Cocoa Powder and Cicada Climbs: Windham National Race

The XC course at Windham was a circuitous track of stone patio sections that clapped as one rolled through; arid fire road climbs antipodal to cocoa powdered descents; and skillfully engineered bridges, each with their own gnomish sentinels. Until Sunday, when the skies opened up and turned cocoa powder into slick chocolate, it was a serpentine desert atop the face of a snow-less ski slope. Needless to say, it was hot. Even with an 8 a.m. start for the Expert XC category, the sun seemed to buzz away at the skin, searing like the hum of mid-summer cicadas. As the other women and I chatted about nervous stomachs and pre-staging bathroom urges, massive Sharpies held by the hands of a smiling man began to mark the number thirty-six along the horizontal of our calves. Soon enough we were at the line, and in seconds we were off, leaving a trail of dried earth rising in our wake. Immediately we entered the first leg of many graveled climbs, followed by a brief dip into a pocket of woods dubbed “Shepherd’s Pie,” where a plastic molded religious icon hung dangling from a tree. Back into the sear of the sun—onward and upward over a barren ascent of relentless double-track we rode. Upon reaching the culmination of the white-hot cicada-climb, a descent stood in juxtaposition with its single track among trees and shade, making for a rather tricky adjustment from squinting sunlight to blinding darkness. Until the eyes adjusted to the difference in light, one had to recall what lie ahead of them from memory and hope not much had changed.

With the hose on my Camelbak nearly defunct, I rationed sustenance from a bottle and seized the opportunity to slug a half-filled Gatorade-green cup of water from the feed station. Although it made for somewhat restricted breathing and perhaps attributed to an early onset of fatigue, the chest cold from the previous few days seemed to clear up over the duration of the course. Like a hot potato, Vanderkitten’s Becca Finley and I tossed 5^th place back and forth for the first two laps, and midway through the last climb my engine seemed to slow and my focus came to re-center itself upon the fact that I simply wanted to be finished and out of the sun. At this point, Becca and another girl passed with ease, leaving me feeling as though I was putting forth some form of effort yet going nowhere. At last, the final hand-built behemoth of a bridge was crossed and burned, and the cocoa powder descent to the base was underway. Fortunately I was able to muster enough strength and adopt a far faster pace in the last section of downhill, thus pulling in a second to last finish. I was certainly glad to have three heat-brimmed laps behind me, and a cold box of chocolate milk waiting for me in the cooler.

Although I certainly did not feel like one at the time, I had completed my first national race as a so-called “expert”, and it was a definite learning experience. Feeling slightly disappointed in my performance, and already calculating how my strengths and weaknesses had played out in this particular race, it was not until going up against the same crew of girls in the Super-D the following day that I was able to ascertain things on a much broader spectrum. It took two very different races, XC and Super-D, against the same group of competitors to provide me with a platform from which to gain insight and, consequently, progression and growth. The weekend came to show itself as a personal field-test, with one variable (possessing various sub-variables), and priceless results.

With a night’s rest under my belt, the next day brought a viewing of the men’s and women’s Pro Short-Track. In between sporadic inundations of much-needed rain, a young fellow and I chatted, taking note of whose legs in the lineup we were keen on, and discussing our personal top four, both male and female. After leg comparisons and subsequent deluges, the girls and I enjoyed a chocolate-slick race on the Super-D course. A le mans start atop Windham’s peak slotted me first on the bike and second out on course. A cyclocross-style swing of the legs, which felt more than wonderful in its execution, and I was off on a sub-fifteen minute adrenaline rush. Thanks to the generosity of fellow Campmor teammate, Marianne Santangelo, I was cruising on a full-suspension ride and loving all over the grassy-slick turns, slippery rock sections, and thoroughly rutted mini-walls. For the first five minutes or so I was hot on the tail of the Junior Women’s category and overall leader; but, with a momentary slip-up over an off-camber rock face, I watched her leave and found myself caught by Kenda’s Philicia Marion, the two of us running up a short incline in order to remount at the top. While fiddling to clip in my second foot, Philicia slipped by and I was off in pursuit, following her through several nicely banked turns that pushed you along like a mother does a child. The mental game was different than I was accustomed to, and I had to remind myself of how this effort would not take two or more hours but rather a quarter of an hour. With a final concise incline dipping into the last high-speed roll out of the woods, Philicia and I were in unison, and the crowning push was on. Wheels nearly kissing, she seized a well-earned win, as I contentedly accepted a second place by three seconds. Having been my first Super-D experience I was more than grateful for even placing, but more importantly I was thankful for the euphoria I had discovered within the riding itself, as well as for the knowledge I was able to take away from it.

I now had a set of comparative results from two nearly dichotomous situations, and this data was something I could fold into myself and imbibe, something I could analyze and feed off of—which is exactly what I did. My first national race in a new category and the Cicada-climbs and cocoa-slick descents taught me more than I could have asked for.

Cool and the gang relaxing after a hot morning in the hills.