Just Call Me Spot

FYI. I have been wondering why, for the past three months (the day of return from the Shenandoah 100, to be exact, where a shower meant shivering under a cold garden hose and scrubbing with some soap scraps found lying on the ground), the skin on my face has been hurting in areas; swollen, spotted areas. Turns out I have a staph infection partying hard on my face, and although I am not too keen on antibiotics or traditional western medicine of any sort, I am even less keen on staph infection parties at the host's expense. How rude, go rent a hall or something. Until then, I plan on becoming informer and calling the fuzz about the inconsiderate debauchery taking place on my property. For now, though, just call me spot.

Blustery Augusta: Un et Deux

Words will come later. Right now I feel like reading someone else's, like Ayn Rand's. Tomorrow is the H2H awards dinner with some good folks. Last weekend and today were cyclocross at Augusta, with states being today. Ellen and Art came out, Art to cheer and Ellen to chase zebras with me in her first cross racing experience. I must say, she was quite cute attempting to remount the cheetah. Perhaps I planted a bit of confusion telling her to count in French and think of peanut butter, all while envisioning one smoothe plain (you know, the geometry kind). The day was cold and fast and suffering. I could not have asked for anything else. More on such points later...

p.s. I usually am not too keen on putting up podium photos of myself, but I am psyched about the one of Ellen and I, plus I did not want to miss the opportunity to make fun of myself in a reservoir tip smurf hat. Yes, it was a choice of personal fashion preference.

38:15

USGP CX Mercer Cup: two days of viscous mud, stinging winter winds, benumbing rain, and intermittent sun rays--a sublime experience in most every way. 38:15 was the gearing on the sturdy single-speed machine I borrowed in order to race both blustery days. Although the ratio was a little steep, the effect was priceless, as it pushed me to grind through sections where, given the option, I might have shifted. Interesting how a single-geared mind functions, speaking in several contexts, of course.

Day one did not feel quite as good as day numero dos, physically and mentally speaking. My body did not seem to want to suffer much on Saturday and what felt like the perceived mental effort of a running sprint with a shouldered bike was, in actuality, my body going backwards. Fortunately, due to such thick conditions, if I was off and "running" due to the steep gear factor, so were the others; they simply seemed to be running faster. Throughout the three or so laps, I recall my body and my brain having a conversation about the next day's race, during which they unanimously decided to not partake. I also recall, immediately after finishing, an instant rush of serotonin accompanied by the strong desire to race again on Sunday. The human body works in amazing ways and mine wanted another go at suffering.

Saturday night consisted of scrubbing my rig, washing my rig, inhaling leftovers (thanks to my friend, Nick, I not only had a comfy couch to crash on, but beef stroganoff with noodles, ice cream, and an inescapable chess contender), putting my legs up, and passing the eff out.

Day two, Sunday, brought much colder temperatures, a little more wind, and even more ankle-deep course conditions due to the prior night's onslaught of rain. Excellent. I figured, if anything, it would be interesting to see how my body had recovered, or not, from Saturday's bout.

From the gun I was with the pack on the uphill sprint and was able to squeeze ahead of most the bulk and into the first slick turn. The course was shortened, although it would take us the same amount of time due to conditions, and so today we exited the first straightaway with a right-hand turn, instead of a left, into a bottleneck of brownie batter. Spotting the second turn, before the sand pits, I could see corner carnage and hear the screams of several tangled females. Fortunately, I was able to maneuver around the chaos and start a slow grind through the sand and into the ensuing paste. I was loving the technical aspect, and managed to do most of my passing in the dicier of sections.

Today, day two, my body was loving all over the course, as was my mind. Despite there being even more mud than the previous day, I felt as though I rode more and was able to keep a fairly steady pace. The flyover--steps leading to a ramp covered in fake grass which met the ground in a pool of mud, much like an overused slip-n-slide--was one of the obstacles I fancied the most, as it flung unsuspecting victims into the sea of challenge below. My bike and I met the ground, in all its squishy goodness, after swerving to avoid sideline tape and pitching forward as a result. Even so, I looked forward to the flyover with each lap.

Sunday's race brought placement from 20th to 8th, and so not only was I jazzed about my performance and how the body had recovered, I moved up a little as well, which is always a welcomed occasion. For some reason, even though I did a post-race check, the official results have me as DNF. So not true. Perhaps I will get to the bottom of the glitch through some emailing and various other investigative tactics.

Parte deux... I guess my last remarks shall be the following: the USGP weekend was an adventure in which I have learned much and gained plenty; also, watching hundreds of shaved man-legs warm-up prior to the elite start is a much reccommended form of post-race relaxation. Give it a whirl.

Long Arm of the Law

Plans for this weekend were to drive the 2.5 hours down to Bridgeton on Friday night, sleep in my car-bed, attempt the Beacon CX this morning (the fact that I wrote "this" means I am writing in the present tense, which translates to: "a change of plans occurred at some point along the way"), and then head up to Jamesburg and sleep once more in my car-bed in order to attend the HPCX event on Sunday, meaning tomorrow.

Here is how certain events unfolded and then crumpled back up again over the last twenty-four hours or so.

Singing with great vigor (mostly to the Pixies, and Nightwish, among select others) all the way, car-bed and I made it down to Bridgetown by half past midnight. From what I had researched on the internet prior to departure, B-town seemed as though it would pan out to be a quaint hamlet with a free local zoo and a nice main street to grab some post-race eats. Turns out the internet is a a deceitful s.o.b. and B-town was sketch-city. I think I hit the prime witching hour of Bridgeton by arriving after midnight; apparently, the same individuals who seemed to be having a hard time walking straight lines and accomplishing the task of standing, had decided it might be in their best interest to give things a go behind the wheel. Brilliant. (Note: I am editing this a week after Beacon and a day after USGP, where I ran into Wade Hess, the organizer for Bridgeton, and had a friendly chat. I told Wade of how I slept in my car despite much apprehension and he informed me of the crime rate of Bridgeton, how it is home to subsidiaries of the Mexican Mafia, as well as infamous for its residence of Bloods and Crips; which would explain the monochrome, red or blue, choice of dress for a majority of the people I witnessed parading the streets. Lesson learned from first instincts.)

Upon entering the park I saw to my right what I thought might be the "free zoo" I had read about, and the following day's light proved my predictions to be correct. Ok, so the internet was right about the zoo, which is far less reassuring than it's being wrong about the safenicity of the town itself. I might have had to sleep with one eye open, but at least there would be several caged woodland creatures to stare at when I awoke the next morning.

In the last parking lot, alongside Sunset Lake, I could see the criss-crossing red and yellow tape set up for the morning's race, poignant in the darkness. I excitedly got out of the car in order to catch a glimpse of two descents and a stair-set, release processed fluids from my body, and smell the wet November air.

The events of the night would be in god's hands, and after about an hour--with a rather large, borrowed camping knife tucked under the blanketing--I fell asleep.

About three hours later I was stirred by a flood of bright light. The long arm of the law was abruptly taking me from slumber. I remember thinking that if I just pretended as though I were still asleep when the po-po came a knockin' on the window that they would quietly decide not to disturb the peace. Within three minutes I was staring at an officer, not a small woodland creature, motioning for me to open the front door. The woman was accompanied by another male officer, and after running my license and conversing with the sheriff, they informed me that I could remain where I was and they would kindly patrol the area closely for the remainder of the night. Thank you, officers.

Overnight, the skies transformed and puked rain all over the day of Satur, and consequently all over the race course. Nice. I am pretty certain I know who the very few people are that read this blog every once in a while and, therefore, "you" probably already know how excited I was for it to be raining. I will transcribe it anyhow--rain equals mud, equals dirty, equals technical level (up), equals hella-wicked fun, equals more energy than "usual" (if this is even possible), equals heaven.

I was set to race at 1:30pm, in the Elite women's field, though I am not quite sure why. My first CX race was ridden on my mountain bike, Sula, and I ended up seventh among a field of fifteen women in an open cat 1-2-3-4 class. Highly unexpected, but I'll take it. When I spoke to the race promoter, Wade, prior to Saturday's race he informed me that the women's "B" race would be mostly beginners, and hold a very similar field to the beginner/sport XC category. I told him that I race expert XC, but also that I did not have a cross bike. No problem, you will be the only one on a mountain bike was what he said, but no problem. He was very nice about it, and from his description I figured the race would be somewhat similar to the last one.

Wrong. As time neared closer to 1:30 and I warmed up between various other races, I realized I would be racing against (it was not even against, it was more like behind) Dee Dee Winfield and Laura Van Gilder among other legends of the discipline. So I changed up the mental game to include the following: do not get lapped, and do not come in last. End result: mission accomplished. Although I definitely had no place racing among these women (one of them helpfully re-pinned my upside down and backwards number, thank you, at which point I did not feel entirely out of place), the experience was worth it. These women were Fast with a capital eff, and in turn I think I went faster, not quite with capitalization, but faster. I was halfway through my last lap when I heard the winning sprint announced over the pee-a, ok push harder. The experience not only brought humility, but also fuel for the fire, both graciously accepted.

At least two post-race events almost brought me to tears, but with each of them I told myself that crying would not only be useless but also momentarily counter-productive. I could let it all out on the long car ride home. The first emotionally catalytic event occurred immediately after I rolled across the finish line. An official pulled me aside and, although he was nice about it, I somehow felt like a little kid being pulled aside by the principal. He prefaced his statement by saying that he hated to be the bearer of bad news, but I could not race Jamesburg on Sunday. No disc brakes and no mountain bikes in UCI CX. I felt like an idiot, to say the least, but awkward situations are excellent opportunities for personal growth; I nodded with dignity and went on my way. They almost decided not to let me race today, but since the promoter had okayed things beforehand, they had let it go. Two officials told me the same thing, twice, and I succeeded at not crying...twice. However bummed I was at being prohibited from racing the following morning, I reluctantly came to the conclusion that I was meant to follow a different path for Sunday (Skyline mountain biking followed by Gunks bouldering)--more fuel to the fire.

The second event took place in a dim stall in the women's bathroom, and I chuckle now just thinking about what it must have looked like. If only these walls had eyes. Wet, cold, and with a second skin of sand-mud mixture layering my body, I wanted to wash off and get into some warm and dry clothing. Simple enough. My plans were temporarily thwarted, though, as it took about 30 minutes to pry free from my shoes. I have Specialized Motodivas, which have been excellent thus far, but apparently the side ratcheting system does not react well to sand. At approximately minute seventeen I was half-naked with one shoe off, battling the remaining brogan with a tire lever and frequent blows against the bathroom wall. After much struggle I succeeded at its removal, and at not crying.

In retrospect, the weekend was yet another momentous occasion of great learning, as is most anything if one remains open and conscious to the ever-present opportunity for growth found within the fleeting hours of one's lifetime. Another notch in the belt, some more wind in the sail, and, whether you're stuck in your shoes or not, the journey continues.