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.

Cyclocross Stony Creek 2010

It took me a while. I'm a little slow. In all kinds of ways.

My riding life is great. I do all kinds of things: mountain bike, road ride, dirt road ride, race mtb's, and race cyclocross, race dirt roads, do leisurely rides. This year I didn't race road, though I trained a bit at Runway, the AAVC Tuesday evening leg tester. Road races just didn't fit into the schedule, though they will off and on in the future.

Todd and Andy
(I like both kits. The colors are so well done. Plus, the sponsors are ice cream and coffee. No wonder they're racing together.)

I've occasionally found that some road racers cast aspersions on mountain bikers (though they'll do something like race Iceman or Ore-to-Shore), some mountain bikers do the same to road racers, and cyclocross racers are such a mix and their brains are so oxygen depleted that they don't do much more than stare into space with goofy looks on their faces. I love all kinds of racing, though I'm sure lack of air to the brain cells is partially responsible for my take on things. There's no reason to rank one type of riding over or under another. They're all interesting and fun.

Rodger, flying...as usual.

In the past I raced hard all year. These days I'm mellowing out a bit. A race here, a race there and just a lot of riding in between. It feels good, I have a smile on my face as long as the rides happen, and I make sure that smile returns on a near daily basis.

I did find, however, that humility comes with a lifestyle that involves a lessened emphasis on intensity. I've been dropped at DirtHammer! rides that I once stormed over. I don't place in the top five in races anymore, or even top ten. I'm lucky sometimes to hit top twenty. Humility is a painful lesson, though intense training is painful as well, so I guess we just choose our pain.

In this post-podium driven lifestyle, however, I've found something else. I've found that riding as a mid-packer has its advantages. I've been able to race without those endless hours of worrying about my VO2 max, lactic buildup, or whether I should be hammering on a day (or many days) when I know that to be truly competitive I need to do just that. I can "train" in my own unorthodox way. I can have fun without guilt.

Lillian

This past Sunday at the Stony Creek CX race I found that fun in the B race. I've never raced as a B, a Killer B as they're known. I started CX after I turned 45 and always rode in the Masters category. With my yearlong training and racing schedule I did well. I rode like a maniac from April right into the fall and it paid off. I think the quality of the Masters racers has improved since I started, though some, like Joe and Keith and Ken, have always been there and always been good. Those who strive to be the best, who train with high achievement in mind, keep racing at a high level.

That means that these days I'm left behind after the first hundred yards and there's no way my less race-worthy legs will ever catch up. And the Masters category tends to have, on the whole, either fast guys or guys like me who get left riding the course in our own solo race, without much in between. And there aren't that many of us to begin with. With 8 or 12 racers total, it gets awfully quiet out there awfully fast.

This is the B race. Packing them in at the barriers.
(photo: Andrea Tucker)

I don't race to circle the course alone. It's the competition that keeps me driving harder, that puts the spark back into racing. It took me a while, but after looking at the times from previous races I realized that my times on a 45 minute course fit snugly in the upper middle of the B race standings. And the B's regularly have over 30 entries per race. It's a big, diverse group. Eureka! That meant that there would be people around me to race with.

I tested my theory at Stony Creek and had a blast! (Do people have blasts anymore? I guess I do. Pitiful.) I was somewhere in the upper third of the pack, not as fast as the speedy group, but still respectable. And there were all kinds of hard charging guys all around me, pushing my limits, challenging my accelerations. I was racing again. How cool.

These guys were all ages as well. One of the cheeks-of-tan Rhinos was in my gray haired state of mind and he responded to every one of my attacks. We went back and forth lap after lap. And he wasn't the only one. I was mixing it up with about five or six guys for most of the race. They were all racing their butts off. It was an honor to be out there with them, not letting things get stale, trading places, trading back.

Marney - Yes, there was a slight breeze. It wasn't balmy.

Can a CX race be nirvana? Is that a contradiction? If you look at a photo of me mid-race you'd wonder how that pained looking grimace could have any relationship to a joyful state of mind. Whatever. I like the way cyclocross hones my bike handling skills. I like its intensity. I don't have to win, place or show, but I certainly want to be out there, grimace and all.

I'm finding a path. It's between yellow ribboned guideposts.

Except for one shot by Andrea Tucker, the photos in this post are, by necessity, not of the B race. I don't take photos while racing. Silly, I know, but it's a rule of mine. These are shots of the Masters and Elite womens race that immediately followed the Killer B's.

Jolly Pumpkin Cyclocross Series - Ann Arbor

Punishment Park Productions
Okay all. Time to step into that parallel void that stretches beyond pain into humiliation and pedal deficit disorder. The CX season is rolling into town.

The second annual Jolly Pumpkin Cyclocross series begins Wednesday, August 19th, 6PM, at Vet's Park in Ann Arbor, corner of north Maple and Dexter Avenue. Early in the season, you say? It's never too early to join the insensate.

There will be two races beginning at 6:15. The first, the A race, will go for 60 minutes. The second, the B race, will go for 45 minutes.

With races planned and courses tortuously designed by people with names like Stark (which expresses the futile bleakness of it all), Weir (whose name only needs the final "DO" to define the mangled warp of the experience), Bowser (whose howling will eat deep into your bones as lap after lap tears at the very foundation your once worthy soul), and the inimitable BMF (figure that out for yourselves, kiddies, but be warned, Rosewarned), you will come to know the furies unleashed for the coming weeks.

The Beginning of Ugly
It may not be the ugly time of year, but this will be ugly none-the-less. I promise. You'll feel the foreboding sense of many more ugly days to come. Each turn of the crank will remind you what it feels like to enter the vacuum of the oxygen depleted universe and into the all too real world of exploding pain ratcheting through your thighs. Euphoria doesn't join the game in August. It's far too early. You'll be lucky if you feel it by late October. If ever. But stupidity? Yes, that you'll have with you from the very start.

Excesstasy
Who does well in cyclocross? Those who gladly deplete their senseless brains of oxygen, leading--with merciless empty mindedness--to euphoria transcending agony. These aren't normal minds by any means. They're beyond stupid. They're bathed in self-inflicted misery masked as elation. Humor them. It's fun to watch.

And how do you join this cretinous clique of starved souls? You pedal hard on wasted earth and suck air day after day, week after week, until you've become one of the depleted, a poor wayward being weekly planning your comeback and the chance to stand podium center with the pantheon of addlepated barrier bangers.

Prizes go to the least sensible. It costs nothing but your pride.

BE THERE!
The Series Continues
Stay tuned for more info:
JP#2 - The Dirty Critty Brunch Race
September 7, 9:30 AM (Labor Day)

JP#3 - CANCELLED - Wines CX (First of the weekly Double Trouble

JP#4 - Dirt Hammer
September 22, 6PM - MEET AT FORSYTHE on Newport Rd.

JP#5 - Leslie Park (The Finale)
September 28, 6PM - CANCELLED

Cyclocross Magazine - Issue 5

I tend to be a web based writer these days, but I did get a poem published in Cyclocross Magazine. I'm quite proud of it. It's called "No Air" on page 41. And hey, I won a set of TRP EuroX brakes for it, so who says poets can't make a living with their poems. My new 'cross bike is now 1/25th of the way to getting built.

I really like the subheading comment about Cyclocross by Adam Myerson: "Road racing is a novel, and 'cross is poetry. Every word counts in poetry. 'Cross is like that."

Since this is a publication I really respect, I don't know why they chose my poem, but they did and they'll have to live with it for years now. Truly, the magazine is one of the best out there. The articles are interesting and intelligent and the topics are well conceived. Subscribe and support them if you can. It's no fluff, it's the real thing.

Go 'Cross!

.............................oRo...

Cyclocross and (Oxy)Morons

Pre-season Jolly Pumpkin Race at Leslie Park

For a few years now, Chris, my friend and neighbor down the street has been telling me about this friend of his. According to Chris, he's this amazing rider who mountain bikes mostly and he goes out to epic week long races like one in Vancouver and wails. I could never talk about biking with Chris without his bringing up this guy. They've been friends since childhood.




Jonathan Page - Who We Pretend to Be

Chris loves to mountain bike, but his job in recent years has him commuting in a car through the thick of Southeast Michigan hell over an hour or two each way, so whenever we talk bikes, which is every time we meet, he says, "my friend Andy..." and seldom talks about his own exploits. After a number of these conversations, Andy took on epic proportions.

Chris had tried to get me in to Local Loop MTB rides a couple of years ago that he did with a group that included this Andy guy. They rode from Chris's house at the bottom of the street on Tuesday evenings when a crew of about ten riders would assemble, ride, and head to the bar, in that order.

45+ at Springfield Oaks, Mark Wolowiec in Front, Duh!

The trouble was that those were the nights when I did the DirtHammer with the club. The DirtHammer has always been one of my dedicated training rides for cyclocross season, so I never did get out with Chris on the Local Loop. In fact, they were usually just heading out, often with lights, when I'd returned from ripping my legs apart with the club. I'd wave as I rode up the street, Chris would wave, they'd go for their ride, and that was that.

We Look So Relaxed and Like Such Pals at the Beginning, Don't We? (Scott Claes, Ken O'Day, somebody's arm, Mike Seaman, Rob)

So, during the first race at Vet's Park this year, I lined up with the pack. Since this is an Ann Arbor race, I noticed Chris in the crowd and thought how great it was he'd shown up to watch. We were our usual nervous, jokey, group, everyone wondering where Mark Wolowiec was, since he usually sets the standard for chase rabbit. Then this guy in a Biciclibre jersey next to me says, "are you Rob?" It's a question I struggle with at times, but realizing this is not a deeply philosophical moment, I answer in the affirmative. He reaches over and shakes my hand. "Andy," he says, "Chris's friend."

A week or two before, when I didn't know he was The Andy, we rode a few laps at the Lower Huron CX race together and Andy was off the front kind of dragging everyone around the course until he, Mark Wolowiec, Joe Brown, and Mike Seaman made it their own little race, leaving the rest of us behind. A couple of laps after that, Andy was walking with his bike over his shoulder in the opposite direction on the back half of the course. He'd broken his chain. At the time I'd wondered, who the heck was this Biciclibre guy? Now, at Vet's it all came together. The infamous Andy. He came in first that day at Vets.

The Pros Over the Barriers

I really love cyclocross. And to put the words love and cyclocross into the same sentence is truly an oxymoron. And the moron part really fits because cyclocross hurts so much that you have to have something deeply wrong inside to feel passion for something so brutal. The oxy- is about air, or the lack thereof (ie., deprivation), perhaps leading to the reason for the second part of the word in our case.

Worse, I don't win many races. The podium is hard to reach. I've had Wolowiec and Brown beat me so often that I feel like it's really an exercise in self flagellation. In previous years Riege was a dominating force, but this year he was less so. It must not have been a priority for him, because he's definitely someone to reckon with when he's on form.

Blood (Seldom the Accompanying Glory)

I wasn't racing CX last year because of my heart attack (see my 2007 blog article DirtHammer 911) at the beginning of the season, so I don't know who the main contenders were beyond stalwarts like Wolowiec and Brown. I know Mark Lovejoy and Ken O'Day are always in there battling it out. But this year we also had the rise of Mike Seaman, Andy Klumb, Mike Belanger, and Mike Green. They made me and my new tubular Zipp 404 carbon wheelset and old faithful Fuji cross bike dig in awfully hard. No matter what my placing, against these guys I knew that I'd been challenged by the best and that I'd done all I could do on a given day.

I remember watching my first CX race, before I decided to expose myself to the stupidity of it all. It was at Hudson Mills near Dexter. Everybody looked like they were going so darned slow. There's something about watching cyclocross bikes moving over the grass that makes you think, "I could do better than that! Why don't they just pedal harder?"

Barriers Won!

The next year I was on that same course for the first time. On the bike it's different. It's like a Kafka nightmare where you work so hard to go forward and the earth drags your wheels down toward hell so your legs just ache. Always. There's always something in a cyclocross race that pulls you down as much as you fight to drive the bike forward.

On a road bike, on pavement, your bike does move forward. It flies sometimes like there is no road, no earth to tie you down. Even mountain bikes can give you that feeling of a soaring raptor as you dip and glide through the trail. But cyclocross is all about earth and gravity and that simultaneous pull of opposing forces. Seldom do you feel that same sense of glide and lift. Even stretches of pavement often work against you. By the time you hit the tarmac all you think of is recovery. And since it's a fall sport there's usually a nice head or cross wind to extinguish any dream of reenergizing on these paved stretches.

Joe Brown

On my last race in late November at Munson in Monroe (out for the rest of the season after that race due to a pinched nerve and a bout of the flu), snow was falling, the course was slick, and the temperature was below freezing with bitter wind chills. Joe Brown, as ever, had designed a challenging, cranky, flowing course to ride. Munson Park has one big hump of a hill and a lot of flat, damp grass. He'd made the one hill into three brilliant, wicked little climbs.

Rob & Joe at Vets

Joe and I battled that race out together from beginning to end. There was one moment when we were topping one of the steepest of those pitches, our legs barely able to turn the cranks over, and he just moaned, "man these hills are hard." In the middle of all that suffering for both of us I thought it was so funny. Here I was with one of my toughest competitors all these years and we were absolutely miserable, having pushed each other to the limit lap after lap, trying to find weakness, trying to pull away, neither of us giving in. I literally had spit and snot all over my face from the cold and the endless exertion. And Joe just wouldn't let up. In all those years, he never has. And I said to him, "you designed this, Joe. You did it to yourself." "I know," he said, "I know." It said everything about cyclocross in that one brutal, honest, comical moment. We do it to ourselves. And then we do it again and again.

IronCross VI 2008

IronCross VI 2008
63 miles, over 6000 feet of climbing
(Over a mile of climbing in one brutal session--it just doesn't happen here in Michigan unless you're willing to ride continuously for a few weeks.)

Be Sure to Stop
Just before Station 3, a guy reminded me that this race is modeled on the Three Peaks Cyclo-Cross (www.3peakscyclocross.org.uk) that wanders over the Yorkshire Dales in England in September of each year. It's mentioned on the IronCross web site (www.yellowbreechesracing.org/ironcross), but the reality doesn't hit you hard until the first "run" up and eventually, when you're ready to pack it in for the day, it really sinks in on this third grueling climb. If I were to name either race I'd put a curse word in between Iron and Cross and Three and Peaks. It would at least give you more of a clue about what you're getting yourself into.

When you do ride this race, be sure to stop at Station 3. It's not about Pennsylvanian hospitality, though I will tell you that the volunteers at these are an extremely helpful and efficient bunch. Another guy warned me to do this. "You'll really regret it if you don't," he said. He was right. You have to take a minute here to resupply. I probably should have taken longer, but at least I got more water. If I were really smart I would have begged someone to give me a rear cassette with a 30 tooth. I think mine was about a 26 or so, with 38/48 at the front. The 48 would get no use on the hill, but half way up I was thinking something really, really big in back would help.

Rob (77)

Up
Here's what the third peak was like (remember, over two hours of grueling hills, singletrack, and a vertical endless "run-up" have already eaten your legs apart): Climb. Keep climbing. Climb some more. Some people are walking their bikes. Stand on those pedals. Keep climbing. You're at the top. No you're not. Keep climbing. Another short downhill teaser. Keep climbing. Steeper. Keep climbing. If you're doing 4mph in some of these places you're doing good. Somewhere, eventually, you do reach the top. The brain is so wiped out at this point that it doesn't make any difference any more.

Now, go down. Down, down, down. Unfortunately, by now you've caught on. Out here, going down so much and so far means only one thing. Up will follow. It will. You know it and it hurts just to think about it. But, again, going down takes a lot of concentration. It's so fast that you can easily miss the little black arrows on the yellow background that tell you a turn is imminent. Or a curve is far sharper than you'd prepared for and the gravel road goes to gravel shoulder goes to brush and trees nipping at the handlebars.

The same guy who reminded me about the "three" word had done this race in 2007. "And you returned?" I responded in wonder. He shook his head. "I forgot about the run-ups," he said. "I just forgot." It's like getting a reprieve from Hell, then going back of your own free will because you forgot about the fire.

After the endless journey up after leaving Station 3, with a downhill break and fatigue in every muscle, you'll pass Station 4. Dive on to singletrack with more logs, a patch of deep water and relentless ruts until you come to another climb too steep for a bike even if you had legs left to try and climb it. Put the bike on your shoulder and slog.

Remember that you should have stopped at Station 4 to eat a banana or power bar or suck down a bottle of electrolytes. The last five miles you're almost there, yet feel like you're farther away than ever. The challenges just don't let up. I'm not exaggerating. Really, this is a warning. See the sign at the beginning of this article. It says "Caution." That word sits heavy once you're in this race. Every time you think you've made it through the hardest part, you haven't. There's more hardest ahead.

What's Left Isn't Pretty
Part of it is that your body is wasted by this point. At least, mine was. I remember looking at my mileage and thinking hey, I've gone two miles farther than Ore-to-Shore and I'm still alive and I'm feeling okay and I'm going to make it. A few miles farther, after leg ripping single track with some spiky climbs and rough trail and a truly vertical--not kidding, I'm telling you vertical--descent through rocks along a deer park I realized that I wasn't anywhere near the confidence of a couple of miles previous. This is a race that doesn't let up until you cross the finish line. Either the second half of the course is harder, or it just feels harder, but by the time I reached the next big walk up (notice I didn't use the word run this time), I was wondering if my legs would keep moving, pedals or no pedals. I stopped half way up and either ate something or drank something. I don't remember.

Rich (92)
As usual, Rich outshined the lot of our humble crew. He and his orange gloves kept gathering steam for mile after mile and he was in a great position to finish in the overall top twenty until his 45 wide front tire went flat on the paved road two miles from the finish. He tried to pump it up and ride it without changing at first, but it deflated instantly, so he yanked the thing off and changed the tube as racer after racer passed him to drop his place from around 15 to 22.

What's always funny about Rich is that he usually has a story to tell about stopping here and there along the way to help someone out, like passing a tube to Simonson (who was going through tubes like a persnickety sushi chef rejecting bad cuts of ahi), or checking out the specific species of fish in some lake that we passed (I didn't even see the lake). There are photos of Rich stopped along the way to receive water from some spectator. It's a whole series of shots, so the photographer had plenty of time to zero in on his subject and shoot away.

And just an aside about Simonson. After four flats tires and a broken chain, he'd probably call this the IronCurse.

Andy (204)
Andy on the other hand was doing well until somewhere after Station 2, where he decided to get lost and wander off course so he could sight see rather than partake in the race proper. Sure the area is beautiful and the weather was fantastic, but really Andy I think there are other times to do the tourist thing.

I was probably about three hours behind him before he decided to flee the punishment that is IronCross, but due to his errant ways, I passed him on a blazing downhill at about 35mph as he was fixing a flat about 500 yards from Station 4. He caught up to me shortly thereafter and I wasn't to see him again until the end, when he came in...after...me.

It's always weird to finish a race thinking you know where others are, only to find that you're either way behind or way ahead of someone else. He and Rodger went well ahead of me on the singletrack shortly after Station 4. My legs had blown at that point and all I was thinking about was making it to the finish. There was not an ounce of spark left. I nearly crashed in a section of rutted grass and shortly thereafter was swarmed by a pack of riders right before a major water hole that they all blasted through. So I blasted through it as well. I probably wouldn't have, but they made it look so cool that I couldn't pass it up. It was more than cool, it was icy cold, but at this point in the race it felt great.

It was followed by a rough area of log strewn single track where a major branch kicked up and locked between my brakes and the rim grinding my bike to a halt. I stopped and pulled it out, hopped on and took off.

Apparently, Andy watched the whole thing. Only he was wondering why his teammate hadn't stopped to help him in a time of need. He'd gotten another flat and was standing off the trail without a pump or tube. I, meanwhile, had both a hand pump and a couple of CO2's as well as a couple of tubes. On my measly little 32 tires I was one of the rare racers who still hadn't flatted.

I'm still not clear about why he didn't call out to me, but maybe he was just too surprised to think that I'd blown by him without a nod. Then again, I probably would have tossed him the tube in my jersey pocket, which was, of all things a Schrader. I'd carried a useless tube the whole race.

Oblivious
What people have to understand is that at some point in a race (usually about a hundred yards after the start) I'm oblivious to my surroundings except for the obstacles set out before me and my own little world of thought. I'm just pedaling, often hurting, and there isn't much more that can be asked of me. I've grown ultra paranoid about getting lost, because I know that I get into the race trance and forget at times that the bike doesn't have some innate ability to find its way home. I have to pay attention, and paying attention is not what I do best. So if you're by the side of the road or trail, sometimes I realize that you're there, but usually it's after I've gone by you. And it would help even more if you had a directional arrow attached to your jersey. That way I'd be seeking you out. But that doesn't mean that I'd still recognize you. I'd only see the arrow.

Otherwise, most of the time, I don't know you're there unless you scream some profanity at me. So please, you're job from now on is to look for me if you need my help. I'll stop if I know you need me. I'll be glad to pass you my Schrader. I've learned that I'm not Rich. I don't know how the guy even finishes races, much less places well. I mean, he stops for everyone in need. He probably even stops to help turtles get off the course and little old rabbits on crutches that get in the way of a swarming careless horde of racers. My guess is that he would have spent time along that lake (that I swear didn't exist) inspecting speckles on the fishies if the mood would have struck him--and he still would have beat me by twenty minutes. It's really infuriating.

Anyway, Andy wandered aimlessly for a while until some other rider with a heart tossed him a tube and someone else helped to pump air into the thing.

Rodger (117)
I did see Rodger alongside the dirt road after the KOM fixing his tire. I was flying at the time, but I slowed down and asked if he needed help. I think he said, "Goblue bla bla seeba," or something like that. I didn't, obviously, understand a word, but he wasn't screaming for help so I figured he was ok. He caught me a short while later with a good slap on the back, which propelled me forward for too short a period of time.

I was, at that point with the two leading women riders in the race, as well as a guy named Bill Nagel who was about my age and riding hard even though he hadn't raced much this year. I mention Bill because he passed me at about the five mile to go mark like he'd just started the race a few minutes before. (He's the guy in the picture with me above.) He looked all fresh and sparky and it was an amazing contrast to my feelings at that moment.

I have to mention something else about Bill. He likes to talk and race at the same time. It was like he was channeling Randy out there. How do you guys do that? I'm basically at a primal level of survival with drool rolling down my chin, and you guys are chatting away like we're just sitting at the breakfast table having our second cup of coffee. I mean, he seemed like a great guy, very personable, but polite chat on an endless 7% gravel road rise with 20 miles down and another 43 to go just isn't in my makeup. It's hard enough just to pedal, much less form coherent sentences. Then he disappears for an hour or so after the first run up, then reappears and passes me with five miles to go, cheery and chatty as ever. What basic gene did I miss receiving?

Meanwhile, I remember seeing Rodger not too far ahead of me on the first hellish run-up, but at the top he was long gone and I figured that would be the last I'd see of him in the race. Rodger and I do this tortoise/hare thing. I am definitely the tortoise. And sure enough, at Station 4 he showed up again, standing at the table getting refreshments. I'd just seen Andy, so it was proving to be an interesting team thing as the race drew to a close.

Rodger and Andy passed me shortly thereafter and Rodger patted me on the back again, but this time it was on a singletrack and since there was only room for one bike, the pat kind of had elements of a shove as he wrestled his bike in front of mine. I stayed up and he and Andy were gone.

Greg (111)
Greg, like the other three, was well ahead of me for the early part of the race. I went into this race with low expectations, just planning to survive, while the others really were in it to do something. They were just barreling away early on. But apparently I passed Greg on the first run-up. Until the end I thought he was well ahead of me. He was wearing a jersey from his new team in Arkansas and not our Priority Health kit. Sitting here now I couldn't tell you what it looked like. Out on the course he might as well have been in camouflage.

What I remember most about that "run-up" was the tire on the shoulder of the guy in front of me bashing me in the helmet over and over as I tried to find places where my feet would get traction on that vertical ascent through loose rocks and fallen logs. It was just one long line of weary humanity, a modern Pilgrim's Progress, trudging up that endless hill.

The only thing that I thought would be worse was to push the bike up, which I saw Betsy Shogren, the first place woman, do the whole way. Amazing. Then at the top she rode right away from me.

I guess Greg just found his pace from then on and plugged away. If he wouldn't have moved to Arkansas he'd still have us to help make his life miserable training for races like this. Then again, this past spring, in his early race season collegiate fitness, he was putting the rest of us in agony on club rides as we were trying to awaken our legs from the winter's hibernation.

Anne Grofvert (246)
Anne has done this thing four times. I mean, that deserves a medal above and beyond the call if you ask me. She came in the 9th woman this year. And along the way she managed to spear one of her calves with a sharp shrub in a crash on the first single track. Her leg wasn't a pretty sight at the end of the race.

Wow, You Read This Far...
You Really Do Like Punishment
Those who set this race up and called it "Cyclocross" have a sense of humor. They're sick, sadistic people, but a few hours after the race you do chuckle a bit. Somewhere between Station 4 and the finish chuckling is not an expression that comes to mind unless you've gone over the edge. Cursing is. But after it's over, with that amazing ability we have of minimizing our memories of pain and suffering, we can chuckle and even feel a bit proud of what we just did. Worse, our team even talked about what we'd do next year to improve our placings. Sick. It's even more deranged if you come from an area without hills anywhere near this big or this long. There is just nowhere in Michigan to train for this kind of thing.


Greg, Rodger, Rich, & Andy
These guys don't look so tough without their helmets on.

In lieu of mountains, Andy had the best training suggestion. Go out for a five hour ride with your brakes locked on. That's the Michigan way.

In the end, it's a fantastic race (and I say this after swearing that I was giving up biking forever while suffering between Station 4 and the finish), very well run and organized, and the schwag is some of the best you'll find (nice beer glass, great socks). One thing I'll give them extra credit for is the food. Many organizers feed you the night before, and they did, but after the race you're often on your own, miles from nowhere with nothing open, much less edible. After this race, they fed us well with excellent burritos from Moe's Southwest Grill. After a race like this, you need a lot of calories and you need them fast.

Sonority
I gave the team a special treat on the ride back to Michigan. Somewhere along the Ohio Turnpike the weary effects of race day finally set in and I fell asleep. I know too well what this means and now so do they. My daughter, Lauren, has described it in detail from myriad car trips together. My head falls back, my jaw drops open and I snore loudly. I've even done it in her violin lessons as I waited on a very comfortable couch while she serenades me only a few feet away. I gave up having any shame about this. When fatigue strikes, I'm out. The guys mentioned my sonorous sleep. Rodger was playing some great music on the stereo. I think I was just resonating with that.

Do IronCross at least once. You'll have some great naps the following days. I promise.

Photo Credits
The photos of us on our bikes above were taken by a woman named Judy, who was kind enough to post them shortly after the race. Thank you Judy.
I took the rest.

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.