

First person who sends me the name of the mystery banner man, along with a Garmin Edge 705 GPS w/Heart Rate/Cadence/Data Card & Street Maps, and a short bio of him/herself gets their own special posting on ThingsBike.

Promise.

(What the heck is he looking at so intently?)

Paris-Roubiax - Dans le Vide

George, Deciding Whether or Not to Pop the Kid Who's Taunting Him.

Paul & George & Me
I rode with George today (Paul and I call him Georgie, or sometimes Paul gets this big smirk on his face and calls him Big Georgie Hincapie. That takes a lot of mouth movement and words, so I just stick to Georgie), and Johan M, and Franko B, and Gilbert D-L. They weren't very talkative. These are tough races. The cobbles can eat you alive.

I was alongside Paul when he interviewed George and Frankie and the rest before the race. Frankie promised to do all he could to get George to the front. That meant he'd sacrifice his chances, but that was fine with Frankie. George, he said, was on form. (For years, because of his British accent, I thought Paul said "on foam," and it never made sense to me, but he's a well known announcer and he raced for years, so I figured it was just some of that inside the peleton kind of knowledge that the rest of us are not privy to.)

Anyway, always take your best man. Not sure if Frankie noticed me, but I waved. George also said he'd need a little bit of luck. He says that before every race. Stand alongside Paul as he interviews Georgie, and Georgie always says something about needing luck.

I've tried to be buddies with Paul, but he's very preoccupied trying to get all these interviews. He and Phil will needle and tease endlessly, but it's hard to get into that inner circle. I called him Paulie once, but judging by his iron look I didn't think it was a good idea to repeat that.

George Leads Everyone Through the Arenberg Forest. I'm Right Behind the Flag.

Bobke & Me
I felt each cubic cobble in the Arenberg Forest. It comes in the middle of the race and tears into every sinew of muscle just to propel forward and then I thought of Bobke when he told me about the dry day in the race when he ended up in the mud ten or so years earlier, grinding his way out to find that ridge of rumbled connection in the middle of the pave. It's a tough, brutal race. Just ask Bob sometime. He'll back me up. My bud Graham got a photo of him suffering through that mess.

I was riding no handed, but that pave is brutal no matter how you ride it. It kicks you all about. The only defense that I could find was to pedal harder. Paul and Phil do mention that from time to time, but it's like I'm a teenager listening (not listening) to my parents. It doesn't sink in for so long and then you're finally there and it's like so many things in life that come together under the duress of the moment. Okay, guys you were so right.

It was nice, too, because I rode with this softly laden soundtrack. I do like to have music calming me through these torturous rocks. It sooths my bounding nerves. Keep in mind that in the past month I rode three of these Paris-Roubaixes (or Parises-Roubaix?). By the third I was a bit worn down. No handed? Paris-Roubaix? C'mon, admit it, it's not for the feint of heart.

Apparition Passes Downed Rider. Not a Good Omen.

















And Here's the Result. Rider Gets Mugged by a Trio of Thugs. It Truly is a Brutal Race.















Flags Become You're Biggest Concern. Paul's in There. He's Holding One of the Flags with a Microphone Attached to the End of It. It's Hard To Do Interviews of Riders That Way, but He's a Professional.


Muddle
At this point, if you were to ask me about the race(s), you'd get a jumbled answer. Who can keep anything straight in the midst of a race, much less after? You ever been in a race when they screw up the finish and there's no chip timing and the video recorder they have goes out and there aren't enough staff members to stand there and make sure that at least the top two get noted by place? So you have to advocate for yourself about where you think you placed.

You just rode this long grueling race and you want to get credit for all the hard work you put in. And you were passing people at the sprint. But really, after the first one or two cross the line it's a free for all. It becomes fantasy race day. "Oh, yeah, I was up there. I think I finished second or third. Third for sure." There are eight people who will swear they finished third. And at least five of them really believe it. Any creative fantasy is possible in order to hit a step on that podium.

It's really just one big muddle. My solution? Give the winner his due and everyone else who whines and wheedles their way into the argument gets a podium position. If you're that driven and deluded, you should get podium points for it.

Arenberg Forest. Notice all the Cars. This is Basically a Park-&-Ride Every Other Day of the Year. Some Cars are Left There During the Race with Price Tags on the Windshield.

So imagine riding in the midst of the Paris-Roubaix like I did three times in a month. There's no way I'll keep everything straight. Museeuw flatted on sector 21 or was it sector 16? In which race? I'm exhausted just thinking about it, much less trying to make sense of it. I need to save my energy for those cobbles. Some days it's hard to tell if I'm in the right year.

SVEN.
Rabobank Colors and Design Have Always Been Major Eye Candy. With Sven Around, Every Day is Cyclocross Day.

Nys? Here?
It was interesting to find Sven Nys up there with us. I looked over my shoulder at one point and there's this face that I recognize from somewhere. You know how that happens? You're just living in your regular day existence and then someone shows up and you know you've seen them somewhere before, but you're now in a place where it's all out of context?

Not that Sven and bike races aren't part of the same world, but he's Mr. Cyclocross, or however they say it in Flemish (they just make it sound more Flemy, I think). You don't make that same Sven/Paris-Roubaix reference as easily.

I was a bit fatigued and not thinking straight at this point in the race. We'd already gone about 167 K. I'm thinking Rabobank, that face, hmmm? Then it hit me. Whoa, it's the man himself. Phenom. I saw him up until somewhere near the Arenberg Forest. Not sure if he flatted or what, but, as Phil and Paul said, it was a great race for a cyclocrosser, rough and muddy.

One of the Biggest Obstacles in the Race Were These Guys in the Moon Suits. They'd Pop Up Out of Nowhere. I Learned Later That They Are Placed Throughout the Course Purposely to Mess With Our Minds

Muddle + Mud
The plus of it all is that when it gets real mucky like it did in this one, I was able to wipe down with the blue towel I keep strewn across my handlebars. Plus, I've got the fan going, so there's always a stiff head wind to blow things clear.

And what happened with Georgie? I'm not sure, yet. I need to get back into the action to find out. I get great advice and commentary from Phil and Paul in my ear as I race. (Phil doesn't actually like these listening devices because he thinks it puts strategic decisions in the hands of the managers and not in the hands of the riders. I suppose we could debate this all night, but I feel like saying, "yeah, sure, okay dad, whatever." There's that teenager in me again. I'll probably see his side of things when I grow up a bit, but as for now, I enjoy hearing their take on things.)

Blue Man Group Race Team. Not Sure if We'll See Them in the Tour.

I feel like all my internal parts have shaken loose at this point, but happy to be in the race and still mixing it up with the leaders. I'm not sure where Sven is. Georgie's still here. I'll let you know how he does. We really love these early season races.

Au revoir,
.........................oRo...

Priority Health Elite Crosses the Border (Legally)

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.